Fielder's Choice (26 page)

When had her feelings changed?

But that Matt hadn’t bothered to mention their move hurt. Worse, she felt like a fool for fooling herself.

She rocked back on her heels and unwrapped Sophie’s arm from around her neck. “Philadelphia is probably a good place,” she answered blankly as she stood to face Matt.

“We haven’t decided,” he said, color flushing his face. “It was just a thought.”

She nodded in a gesture meant to convey that what he chose to do or not do was his business, but the dull ache in her chest made her attempt at detachment an outright lie.

A hand wrapped around her waist and pulled at her from behind. “I happen to
love
the East Coast of America.” Marcel’s smooth baritone preceded his kiss at the nape of her neck. “All those quaint seaside towns.” He squeezed her against his side. “Charming, really.”

A stony light entered Matt’s eyes. His body went board stiff as he drew back from her, like in the old movies when the bad guy froze his victims into pillars of ice or salt.

Marcel had sized Matt up as competition from the start. He’d teased her about Matt on more than one occasion, and each time Alana had made light of it. But his overblown display and kiss was like being peed on by a territorial dog.

“And I love it when things work out with such
charm
,” Marcel added, before she could introduce him. He swept his free arm toward the departing sheriff. “Now we won’t miss our plane to Paris, darling. There can be absolutely nothing to worry you.” He beamed his lord-of-the-universe smile at Matt. “Your daughter, I presume?”

Usually Alana loved that smile. In the past it had lifted her and made her feel giddy with life. But if she’d been a teakettle, steam would be spouting from her ears. She’d never seen Marcel so fiercely competitive. Or being such a jerk. She wasn’t leaving for Paris until next Wednesday, and Marcel knew it. Plus there was a kid’s heart at stake here, for goodness’ sake. Couldn’t he see that? But maybe he couldn’t. And maybe it surprised her just a bit that she did.

She wriggled free of his hold.

“Marcel Castellane, this is Matt Darrington and yes, this is his daughter, Sophie.”

Sophie shot dagger eyes at Marcel. A month ago Alana would’ve thought Sophie’s exaggerated reaction was funny, but right then she was too aware of Sophie’s feelings to see any humor in her response.

Sophie’s chin began to tremble as tears pooled in her eyes. “I don’t want you to go to Paris. You’re not going, are you?”

As the pooled tears tumbled down Sophie’s cheeks, reality slammed into Alana.

She’d let things go too far.

Neither she nor Matt was moving in a direction good for the kid. And Matt was obviously not in too deep if he was considering moving without even mentioning it. She was just as bad, making plans with Marcel and shying away from commitments. She’d known from the beginning that she might bolt at any moment and head back to Europe, back to the life she’d known there—a life before Nana had died and screwed everything up so horribly.

And maybe she’d been just as foolish and selfish as Marcel was being now. She’d screwed up nearly every interaction involving Sophie. It hadn’t been negligence, not really, but she sure wasn’t anybody’s ideal for a partner in a responsible relationship. Matt would find someone better suited, someone who could be devoted, be with him and care reliably for Sophie twenty-four hours a day, someone cut out for motherhood and who would know exactly what to do in all situations and love every minute of life with a child, even the terror-filled ones.

She had to pull out now—Sophie was way too attached. Catching Sophie up any further in the slipstream of her pursuit of pleasure—maybe even happiness—with Matt was unforgivable.

She took in a breath. And prepared to say what she’d feared she’d have to say ever since the day at the Sausalito docks—to draw the line she hadn’t thought she’d have the spine to draw and hold. Pushing him away was for the greater good, she told herself. The right thing to do, her inner voice whispered. The specific words weren’t important; it was the delivery that needed to be both loud and clear. To all of them.

“I
am
going to Paris, Sophie.”

Sophie’s face contorted. Alana felt a stab of grief and guilt as Sophie averted her tear-filled eyes.

“And I
do
think you would love the East Coast,” she added in a strong, falsely cheerful tone. “It’s so lovely there. And you can be near your grandmother.”

To drive the already excruciatingly painful point home, Alana slid her arm around Marcel’s waist and snuggled up against him. That he smiled was even less to his credit.

She’d thought Matt couldn’t stiffen any more, but she’d been wrong. She saw from his tightly held lips that he believed her. Knowing she’d kissed the blood into those lips just a week before made her shiver. So much could change in a week. So much had changed.

“We’re leaving,” Matt said as he circled Sophie’s wrist with his fingers. “I’ll send someone tomorrow to pick up her things.”

“But, Dad—”

“No buts, Punkin. It’s time to go home.”

He held Sophie’s hand and led her away. Then he stopped and turned back.

“Sophie, say goodbye to Alana. We won’t be seeing her again.”

He sure knew how to break a heart.

Chapter 22

Alana fidgeted with the strap of her dress and glanced around La Mer d’Or. Dressed in a body skimming Versace cocktail dress and wearing her favorite Prada stiletto sandals should’ve made her feel glamorous and strong. La Mer d’Or was her favorite restaurant in San Francisco. There’d been a time when just the prospect of a delicious night of wine and perfectly prepared French cuisine would shake her out of any blue mood, but tonight nothing could soothe her. How had she landed in such a mire?

Marcel smiled at her across the table. He covered her hand with his.

“You are so quiet,” he said. “What demon has stolen my Alana and sent a silent nymph to take her place?”

She opened her lips to say that she wasn’t his, maybe wouldn’t ever be anyone’s, but the denial didn’t seem worth the effort. It wasn’t Marcel’s fault that she wasn’t enjoying their evening out.

He called the sommelier to the table and ordered a bottle of his family’s best Champagne. The sommelier suggested the Dom Perignon.

“I prefer the Montaudelle Reserve,” he said without explanation. “And with dinner we will have the Chateau Petrus 1989.”

Alana barely tasted the Champagne as the bubbles prickled her throat. Marcel’s insensitive behavior at the ranch—was it just yesterday?—still rankled. Maybe she wasn’t so good at forgiveness after all.

A draft blew into the restaurant and sent goose bumps marching up her arms. Marcel noticed and glared toward the door. He was a man used to having his way and to having conditions as near perfect as possible. A wry smile and a lifted brow took the place of his glare.

“We may have an interesting evening after all,” he said.

Alana followed his gaze to the door. Matt was walking through the entryway, escorting a tall, exquisitely beautiful blonde toward the maître d’. The woman moved with the grace of a dancer. Matt laughed at something she said. Alana wanted to look away but couldn’t. Marcel took her hand in his and held it firmly.

“You waste your time on such a man. He is looking for something that he will not find because he does not see.”

But Matt turned just then, and he saw her all right. His eyes stopped on hers for an instant, and then he looked away. He put a hand to the small of the woman’s back and murmured to her. She looked at him and shook her head. From their stances, Alana presumed that Matt was trying to get her to leave, but she raised her hands in a defiant gesture, and they followed the maître d’ to a table directly in Alana’s line of sight.

Perfect. His retaliation couldn’t have been better planned. That it hadn’t been planned at all was even harder to take. When she’d mentioned La Mer d’Or to Matt, recommending it, she’d expected that she’d be the one with him when he first tried it. She’d wanted to share her favorite places with him, not try to ignore him while he entertained another woman.

Alana picked up her menu, thankful that it was a massive one. With it she blocked Matt and his date from her sight. But she couldn’t resist a peek around the edge. Her stomach tumbled when Matt held the chair for the woman and tucked her shawl along the back with a familiar gesture.

“Do you want to leave?” Marcel asked.

“No.” Alana lowered her menu. “You’re hungry and we’re here. It’s no problem, really.”

She gulped down the rest of her Champagne and felt the alcohol ease a bit of her tension. Eight or ten glasses more and she’d not feel a thing. But the irony was, she wasn’t a drinker. She’d have to settle for feeling just okay.

Marcel made conversation as their first course,
quenelles
, was served. She ate, but tasted nothing. She tried to focus on Marcel’s honey-smooth voice and charming chatter, but her attention, whether she looked their way or not, was on Matt and the beautiful woman sitting ever so close to him.

Their meat course was served, and Marcel poured a swirl of ruby-colored wine into her glass and then glanced over to where Matt sat with his date.

“A ballplayer,” he said with a hint of disdain. “You could make a scent based on the image of an athlete.” He sipped his wine. “So many movie stars and models are the focus of new scent lines. It could be a lucrative marketing angle for you.”

“You’re talking about him as if he were a commodity.”

“Darling, we are all commodities.”

He took her hand in his. Which was fine since she didn’t need it for eating; nothing on the table held any appeal.

“It simply matters who is doing the consuming.”

She pulled her hand away and picked up her fork.

Marcel took another long sip of his wine, swirled it in his mouth and swallowed. “You know we are very compatible, you and I.”

His accent made the word
compatible
sound like something delectable and delicious. Almost desirable.

“We like the same things,” he went on. “The delights of the cities and the nightlife, languid afternoons and parties by the sea.”

Those things used to define Alana’s whole world. What shook her was that the prospect of enjoying them had lost some of its glamor. Yet that wasn’t a negative, not a bad thing. Instead she felt like she was waking from a lifelong trance, only now seeing what she’d been missing for years.

“You should plan to stay in France for a while when you come for the Versailles gala. We can go down to my place in Provence,” Marcel said. “You won’t be bothered by all this. It is wearing on you, I can see it.” He squeezed her forearm. “The Duc de Bourbon and the Marquis D’Aramon will be staying at my place in the country. We will have a house party.” He withdrew his hand and sat back in his chair. “Or not,” he added in a matter-of-fact tone. “I know you have details to attend to.”

He made those details sound like so much overblown flotsam. Marcel had the instincts of a seasoned seducer. Move in close, then pull away. She had once enjoyed the dynamic push and pull of his alluring games. But now...

Matt’s date leaned in close to him and said something that made him laugh heartily.

She was dying, for God’s sake, and he was laughing. Did she need any more proof of her folly?

“Provence,” she said absently.

“You are coming?”

There was nothing to keep her away. Nothing to keep her in California. A month or two in France might salve her wounded heart.

“Of course.”

He leaned over and kissed her, one of his lingering, expert kisses. A kiss most women would swoon for.

She didn’t swoon.

She did look up to see Matt staring at her, his face impassive. Then he turned and put an arm around his date’s shoulder, and Alana’s heart broke just a little bit more.

The next morning Alana packed Marcel off to sail with one of his Parisian buddies, who was testing out a newly designed catamaran in the strong winds of San Francisco Bay. She’d been tempted to go but when she checked her email, she saw that the permit meeting had been moved up three days. Marcel had been very put out when she told him she’d have to stay on the ranch and deal.

It wasn’t just the broken sailing date that put Marcel in a foul mood. Alana had made him sleep in the guest room again. When he’d first arrived she was feeling mixed up, way too bemused about Matt to have Marcel in her bed, something he hadn’t taken lightly. She’d made an excuse, but he was a perceptive man. And after seeing Matt with his date in the restaurant the night before, her emotions had been too tangled to even consider the sensual night Marcel had proposed. He was too clever to sulk, but his lack of conversation and clipped answers when they’d shared an early, hurried breakfast betrayed his displeasure.

Frowning, Alana stood on her balcony and dragged a brush through her hair as she watched Marcel drive away.

Why couldn’t she just love Marcel and accept what he offered? There’d been a day when she thought she might’ve talked herself into settling for a relationship with him. He loved freedom as she did, days that stretched out, open, ready for pleasure and adventure. Sure, both of them had obligations, but nothing that couldn’t be handled by high-end consultants or a savvy personal assistant or expert hired hand. Both of them could afford to pay people to wrangle the details of their lives.