Christmas in Paris (14 page)

“She is planning our engagement party.” Celine smiled.

“That's another thing. She knows I don't have any friends besides Mathieu. And she still thinks of him as the grungy teenager who smoked my father's Gauloises.”

“What do you mean you don't have friends?” Celine asked.

“Men don't have friends,” he explained. “They don't talk when women aren't around, they just grunt at the television.”

“You're imagining things. You are not children anymore, you're both adults.” Celine took off her stockings. “But why did she ask if we were moving into 40 Rue de Passy?”

Alec gulped and thought he should tell Celine the truth. She would understand his sister was poisonous and they would stay away from her. But was it any way to start a marriage to show his own family's imperfections? And how would she feel about him if she knew his sister was a wolf in sheep's clothing?

He put the scotch on the side table and crossed the room. He drew Celine to her feet and kissed her.

“We've talked about Bettina enough.” He slipped his hand beneath her dress. “There are more important things to do.”

“Like what?” Celine said and laughed.

He brushed her inner thigh with his fingers and kissed her collarbone. She clutched his shoulders and murmured his name, and suddenly he felt like he could do anything.

He unzipped his slacks and let them drop to the floor. He picked her up and laid her on the sofa.

“Somebody will see us,” she whispered. “We should go to the bedroom.”

But he stroked her nipples and didn't care about anything except her luscious breasts and smooth thighs.

She leaned against the cushions and guided him inside her. The sensations built up and he pushed so fiercely he was afraid she might break. Then she cried out and her body shook and he collapsed beside her.

Celine stood up to grab a robe, and he waited until his breathing was even. He had been acting like a child. From now on he would be a man.

*   *   *

THERE WAS A
knock at the door and Alec got up to answer it.

“You look like the king of Spain during his exile.” Mathieu entered the suite and shook out his umbrella. “A roaring fire in the marble fireplace, brandy snifter on the coffee table, selection of international newspapers laid out on the sideboard.”

“The hotel maids are excellent,” Alec admitted. “I'll recommend them for a Christmas bonus.”

Mathieu glanced at the plate of Scottish salmon and sliced kiwi and whistled.

“A three-course room service meal instead of crackers and jam?”

“It's pouring rain and I'm going to get scurvy if I only eat crackers,” Alec protested. “It wasn't that expensive. The basket of pastries was no extra charge.”

“Good, I'm starving.” Mathieu selected a croissant. “You are allowed to spend money. In a week you're going to inherit a third of your father's estate.”

“Why do you think I didn't take any allowance from my father when I turned twenty-one? I'd never be a kept man.” Alec bristled. “Anyway, I live perfectly well off Gus's earnings.” He glanced at the silver coffeepot. “And coffee tastes the same whether you drink it in a porcelain demitasse or a paper cup.”

“You don't want the French government to eat it up in taxes,” Mathieu said. “You could give some to Claudia.”

“My mother is British. She'd rather sell her vegetables at the market than take money from her son.” Alec paused. “Did you ever hear Churchill's speech to the House of Commons when World War II broke out: ‘I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind.'” He paused and ate a bite of salmon. “Now that was a leader. Our Vichy government spent the war smoking cigars and drinking cognac with the Nazis.”

“That's very noble, but it's not going to help Claudia stay in 40 Rue de Passy,” Mathieu mused. “Are you sure you can't find a girl to marry? That would solve everything.”

“I told you, I'm never getting married.” Alec poured a cup of coffee.

“You'd be surprised how enjoyable it is.” Mathieu walked to the window. “I come home to baked chicken and roasted potatoes every night. And Helene is marvelous at the laundry, she never mixes up the colors or loses a sock.”

“You sound like something out of a Flaubert novel,” Alec gasped. “No wonder the French inheritance laws are despicable, if that's how French husbands think of their wives.”

“I love Helene.” He smiled. “And you have to get married, you're a children's book illustrator. You can't miss out on having a family.”

“I'll be like Hans Christian Andersen and gather local children in the park,” Alec said. “We'll read fairy tales and blow bubbles and then I'll return them to their parents.”

“What's this?” Mathieu picked up a white silk glove from the love seat.

“That's Isabel's. She left it in my coat pocket.” Alec looked up. “A fortune-teller said she is going to fall in love and marry a French aristocrat. She met some
comte
at the ball and thinks he's perfect.” He put down his coffee cup. “These days, it's hard to tell who are impostors. His ancestors might have been given the title by Napoleon.”

“The girl in the red satin gown and diamond earrings?” Mathieu asked.

“She did look lovely,” Alec sighed.

“That's it!” Mathieu exclaimed. “You should marry her. She's quite beautiful and she's dying to marry a French aristocrat. Claudia can stay in the house and you'll get Bettina off your back.”

“That's the craziest thing I ever heard,” he spluttered. “We only met three days ago. So far she's locked herself on the balcony and stepped into oncoming traffic. That's hardly a recommendation for a life partner.”

“She has eyes like a young Audrey Hepburn and a mouth like Kate Moss,” Mathieu said. “Americans are quick learners, you could teach her how to maneuver around Paris.”

“I wouldn't consider it, and you know our family never uses our title.” Alec paused. “My father wanted to chuck the whole thing after his first wife ran off with a serf.”

“Feudalism was abolished under Louis XVI.” Mathieu grinned.

“Well, he was a farmer.” Alec shrugged. “Isabel is charming, but I don't know anything about her. And I told you, I'd rather paddle a rowboat in the Luxembourg Gardens during a downpour than get down on my knee in front of a woman ever again.”

“I'm trying to help.” Mathieu pointed to the sketch of Gus and the witch in the forest. “That woman looks a lot like Bettina.”

“I'm an artist.” Alec scooped it up. “I draw from personal experience.”

“I hope you're not thinking of poisoning Bettina.” He scowled. “I'm terrible at criminal law and you're no help to your mother in prison.”

“I'm not murderous!” Alec insisted. “It's not illegal to wish she'd come down with adult measles.”

Mathieu gathered his umbrella and walked to the door.

“I have to go, Helene and I are attending a Lamaze class.” He turned around. “Think about what I said. Can you imagine Bettina's face if you appeared on the steps of Notre Dame with Isabel?”

*   *   *

ALEC STIRRED HIS
coffee and thought Isabel did have a lovely laugh, and when she smiled her brown eyes sparkled. But he couldn't afford to date. His bank account was still recovering from the cuff links he bought for the rehearsal dinner and Celine's wedding gift.

He remembered walking into Chopard's and handing over a month's salary for a heart-shaped pendant and flinched. He was never again going to open himself up to heartache and penury.

His sketch pad lay on the coffee table and he picked it up. He drew Gus standing on a yellow brick road under a rainbow. There was a witch in a black dress and glittering red shoes. He sketched a door falling on the witch and flattening her on the pavement.

He selected a warm brioche and ate it in one bite.

 

chapter eight

Isabel stood on the stone balcony and inhaled the damp air and scent of expensive perfume. The Christmas tree sparkled in the Place de la Concorde and the lights twinkled on the Champs-Élysées and all of Paris looked like it was going to a party.

She leaned over the railing and wanted to blow kisses to the doormen in their gold-and-blue uniforms. In an hour, the
comte
was picking her up and taking her to the most famous restaurant in Paris.

A soft mist settled on her shoulders and she stepped inside. Her hair was pinned with a gold clip and she wore red lipstick. She glanced at the pink-and-blue glass bracelet on the dressing table and put it on. Antoine would never know it wasn't made of diamonds and sapphires, and it might bring her luck.

Now she had to decide between her silver stilettos and satin ballet slippers. She couldn't remember how tall Antoine was, and she didn't want to get anything wrong. She scooped up both pairs and hurried down the hallway.

*   *   *

“I HOPE I'M
not disturbing you,” Isabel said when Alec answered the door. “Isn't it a little early for bed?”

“I was taking a nap,” Alec explained, knotting the silk robe around his waist. The plush drapes were closed and the Tiffany lamps were turned on low. “Central heating always makes me sleepy.”

“You should open the curtains.” She entered the suite. “The rain stopped and the Champs-Élysées looks like a Monet painting.”

“Where are your shoes?” Alec asked, glancing down at her stockings. “Don't tell me you locked them on the balcony.”

“They are right here.” She smiled and held up the stilettos and ballet slippers. “I thought you could help me.”

“Help you do what?”

“Choose which to wear.” She perched on a brocade armchair. “Antoine invited me to dinner at Tour d'Argent, and I don't know whether to wear the slippers or stilettos. I must have drunk too much champagne, I can't remember how tall he is.”

“Aren't you about five foot four?” Alec asked. “I'm sure he's taller than Napoleon.”

“You're right, I'm just so nervous.” She smoothed her skirt. “How do I look?”

Alec glanced at her black velvet cocktail dress and glossy hair and thick mascara.

“You look lovely.” He smiled.

“Black is a safe color, and I don't want to take any chances,” she explained. “What if an old girlfriend dumped him wearing a green dress or a pink miniskirt?”

“You need a shot of this.” He walked to the bar and poured two glasses of scotch. He handed one to Isabel and sat opposite her. “So, the
comte
asked you out?”

“I waited all day for him to call, I'd finally given up,” she said, sipping her drink. “An hour ago I stepped in the bath when the hotel phone rang. Antoine said his maid took his tuxedo to the dry cleaner's with my number in the pocket. He tried to get it back, but they had tossed it in the garbage.” She paused. “He was terribly angry, he said he'd take his business elsewhere.”

“How did he find you?”

“It's so romantic,” she sighed. “He called the Ritz and the George Cinq and Hôtel de Crillon.”

“But you could have been staying anywhere.” Alec rubbed his brow. “There are hundreds of hotels in Paris.”

“He said a beautiful girl could only stay in a five-star hotel and there weren't many to choose from.”

“He got lucky,” Alec mumbled.

“Ever since I met the fortune-teller, wonderful things have happened.” Her brown eyes sparkled. “Today I went to Shakespeare and Company to buy a book on the French aristocracy, but there weren't any.” She fiddled with her glass. “As I was leaving, an old man appeared and handed me the perfect book.”

“You can't think that has anything to do with the fortune-teller?”

“I know it does, and I'm sure Antoine and I are going to fall in love.” She touched her chest. “I can feel it here.”

“Probably heartburn, I get it from eating too many salted nuts,” he murmured. “They shouldn't allow minibars in hotel rooms. They're all fat and calories without any nutrition.”

“We're going to have a candlelit dinner at Tour d'Argent,” she began. “I've read about it for years, it's one of the most renowned restaurants in Paris. I looked up the menu and it has roasted fillet of duckling and multicolored beetroots and vanilla clementine for dessert.”

“It sounds wonderful.” Alec smiled. “I'm happy for you.”

“Look at the time, I have to go!” She jumped up. “He's meeting me in the lobby.”

“Isabel, wait,” Alec called.

“What is it?” She turned around.

He pointed to her stocking feet and grinned. “You forgot your shoes.”

*   *   *

ISABEL GAZED AT
the gold-and-white marble floor and blue velvet wallpaper and thick marble columns. Rich tapestries lined the walls and crystal chandeliers dangled from the domed ceiling. She pictured the building when it first opened in 1758 and welcomed kings and queens and courtiers. Now she was standing in the lobby, waiting to go to dinner with a
comte
!

What if they had nothing to talk about or she wasn't attracted to him? The glass bracelet glittered on her wrist and she remembered the fortune-teller. This was the moment she had been waiting for and everything was going to be perfect.

The double doors opened and a man entered the lobby. He had dark blond hair and brown eyes and narrow cheekbones. He wore a navy suit and clutched a bouquet of flowers.

“Isabel?” He approached her.

“Yes?” Her heart hammered in her chest.

“I'm glad I picked the red roses.” He handed her the bouquet. “Nothing else could match your beauty.”

*   *   *

THEY SAT AT
a window table at Tour d'Argent and ate lobster bisque and goose foie gras with brioche. Isabel gazed at the moon glinting on the Seine and tall spires of Notre Dame Cathedral and shivered. It really was beautiful, like an impossibly elegant coffee table book.