All That Sparkles: The Texan Quartet (9 page)

At lunch she noticed Christian’s email. He’d managed to convince everyone involved to settle the matter and was flying home; he would arrive Wednesday night. Imogen grinned.

After lunch she collected samples of fabrics that had been sent for their approval. There were a couple of gorgeous ones that Imogen would love to use, but she knew it wouldn’t suit Tour de Force. She took down the details for her own label before attending a meeting with her father, Abigail, Jacques and Derek. Jacques was doing a fabulous job with the collection. It was fresh and interesting, and entirely on brand. When he talked about the designs, enthusiasm lit up his face. As much as she disliked the man, Jacques
was
Tour de Force.

He’d be the perfect person to take over from Remy.

Derek showed off a couple of the toiles he’d made up from Jacques’s designs. Remy tweaked them here and there, raising a hem and widening a collar. Jacques nodded in agreement.

“What fabrics have you got for us, Imogen?” her father asked.

Surprised he was talking to her, she opened the samples and took out a couple of woolens she thought would suit the coat. “How about these?”

Her father picked up the fabric, rubbed it between his fingers, pulled it to check if it would stretch and then held it up against the outfit. “It needs to be ocean-in-storm blue.”

Imogen made a note, used to her father’s way of describing colors.

“How are the rest of the patterns coming?” Remy asked Derek.

“Quite well. There are a couple of issues, but Jacques is going to come down and go through it with me later this afternoon.”

“Good.”

The meeting ended and Imogen gave the sample fabrics to her father so he could review them. He took them without a word.

Imogen caught the assessing look on Jacques’s face but she ignored him. She walked out of the room and went back to her office to phone the fabric supplier and ask them if they could do the wool in ocean-in-storm blue.

*

Chris was exhausted. He’d just disembarked from his long-haul flight home after finally convincing his company it would cost them more to fight the issue than to do what they said they would. It was close to midnight and all he wanted was to find a cab, get home and go to sleep.

He walked out of the passenger area pushing his luggage cart and headed toward the cab rank.

“Christian!”

At the sound of his name, Chris glanced over … and saw Imogen rushing toward him. The sight of her washed away some of his fatigue. Without thinking he opened his arms for a hug. As she dove into them he wondered what she was doing there. But then his thoughts disappeared as her warm, soft body pressed into his and he inhaled her sweet scent. He didn’t want to let go when she stepped back, but he loosened his hold and she kissed him on the lips.

It felt so natural, so right, as if they’d been together for years rather than just meeting again.

“Surprise!” she said when she broke the kiss.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to pick you up. You said you were getting in today so I checked the flights and worked out which one you were on.” She turned and pushed his luggage toward the exit. “Come on.”

It took a second for Chris’s brain to catch up but he hurried after her and took over pushing the cart. “Let me get that.”

“The car’s this way.”

Chris followed her, a smile on his face as she strutted through the parking lot. It was a model’s walk but she did it unconsciously. She’d walked that way when they met. It had mesmerized him then, like it mesmerized him now. As she popped the trunk he came back to his senses.

He hadn’t ever had someone pick him up from the airport: it was too much of a hassle and he could claim the cab fare as a work expense. But having Imogen there was a thrill.

She squinted at the size of his suitcase. “It should fit.”

He laughed. “Have you ever considered getting a bigger car?”

She nodded in all seriousness. “Yeah, I might need to upsize soon.”

Chris put his luggage in the trunk and shut it. Imogen had already grabbed the cart and was returning it to the collection point. It was good to see her. He’d been cross when she’d ended their Skype call so suddenly, even though his anger had been of Remy’s making. When she got back to the car he wrapped her up in another hug, eager to touch her, and then lowered his mouth to hers.

Her lips parted on a sigh and Chris’s heart tightened. He explored her lips, touching, tasting, needing her. As his body stirred he forced himself to let go. “Thank you for picking me up.”

She looked flustered and swept her bangs out of her face. “Any time.” Her voice was breathless. Blinking, she came back to herself and said, “Hop in.” She went around to the driver’s side and climbed into the car.

On the journey to his apartment she kept up a light conversation, asking about his flight, and wanting more details about Australia. By the time they arrived, he realized he hadn’t asked her anything about what she’d been up to.

“So what’s been happening with you?”

She didn’t look at him. “We’ll chat about me later. You get upstairs and to bed.”

The image of Imogen in bed with him was instant and erotic. It wasn’t until she’d bundled him into the elevator and said goodbye that he came to his senses and realized she’d avoided his question, which meant there was something definitely happening with her.

He would have to talk to her about it tomorrow when his brain was more alert.

*

The next day he arrived at work jet-lagged and short-tempered. Samuel called him into his office straight away to be debriefed. He was not happy with the resolution but Chris didn’t care. It had been the right thing to do.

He reviewed the report he’d written on the flight home and checked what new work was waiting for him. There was an email from Imogen. He smiled and clicked on it.

Christian,

I didn’t want to call and wake you, so I’m sending you this instead. If you’re free Friday night, do you want to come to a fashion event with me? Dress is formal.

Imogen

Chris didn’t really care what the event was, as long as he had a chance to spend time with Imogen. He responded quickly.

Sure. Does that mean I need to get a penguin suit?

He grinned and clicked send, before concentrating on the other emails in his inbox.

Moments later the reply came.

Yes. It will look good on you.

Chris immediately searched for suit shops nearby. He had plenty of business suits, but no tuxedo. He browsed through an online catalogue and found one he liked; it was close enough to check out on his lunch break. Setting himself a reminder so he didn’t lose track of time, he focused on work.

When the reminder went off several hours later, Chris saved his document and grabbed his jacket before heading toward the elevator.

“Chris! Where are you off to?” someone called.

He turned to see a colleague hailing him from across the room. “Just grabbing some lunch. Won’t be long.” He stepped into the elevator and closed the doors before the guy could respond.

He sighed. There was definitely a problem when he’d rather go try on suits than stay and listen to what his workmate had to say.

On entering the shop he noticed the finely crafted wooden desk which served as the cash register counter, the thick plush carpet and the quiet, clean room where assistants hovered to serve. It screamed money.

Chris walked up to one of the attendants and told him what he wanted. The attendant showed a hint of surprise but hurried to retrieve the suit and showed Chris to the change room. It was a good fit and he had to admit it looked good. He let the attendant fuss around him for a moment.

“The trousers need to be taken up a touch,” the man told him.

Chris peered at the bottom of the pants. It was just touching the ground near the heel. “I need it for tomorrow night.”

The attendant was stricken. “We cannot do it for tomorrow. It’s the Homeless Foundation’s annual Fashion Auction tomorrow and everyone is preparing for it.”

Chris didn’t tell him he was attending as well. He also didn’t want to attend such an event with his pants too long. The people who went to these things lived and breathed fashion and would definitely notice a bad fit. And he wanted to make a good impression on Remy Fontaine.

“Can you recommend someone else?”

“No, no. Any common seamstress would butcher the job.”

Chris’s temper began to build. He was too tired for this. He just wanted to be with Imogen.

Imogen.

He whipped out his cell phone and dialed her number, walking away from the attendant as he did so. When she answered he said, “You know this thing you want me to go to tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to do me a favor so I can come.”

She wasn’t the least bit cautious when she replied, “Sure, what is it?”

“Can you take up the bottom of the pants I’m about to buy for it?”

She laughed. “It’s the least I can do. Why don’t you come to my place this evening about seven?”

Chris hesitated. He’d not been back to Chateau Fontaine since they’d been thrown out. “All right.” He couldn’t very well ask her to bring her sewing machine to his place.

“Great. Buzz the guesthouse when you get to the gate and I’ll let you in.”

Chris hung up and turned to the attendant. “I’ll take it.”

*

That night Chris pressed the button for the guesthouse and looked through the wrought-iron gate to where the roof of the chateau rose over the trees. He’d loved living there, even if they’d only had a small section of the garden away from the main house. He used to pretend it was all theirs and that they had chosen to live in the small gardener’s house rather than the French mansion.

Imogen’s face appeared on the intercom. “Come in. Take the driveway to the left.”

The gates swung inward and Chris drove his car through, slowly making his way up the drive as memories of his childhood assaulted him. He shook them away when Imogen’s guesthouse came into view.

It was extraordinary. A tiny replica of the chateau, but still probably bigger than the average suburban house. Imogen came out the front as he parked his car.

He retrieved the suit out of the passenger’s side and moved up the stairs, pulling her close for a kiss. “Hi.”

Imogen grinned at him. “Hi. Come in. Do you want something to eat first or do you want to do the pants?”

There was a tomato-pasta smell coming from somewhere in the house and he inhaled it deeply. “You didn’t need to cook.”

“I was making it for myself so I did a little extra.”

He breathed in again and said, “We should do the pants first. I might not fit into them after I’ve eaten.”

She smiled and beckoned him with a wave. “Come into my workshop then.”

He followed her down a hallway into a room probably meant as a dining room. It was large and rectangular and had a huge table in the center, covered in machines and fabrics. Every piece of wall space was covered in storage and there were materials and threads all over the place, but everything was neatly ordered. “Wow.”

“I have a bit of an obsession with fabrics,” she admitted with a guilty grin. “If I find something I like I buy it, even if I don’t know what I’m going to do with it yet.” She turned to him. “Show me the pants.”

He laid the garment bag on the table and unzipped it, a little bit nervous about how she was going to react to his purchase.

She stroked the fabric and breathed out. “Lovely,” she said. “This is a Chantelle Vision, isn’t it?”

He shrugged and Imogen checked the discreet label with a nod. “I thought so. She does fabulous men’s clothes.”

Imogen grabbed a few reels of thread from her massive wheel. They all looked the same color black to Chris but when she held them up against the tuxedo he could see the difference. When she’d chosen the thread, she said, “Put on the whole suit while I thread the machine.” She pointed to a doorway he hadn’t noticed.

“Don’t you just need the pants?”

She shook her head. “I want to see the whole thing.”

With a shrug he went into the next room and changed into the suit and the dress shirt he’d bought to wear with it.

When he came out, Imogen turned toward him and stopped. Her eyes slowly panned up and down.

He waited for her verdict as she came closer, her steps almost stalking. He glanced down to check if there was something wrong with the way the suit was fitting and her arms came around his neck, bringing his head down so her lips met his.

The kiss was scalding. Taken completely by surprise, Chris desperately tried to keep up. Her tongue danced with his, sending heat straight to his groin, and he groaned.

Then she stopped and gazed at him. “The suit works,” she said, her voice husky.

He resisted the urge to pull her back into his arms, just. “I’ll say.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to get his breath back.

She took his hand and led him over to the table. “We should get this done before I forget why you came over.”

“Why did I come over?” Chris asked and earned a laugh from her.

She cleared her throat and examined him, straightening up his bow tie, running her hand slowly over the lapels to make sure they sat right.

Chris coughed. “If you want to make sure the pants fit, you need to stop doing that.”

Imogen glanced down and grinned. “Do you want a drink?”

“Please.”

She left the room and Chris used the opportunity to get himself under control. The problem was every time he thought of her reaction to him in the suit he hardened again. She returned and handed him a glass of red wine, which he sipped from before putting it carefully on the table. The last thing he needed to do was spill it.

Imogen grabbed a container of pins from the table and knelt on the floor at his feet. Chris desperately thought of his seventeen times table to distract himself.

“It’s a good fit,” Imogen said as she pinned the hem. “It might have been made just for you.”

“Thanks.” He didn’t know what else to say. He was too busy concentrating on a spot on the wall and not on the fact Imogen’s head was very close to his groin.

It had been too long since he’d had sex.

“You can take them off now.”

It took Chris a second to realize Imogen hadn’t read where his mind was going and had actually finished pinning the hem. He stepped back and headed for the room.

“Keep the jacket and shirt on,” she called. “You’ll need to try it all back on when I’m finished.”

Chris did as she asked, putting his work pants back on and coming back out of the room to hand her the tuxedo pants.

As she got to work, he sat on one of the nearby chairs and watched her. Her focus was absolute and her fingers moved quickly over the pants, checking it was all lying correctly before starting the sewing machine. The machine zipped through the work and it wasn’t long before she was cutting a thread and holding the pants back out to Chris.

“Put them on.”

Inside the room he checked her work and couldn’t tell it had been done. It looked like the original.

When she was satisfied it was right, had pressed the suit and repacked it she turned back to Chris. “Hungry?”

He was hungry for more than food but he simply picked up his wine glass and said, “Yes.”

She took him through to the kitchen, which had a small round table in it, set with two places. The room was bright and cheery with yellow walls and accents all around.

Turning the stove off, she dished up two plates of the pasta and gestured for him to sit. “Are you jet-lagged?” she asked him before taking a mouthful of the pasta. Her lips closed over the food and he quickly looked away. He was ridiculously worked up. Maybe it had something to do with the fatigue.

“Tired mostly.”

“I won’t keep you late then,” she said.

He had no objection to staying late, none to spending the night even, but he didn’t mention it. Instead he asked, “How are things going with your business plan?”

She examined her food and then she sighed. “Not great. Papa freaked out when he saw it; he told me if I went into business it would kill him.”

Chris stopped with the fork halfway to his mouth. “What?”

She shrugged but her eyes were sad. “He has an issue with mass-market clothing and he wants me to take over at Tour de Force.”

He reached out and covered her hand, giving it a squeeze. “What did you say?”

“I haven’t had the chance to say anything. He walked out and we haven’t spoken all week.”

“He’s being rather melodramatic, don’t you think?” Chris knew Remy was controlling but wasn’t that because he loved his daughter?

“Yes, but he was really upset,” she said, her voice quiet.

“There’s something else, right?”

She glanced at him in surprise and then nodded.

“Tell me.”

He listened while she told him what she’d discovered about her mother’s death and how she possibly had relatives she’d never met.

Chris leaned back, stunned. What a jackass! To keep Imogen away from family who might love her.

“Do you know how she died?”

“No. The obituary said it was related to the pregnancy.”

“You haven’t asked your father?”

She shook her head. “How can I? He’s barely talking to me because I want to leave Tour de Force; to find out I’ve gone behind his back about Mama will infuriate him even more.”

“What about your mother’s family?”

“Piper’s doing some research for me. There are
sixty
Ryders in the Houston area,” she said. “I checked the telephone directory. And that’s if they haven’t moved away or died.”

“I’ll help if you need it.”

She smiled at him. “I could really do with a hug.”

He pushed aside his empty plate and stood up. He wrapped his arms around her and she became part of him. He kissed the top of her head and held her, wanting to take away the pain her father was causing her.

There was a loud bang at the kitchen door and Chris moved, shifting Imogen behind him as he turned toward the sound.

Remy was standing there. Imogen pushed past Chris and stepped over to the door. “Hello, Papa.”

“I need to speak with you.”

Imogen looked to Chris and back at her father. “I’ll come over to the house after Christian leaves.”

Remy bristled. “This is important.”

“I have a guest.” Imogen’s voice was even, but there was an edge to it Chris had never heard before. “Papa, this is Christian Barker.”

Chris saw the recognition in the old man’s eyes before he masked it. Anger stirred but he kept a lid on it. Imogen didn’t need him to rehash old battles now.

“I asked you to let me know when you have guests,” Remy said to Imogen.

“No, you said to tell you if I’m having a gathering.”

Remy’s expression was getting darker and darker. As much as Chris disliked the man, he didn’t want to make things more difficult for Imogen.

“I should go, Imi,” he said. “If I’m going to look my best in that tuxedo tomorrow night, I need to get my beauty sleep.” He kept his voice light and friendly.

Imogen glanced over at him and was immediately concerned. “Of course.” She turned to her father. “Come in. I’ll walk Christian to his car.”

It annoyed Chris that her immediate concern was for him and his stupid jet lag, rather than for herself. She was too kind. He grabbed the tuxedo bag from where he’d left it and followed Imogen out of the house to his car. He laid the suit on the back seat and then turned to embrace her. “Call me after your father leaves,” he said. “I want to know you’re all right. In fact call me at any time, day or night, if you need me.”

He kissed her deeply, hoping to make her understand he was there for her.

She sighed. “Thank you. Drive safely.”

He got in his car and drove away, wishing he didn’t have to.

*

Imogen waited for the tail lights of the car to disappear before she turned and went back inside.

In the kitchen her father was pacing.

Not a good sign.

“Would you like a drink, Papa?”

He stopped moving at the sound of her voice. “I’ll have some of your wine,” he said, gesturing at the bottle on the table.

As she got out another glass she asked, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“You’re not taking that man to the auction tomorrow night.” It was a statement not a question.

“Yes, I am. Christian is my date for the evening.” She handed her father the glass of wine.

“
Non
. We always go together.”

It was true but this year she didn’t want to be seen on her father’s arm. This year she didn’t want to be with her father at all. “I figured you wouldn’t want to go with me after our argument,” she said instead.

“Words said in the heat of the moment. You must go with me.”

Imogen gaped at him. How could he brush their argument off so quickly when it had been haunting her for days? “I’ve already asked Christian.”

Her father frowned. “His type are not welcome there.”

Imogen stared at her father. “What type is that: males, lawyers, friends of mine?”

“The event is very prestigious – only the wealthy and notable will be there.”

“Oh, so he’s not rich enough?” Imogen’s temper rose.

“
Exactement
! You will have to tell him he cannot attend.”

“No,” Imogen said.

Her father’s eyes widened.

“Papa, I’m tired so you need to tell me what you came here for so I can go to bed.”

“I came here because I was concerned for you. A strange car enters our property and goes to your house. It could have been anyone.”

He’d been spying on her.

Imogen shook her head in disbelief. “The property is surrounded by security. The only way the
strange car
could get through the gates is if one of us let it. That means I knew who it was.”

Her father stepped back, put up his hands. “Don’t be mad,
ma bichette
. It is only because I love you that I do these things.”

It was as though his words flicked a switch in Imogen’s brain, because suddenly anger came rising from nowhere and the words came pouring out. “Did
love
stop you telling me Mama died giving birth to me? Is
love
why you kept my grandparents and uncles away from me? Is it why you won’t let me form my own business? Is it why you won’t let me move out of home?”

Remy held a hand over his heart and sank into one of the chairs.

Imogen ignored his theatrics.

“Who has been telling you these things?” he demanded.

“I read them in the newspaper,” she said. “When you wouldn’t tell me, I decided to find out for myself what happened to Mama.”

“You didn’t trust me?”

“It’s not about trust. I needed to know the truth.”

“I told you, you
didn’t
need to know the truth.”

“Well you were wrong!” she shouted.

Remy closed his eyes for a moment, then got to his feet. His expression was calm but his eyes were hard. “You think you know best? You think you are ready to hear what those monsters who called your mother family said about you?” He waved a hand. “Fine. Go. Talk to your mother’s brothers and her parents if they still live. But when they call you a murderer do not come crying to me. In fact, if you go to them, don’t come back at all.” He walked out the door.

Imogen stared after him. It was the second time he had entirely withdrawn from her for trying to live her own life.

She sank down on a chair. He couldn’t really mean it, could he? He loved her. He wouldn’t disown her for wanting to connect with other family.

She rubbed the sides of her head. She honestly wasn’t sure. She didn’t know her father any more, didn’t know how he would react or why he was doing this. The only thing she did know was she couldn’t live like this. Couldn’t continue under his emotional blackmail. She’d had enough.

She was twenty-nine years old. Definitely old enough to make her own decisions, and to choose where her life was going.

Her heart clenched at the thought of spending the rest of her life without her father but she pushed it aside. He couldn’t really mean it. He’d only just said their last fight had been words said in the heat of the moment. Surely it was the same tonight?

Whatever the case, it was time she found her own place so at least he couldn’t throw her out on her ear and make her homeless as well as fatherless.

Her heart panged, but she pushed through the hurt.

She fired up her laptop and searched for places to rent.

An hour later her cell phone beeped. She checked the message.
R U Ok?
Christian. She’d forgotten to call him. She picked up the phone and rang him.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” she said, hoping for a bit of levity.

“And you were supposed to call me after your father left. I’ve been lying here worrying about you since I got home.”

His voice was warm and the image of him lying naked in bed popped into Imogen’s head, dissolving some of her pain and confusion. She smiled and focused on the conversation. “I’m sorry.”

“So what happened?”

He didn’t need to know her father didn’t want him at the charity event the next night. “We argued and I got angry.” She sighed. That in itself rarely happened. “I told him I knew about mother’s family and how she died. He told me if I met with them, I wasn’t to come home.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

“What?”

Imogen swallowed past the lump in her throat. “It’s past time I moved out anyway. I’m searching for somewhere to rent now.”

“Imi, he can’t mean it.” He sounded uncertain.

“I think he does.” Her voice wavered and she cleared her throat. “Anyway I don’t have any privacy here.” Her father had interrupted conversations with Christian twice now. She couldn’t have a serious relationship if he kept turning up, and she wanted one with Christian.

“You’re upset. Do you want me to come back tonight?”

She did. She really did, but it would be selfish of her to ask. He had jet lag and he was coming to the auction, which would run late. Plus she needed to learn to make it on her own, not to lean on someone so much. She’d done that enough with her father.

“No, it’s all right.”

“I’ll help you look for a place on the weekend if you like,” Christian offered.

She’d love the company. She had little idea about real estate. “That would be great. I’ve found about a dozen options.”

She heard him yawn. “Go to sleep. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”

“Sweet dreams,” he said.

“Same to you.” She hung up the phone and smiled. At least one thing in her life was going right.

*

The next evening Imogen picked Chris up at seven o’clock, and when he opened the door he stared. Imogen looked different – amazing, yes – but different. It was Imogen, but not. He ran his eyes over her spiked-up hairstyle, the colorful and quirky dress, and down to the black, four-inch stiletto heels on her feet. It had to be a Tour de Force dress, but Imogen didn’t suit the Tour de Force style. She was more elegant, more beautiful than the outrageous styles of Tour de Force.