Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (6 page)

I waited for him outside the
entrance of my building. After a day spent inside, shoving furniture around, I
needed fresh air. When he saw me, he smiled.

“You look beautiful. Where would you like to go?” he said
while kissing me on both cheeks.

I stifled the urge to kiss his lips. “Actually, I have a
request.”

“Oui?”

“Could we go somewhere nice but normal? With friends in from
out of town, I’m going to be up to my eyeballs in fancy restaurants next week.”

When he grinned at me, his eyes gleamed with delight.
“Kathleen, you intrigue me. I think I have the perfect suggestion. The Hôtel du
Nord.”

“I haven’t been there, but I did see the Marcel Carnés film.
What kind of food do they have?”

“Nice but normal,” he quipped.

Already laughing at his quick retort, I laughed harder when
my stomach roared. “My stomach approves.”

With a grin, he offered me his arm, which I took and then
said, “Now we only have to hope the rest of you does.”

We strolled the cobbled walkway between the chestnut trees
and the water’s edge, finally crossing a bridge to Quai de Jemmapes. It was a
short walk to the Hôtel, which had a simple façade washed by the shadows of
trees in the setting sun. When we stepped inside, I admired the hand-painted
tiles and vintage art on the walls.

“What do you think?” He gestured to the room.

“It’s perfect.”

Over absolutely exquisite cheeseburgers and dry Champagne,
we talked about my passion for renovating and life in Enclos-St-Laurent. By the
time we left, the restaurant was crowded. Walking with him slowly through the
darkness, I felt both excited and comfortable. Life seemed exhilarating.

So exhilarating that I imagined a
Kiss Me
sign
flashing over my head and stifled a giggle. He seemed just as happy, and though
I hadn’t dated in quite some time, I was fairly certain he was interested in
me, not simply feeling sorry for me.
He is, isn’t he?

To calm myself in case he wasn’t, I made up stories about
the people we saw sitting in cafés, items in window shops, the brisk night air—nothing
too personal. After we crossed the canal, I asked him if he’d like to sit and
talk. He threw himself down in the middle of a bench, tucking his wool coat
around him. I sat, too, careful to put some but not too much distance between
us.

An open-topped canal boat glided past. People were
oohing
and
ah’ing.
Festive, twinkly lights festooned the boat and reflected on
the dark water, creating a beautiful, quivering reflection of Parisian
splendor.

Cold, I snuggled into my coat and stuffed my hands into my
deep pockets for warmth. Observing me, he slid closer and rested an arm on the
bench behind me. His body heat slowly started to penetrate my layers of
clothing. His attentive gesture left me daydreaming. Then I yawned unexpectedly
and yelped, “Sorry!”

“You don’t have to go to such lengths to be free of me.”

I shook my head, and before I could deny any desire to be
gone from him, he chose that moment to kiss me. The kiss was warm and gentle.
He held me tenderly, and from the slight tremble of his lips, I knew he was as
affected as I was. His taste, his touch flooded me, warming me in tender
places, compelling me to lean into him, leaving me wanting to explore him.
While I clutched the lapels of his coat to keep my hands busy, my head filled
with his scent, and it captivated me. Breathing heavily, he broke our kiss,
still gently caressing my cheek with his thumb. His dark brown eyes searched
mine. I looked from his eyes to his lips and longed to kiss him again yet
remained still, enjoying the sensation of anticipation. We sat somewhat
entangled, and in his gentle expression, I could see something indescribable;
were I a braver soul, I would have asked him to share his thoughts. But I
wasn’t. Not yet.

He raised my hand and kissed the back of it. “I’ll walk you
home.”

He held my hand as we walked, asking if he could see me
soon. I apologized, “It’s a very hectic week, between work and my friends
arriving. Once they’re gone?” We had arrived out front of the Art Deco building
where I lived.

“Ah yes. Reality. I forgot about that.” His words made me
smile.

My eyes darted to his lips. “I should go in. Thank you for
your help.”

“Thank you for dinner.”

“My pleasure, and thank you. Given how the day started, I
wasn’t expecting such a pleasant day.” Feeling bolder, I pressed a kiss to his
lips and turned quickly away before he could respond.

I felt his eyes on me as I climbed the stairs. Desire for
him added a sway to my walk, and I felt a strong pull to race back down the
steps and into his arms. Instead, before disappearing inside, I turned and
found him watching me, looking quite handsome in the lamplight.

THE
WEEK WAS
at hand,
and with it came much excitement. Today’s highlights were designers showing at
the Espace Ephémère Tuileries, Jardin des Tuileries, and L’ École Nationale
Supérieur des Beaux-Arts. I rummaged through a packet and found my official
passes. Spending all of God’s hours working was paying off! I had access to
many events in the fashion world
and
, if rumors were true, my boss was
retiring at the end of the year, which meant L’Oréal would be looking for his
replacement. I wanted to be that someone. As I happily contemplated this, the
phone rang.

“Mademoiselle Ehlers, it is Mrs. Blackwell,” my assistant,
Denise, called to me.

I picked up the phone. “Tiziana?”

“
Ciao bella!
I love Paris! Think of all the lovely
clothes and wonderful food we’ll enjoy this week.” Her lyrical portrayal sang
out to me. She never said, “Hello.” She began conversations as if you’d never
gone your separate ways. Almost ten years after meeting her, I had long since
realized that she drew you into her world or threw herself into the middle of
yours. She didn’t care which, so long as we were together.

“It’s great to hear from you. How was the trip?” I settled
back into my chair. She and her new husband, Ted, had sailed from Saint-Tropez
to Malta for their honeymoon.

After filling me in on the highlights, the conversation
turned to this week. “Bella, are we still on for dinner at your place tonight?”
she asked.

“We are, if you’re sure you don’t mind the fact that it is
truly a work in progress. More like a work in dismantling.” I snorted.

“Don’t worry, darling. It only means I will have something
to compare it to later. Tonight we should flip through our calendars and plan
our week.”

“Great. Will I see you at Stella McCartney?”

“Si, bella. We’ll see you there.” I heard some quiet
murmuring in the background.

“I’m impressed that Ted is willing to sit through this for
you!”

“He’s such a darling. See you soon.” Air kisses wended their
way across the airwaves as we hung up.

Looking at the clock on my computer, I realized there was
just enough time to primp before leaving for the Tuileries. I slid my shoes on
and grabbed my tote bag. It was the first sprint of a very exciting, high-energy
week.

***

I found myself outside happily
waiting in the sunshine for my co-workers. I was so excited that the first show
I would attend this week was Stella McCartney. Not only did I love her designs,
I had been enamored of her ever since Karl Lagerfeld questioned her ability to
take over creative direction for the fashion house Chloe. Though I loved him, I
was a fan of any woman who wanted to chart her own course—hence my helping out
Bethany Halvorsen, who was about to hit the big time. The rest, as they say, is
history: Stella had proven herself, and today was the day to see her newest
collection.

As I dug out my sunglasses, a giant black limo pulled up to
the curb. The rear door burst open, and Tiziana bolted from the cavernous
interior. Wearing a devil-may-care grin, she swept me up in her arms. “Forgive
me, darling, but I just had to see you.” Stepping back, she let me go. “You
look so beautiful.”

I beamed from ear to ear, thrilled to see her. “Me? I look
so… bland. Look at you.” She wore a bold red, knee-length dress with cut-outs. Caught
up in the spirit of the week, I made an educated guess. “Versace?” She was a
huge fan of Donatella Versace’s bold colors and designs. She nodded and
twirled.

“Bella, you look so elegant, so professional.”

My outfit, a gray pencil skirt, paired with a tailored white
shirt, white vest, and matching gray jacket, was a mishmash of designers. I
wiggled my toes to show off my spectacular new pair of Balenciaga peep-toe
heels in deep-purple brushed suede.

“Gorgeous!” she declared then asked, “Kathleen, can we give
you a ride to the show?”

I called my secretary and asked her to let my co-workers
know I would meet them at the Espace Ephémère Tuileries. “I’m all yours.”

Crawling into the limo, I found Marian, Charlotte, and
Hillary hiding there. “Oh my god! You’re here, too!” I threw myself at them.
We’d all been together at Tiziana and Ted’s wedding two months before, but it
was wonderful to have them here. All of them simultaneously descending on Paris
was rare.

I spied Charlotte’s enormous belly and couldn’t help myself.
“I cannot believe
you
are here! This is seriously crazy.”

Charlotte, the calmest of us—not overly sarcastic (Marian),
not overly dramatic (Tiziana), not overly uptight (Hillary), and not overly
wound tight (me)—assured me that all contingencies were covered. When I stared
at her belly some more, she chastised me. “You’re making me feel
uncomfortable.”

I think in an effort to boost Charlotte’s confidence,
Hillary took her hand and pointed out, “She really does glow!”

“For feck’s sake, she’s not glowing,” Marian scoffed. “My
friends, that is pure, unadulterated fear! If you were about to push someone
the size of a watermelon out of your flange, you’d be in a constant sweat!”

“That’s just poor taste to bring that up,” I admonished
Marian, while trying to suppress laughter. “Let’s talk about something that
will take Charlotte’s mind off of that.”

“Impossible. Nothing can take my mind off of that.”
Charlotte squinched her face, admitting her concern.

“Not even that sexy husband of yours?” Marian tried
Charlotte’s favorite diversion. He
was
freakishly handsome and
attentive. They were nauseatingly happy. Tiziana appeared to be equally
nauseatingly happy. I was happy for my friends. And a little envious. I hadn’t
heard a peep from Sébastien since dinner a week ago.

While Charlotte and Tiziana gushed about the merits of love
and marriage, I wondered about the state of Hillary’s relationship with her
boyfriend. She had been dating Charlotte’s brother-in-law, Michael, for the
past year. When we’d talked last, she’d admitted things weren’t going well.

“Speaking of husbands, where are yours?” I asked Charlotte
and Tiziana.

“There wasn’t enough room, so they took another car. We’ll
meet them at Stella McCartney’s showroom,” Charlotte answered. Hillary and Marian
turned the conversation to the day’s agenda, deftly changing the subject away
from romance.

I pulled out the write-ups I had received for today’s shows
and passed them around. “What we are supposed to be seeing today. Stella
McCartney is paying homage to artists’ muses.”

In no time at all, we were out front Galerie de Valois,
foraying into the masses. It proved not all that challenging. Tucking Charlotte
in the middle to protect her, we let Tiziana and her corporeal bounty part the
sea of people for us. At the last minute, I splintered off from the group,
promising to meet them afterwards in the reception area, and quickly made my
way to my coworkers at L’Oréal.

The space was so tightly packed, with chairs only four rows
deep on either side of the runway, that it was easy to spot my friends amidst
all the effusive people who flitted about. I waved at them as fashionistas,
fashion journalists, paparazzi, investors, designers, and buyers rubbed elbows
with a wealth of celebrities.

My chair was a few seats down from our new Executive Vice President,
Daniel Huse, Monsieur Detriche’s boss. I greeted him with a nod. He was the man
I needed to impress if I wanted to climb the corporate ladder. Our working
relationship had been quite successful so far, and that was great news. This
was our first professional outing, if it could be called such. Any anxiety I
felt disappeared when the house lights dimmed. Excitement buzzed throughout the
room.

I scanned the room, and, to my astonishment, my eyes landed
on Sébastien Langevin. I inhaled sharply and looked away, hoping no one had
heard me. I took a quick second glance to see if my eyes were playing tricks on
me. Nope! He was sitting next to the EVP of Finance for
Vogue Hommes
International
. He and Anna Wintour, editor-in-chief of
American Vogue
,
were happily talking.

Who is this guy?

I turned my attention to the models as they strutted down
the runway wearing oversized, plaid, floor-length dresses and wondered what
artist’s muse had inspired this.
Some country bumpkin?
Stella was
letting me down. Normally riveted by the clothes and theatrics, I stole another
glance at the
Vogue
entourage and was startled to see
him
watching me. He nodded when I failed to look away quickly enough.
Crap!
Some region of my brain absorbed the fact that the models were parading the
entire collection as a finale. Stella took her bow in front of the massive
black fireplace and then quickly disappeared.

Photographers and columnists rushed to the reception room.
The rest of the masses took their time, for which I was grateful. What would I
say to Sébastien, if our paths crossed? While we shuffled along, I attempted to
participate in conversation, wanting to appear fully engaged, even as the
antennae on the back of my head sought
him
out.

I had just given up when I saw him kiss Tiziana’s cheek; she
then introduced him to Ted.
What the hell?
I had plenty of time to
ponder this thought as the sea of humanity converged, forcing our paths to
collide. Tiziana smiled as I approached. “What did you think, bella? I loved
all the color.”

Maria Sharapova, who had stood beside Tiziana, answered,
“The pieces were so wearable…” She continued talking, but I was too curious
about Sébastien and how he knew Tiziana to listen.

I was just about to ask how they knew each other when he greeted
me. “Mademoiselle Ehlers, I am delighted to see you. How did you enjoy the
show?” He leaned in to kiss me on both cheeks. “Did you see anything you must
have?” My being here wasn’t a surprise to him.
Why not?

I saw four sets of eyebrows lift upwards. There was more
than one way to get information. I took the direct route, beginning with, “I
enjoyed the show very much. I see you know the Blackwells.”

“Tiziana and I have been friends for years. I worked with
her at Olivetti. How do you know each other?” He appeared equally curious.

“We were at Oxford, studying business law together.” I felt
curious eyes bounce back and forth between us.

“I wonder how we haven’t met before.” He looked at Tiziana.
“There was a time Tiziana was determined to introduce me to every available
woman within fifty kilometers.” The suspicious grin he wore displayed his
slightly crooked but amazingly white teeth.

“Not true. I had a friend from Bologna come down for a
weekend once.”

He ignored her. “I’m just surprised! When I returned to
Paris, you should have introduced me to Mademoiselle Ehlers.” His smile kept
the mood light.

“She is a very close friend, and you were a
young
Frenchman. Besides, you seem to know her now!” Her answer was delivered with a sultry
laugh and a verbal slap on his wrist.

Just then, Sting and Trudi Styler, Jessica Biel, and
Jennifer Lawrence walked past us. While the girls were gawking them, I bravely asked
Sébastien why he wasn’t surprised to see me. “I Googled you.”

What? You could Google me?

Ted interrupted our conversation to introduce Sébastien to
Liam.

Tiziana corralled us. “How do we get them out of here? We
need to get to
Cité de L'Architecture et du
Patrimoine
l to see Sharon Wauchob.” I chuckled at Tiziana’s
pronunciation; her Italian accent contorted some words almost beyond
recognition.

Marian shrugged, her upper lip tugged downwards. “He’s your
fecking husband. Tell him to move his arse!”

It was then that I saw
them
. “Is Des here?” Des was
Ted’s best friend and international movie star extraordinaire.

Tiziana shook her head. “No. He’s been in Canada, filming a
movie. Why, bella?”

I pointed to the two men hovering near Ted who looked
remarkably like Des’s bodyguards. “Aren’t they Mr. NoNeck One and Mr. NoNeck
Two?” We’d invented the nicknames for Des’s bodyguards when we’d first met him.

Marian chuckled as she squinted at them, running her eyes up
and down them. “Jaysus, the size of their…”

“Shoulders,” Hillary inserted.

Charlotte picked up the thread. “And their arms… and legs.
Actually, I’ve always wondered how a penis on guys built like that looks.”

I watched their gazes simultaneously flit to the musclebound
men’s crotches. Tiziana came to her conclusion first. “I would think silly.
Small. They don’t get bigger just because the man is more muscular.” She waved
her hand around. “Anyway, they are Ted’s security. Besides, NoNecks are
everywhere.”

Ted was so low-key that, at times, I forgot that he needed
bodyguards. He was in between jobs, having stepped down from his software
company after making more money than God. I surveyed the room and found darkly
dressed, cropped-haired, muscly men—who looked freakishly identical—scattered
about the room. Apparently, he was in good company.

Seeing my friends were happily distracted, I decided to make
my exit. “Gotta run. I’ll see you soon.”

As I walked away, a certain Frenchman strode alongside me.
My heartbeat went a little wonky when he admitted, “Mademoiselle, I’m happy to
see you. Last week, I was in New York, and I must confess that I thought of you
often. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to spend some time together this week.”

My knees went weak, and I developed a case of bobble head.
“That would be nice.”

***

At first, I thought there was a
glitch in the audio system. Turns out it was the music. It began with a skip
and a miss and proved to be a foreshadowing of Sharon Wauchob’s collection. She
was amongst my favorite designers, so I was truly disappointed when only one or
two pieces captured my attention.