Kissed in Paris (26 page)

“What are you—?”

“Trust me,” he said, his fingers tapping wildly on the keyboard.

Ten minutes later, Julien had helped me come up with a plausible email that we hoped would tide Paul over for the next day or two until I was able to get home. We told him that my card had, in fact, been stolen, along with my passport, and that I was working with the U.S. embassy to get it all worked out so that I could fly home within the next few days. We chose to leave out the details about Claude, the chase around France, the police who were hot on my trail, and the fact that I’d spent every minute of the past two days with Julien, and was currently scrunched up in a chair with him, as he sat, shirtless, typing this email to Paul.

I read over the email about a hundred times before Julien finally convinced me to just send the damn thing and get some sleep. I ignored the frantic emails from all three of my sisters, my dad, the florist, the DJ and the photographer, and instead showered, brushed my teeth, and changed into my Annecy pajamas in Julien’s bathroom. I returned to the bedroom to find him propped up on his pillow, reading a book under the soft lamplight, a pair of black wire-rimmed glasses framing his eyes.

I also noticed that he still hadn’t put on his T-shirt.

As I tentatively pulled back the covers and slid into bed beside him, I realized that
this
was what Julien was like on a normal night—when he wasn’t racing around the country chasing his brother, crashing weddings, and running from the police. I’d been with Paul for so long, I’d never really thought about what it would be like to share those intimate, end-of-the-day moments with someone else.

And I wondered, as I watched Julien relax back into his pillow and flip a page, why I felt so nervous all of a sudden. Why there were butterflies dancing around in my stomach.

And why, at the same time, this also felt strangely natural.

“What are you reading?” I asked as I laid my head on the fluffy pillow, trying to envision climbing into bed next to Paul and remembering how each night he liked to read over his notes for the next day’s case . . . which had never made for relaxing bedtime conversation.

“It is a book on winemaking. Now that my father is gone, I will be running the vineyard in his place . . . if we are able to buy it back.”

I rolled over onto my side to face Julien, determined to ignore the weird feeling creeping into my chest. “Don’t you know how to grow wine, if you grew up here?”

“Yes, but it is the business side I must learn better. Even if we do succeed in buying back the vineyard, I have to find a way to grow the business quickly so we can make a profit and keep it going.”

“Do you ever hold events here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Wine tastings, parties, weddings. That sort of thing.”

“We have had an occasional wine tasting, but that is all.” Julien rested his book on his bare stomach. “This is your work, no?”

I nodded. “If you opened up the property for events, you could bring in a ton of extra money. And it would be great exposure for your wine. Your sales would definitely go up . . . well, if the wine is good, that is.”

“Of course the wine is good,” Julien said, taking his glasses off and biting the end. “Hmmm. This is a nice idea you have. My father was a very private person, so he never liked this sort of thing. But my mother is quite different. She is outgoing and social. She would love to host parties or weddings here, and it would give her something to focus on now that my father is gone.”

“Exactly. I have a client right now, for example—a senator’s daughter—who’s looking for an overseas destination site for her wedding. She doesn’t want to do the typical, overdone tropical island wedding though. They want something different. And from what I could see so far of the vineyard, this property could be a perfect fit for what she’s looking for. I’d need to take a proper look around in the daylight of course, but—” I trailed off as I noticed Julien staring intently into my eyes, his brow furrowed, his lips hesitantly forming a smile.

“What?” I asked.

“I am surprised.”

“At what?”

“That you are talking as if you would actually set me up with a client to help my family’s business.”

“Oh . . . why are you so surprised at that?”

“I assumed when you returned home to your fiancé and your life in DC, that you would want to forget that any of this had ever happened. That you had ever met me and my family.”

Julien was right. I’d never considered I would actually be in contact with him after I made it home, let alone send clients his way. But as I lay in bed with him, watching the way he looked at me, his muscular chest lifting up and down with each breath, for some strange reason I suddenly couldn’t imagine leaving and never talking to him again.

“If you decide to host events at your vineyard, and if the property turns out to be as gorgeous as it looked at night, I would have no problem setting you up with some of my clients.”

A goofy grin spread across Julien’s face, his dimple popping into his cheek. “Your fiancé is a lucky man, you know that?”

My entire body flushed with heat at Julien’s compliment. I swallowed hard, flipped onto my back and stared at the ceiling, willing myself to think about Paul. But as I tried to picture my fiancé, his face wouldn’t come into focus.

“I’m going to go to sleep now,” I said, closing my eyes.

Julien switched off the lamp and set his book on the nightstand. Then he rustled under the covers until his foot rested ever so slightly on mine.

“Goodnight.” Julien’s voice carried softly through the darkness.

“Goodnight,” I whispered. And as I opened my eyes and stared up at the moonlight reflecting off the ceiling, I felt something shift inside of me. I wondered then, when I returned home, would I be able to pick up where I’d left off as if none of this had ever happened?

Sixteen

I woke to the sound of a bird chirping through the open window and squinted as the early morning sunlight peeked through a set of wispy yellow drapes. I turned over to find that I was alone in Julien’s bed, the bedside clock telling me it was only six a.m.

Climbing out of bed, I slipped on my new cardigan sweater and padded into the hallway to find Julien. As I made my way to the stairs, I noticed that the house was silent. No clamoring of cupboards, no talking . . . nothing. Maybe Camille and her mother were still sleeping. But where was Julien?

I rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs and peeked into the living room, and when I didn’t find anyone in there, I headed further down the hall to the next doorway, which turned out to be the kitchen. And as I circled the long mahogany table, taking in the brass pots and pans hanging neatly on walls the color of the sunset, a half-eaten baguette in a bread basket, and an almost-empty miniature cup of espresso, a familiar scent engulfed me.

I stood motionless in the kitchen, trying to place it.

It was the smell of cologne. But it wasn’t Julien’s scent. It was different.

Why was it so familiar?

As I turned and walked back toward the door, running my fingers along the dark, smooth wood of the table, my hand brushed up against a piece of paper. The paper fluttered to the floor, revealing the word
Maman
scribbled at the top.

I picked up the note and tried to read the long French paragraph, but the handwriting was so rough I could barely make out the letters, let alone translate the words.

Then, at the bottom of the note, I spotted a name I recognized all too well.

Claude
.

Suddenly the floor creaked behind me. I whipped around, catching a glimpse of slick black hair, a tall frame and broad shoulders passing by the doorway.

My heart stopped in my chest as that same masculine scent flooded my nostrils once more.

It was Claude.

I dropped the note and ran through the doorway to see the front door slamming shut. Racing to the door, I swung it open and flew down the stairs in my bare feet. Claude was up ahead, walking briskly toward a small gray car.  

“Claude!” I called out in desperation. “Stop, please!”

To my surprise, he stopped and turned around to face me.

And there he was again. Those chiseled cheek bones, those piercing blue eyes, those dangerous lips. Flashes of memories from the night we met ran through my mind like an old black and white film missing half of its slides.

He didn’t speak, but the look of recognition that passed over his face showed that he remembered me. Oh yes, he remembered me.

“Do you have my passport?” I demanded.

“No.” He swiveled back around on his heel and continued on toward the car, as if nothing monumental was going on. As if it was totally normal that the woman he’d stolen everything from just a few nights earlier in Paris was at his family’s vineyard in the middle of France at six in the morning, demanding her passport back.

“Okay, fine. Forget about my passport,” I called after him as a rage like nothing I’d ever felt before boiled to the surface. “And forget about my bank account too. And the fact that you have single-handedly ruined my chance at making it home in time for my wedding! What would you care about me? I was just another one of your stupid victims. But what about the painting?”

He froze. “What did you just say?”

“I asked if you have the painting. You know, the one you
stole
from your own family? I know you’re a thief and you couldn’t care less about your unsuspecting victims, but how could you have done this to your family? To your mom? How could you have taken away the only thing that will help your mother buy this vineyard back?” I gestured to the acres of rolling green hills surrounding us, the early morning sunlight flickering off the endless rows of vines. “They’re going to lose everything because of you! It wasn’t enough that your father died. Now you have to take away your mother’s home too! She’s sick now, because of you . . . you slimy French bastard.”

I took in Claude’s flashing eyes, his hard set jaw as he stormed toward me. “What are you talking about? Buy the vineyard back?”

 “When your mother went to meet with the accountant after your father’s death, they learned that he’d left them in a state of financial ruin, and if they don’t get that painting back, your sick mother is going to lose her home, her land, this vineyard, everything.”

“Unbelievable.” Claude turned, marched back to the car and wrenched open the door. 

“Where are you going?” I demanded, running after him.

Claude slid behind the wheel, shaking his head. “I cannot believe you fell for that. You are even stupider than I thought.”

“No, you’re the one who’s making the mistake here. I mean, what do you think I’m doing at your family’s vineyard? Why do you think your brother would drag me around the whole freaking country looking for you? Just for my passport? I don’t think so. He needs the painting back so he can help your mom save their home . . . and what I’m assuming used to be
your
home too.” I reached for the door handle. I wasn’t about to let this guy leave the property.

A flash of doubt passed through his cold eyes, but then they hardened again as he zoned in on me. “You think you can actually trust what Julien tells you? You think he is innocent in all of this? Where do you think I learned how to do what I do? I learned it all from him—
the expert
.”

I staggered back, my fingers falling from the handle as Claude jammed the car into gear and shot me one last look. “And besides,” he said, his chiseled features void of emotion, “the painting is gone.”