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She was back in St. Michel. And sooner than he’d expected, considering he’d had his doubts about whether she’d show up at all. Honestly, the last thing he needed was Margeaux Broussard dropping their weighty baggage in the middle of his already chaotic life.
“Henri, are you there?” His brother Luc asked.
“Yes, I’m here. Of course I’ll try to contact her. But that doesn’t mean she wants to see me.”
Henri didn’t mean to sound so testy. After all, his brother had done him a favor by directing the chief of the Bureau of Customs to alert him when Margeaux arrived.
“But I’m going to try,” Henri added, purposely shaving the edge off his tone.
Luc had been in charge of St. Michel’s national security before he married Sophie Baldwin, the woman who was the newly crowned queen of St. Michel. Despite stepping into a head-of-state position, Luc still had his fingers on the pulse of the country’s security, and had happily helped out his brother when he’d been asked.
“I’m sure Colbert will be happy Margeaux’s home,” Luc said. “It sounds like he’s going to need some help once he gets out of the hospital.”
Henri blew out a breath.
A lot had changed, but a lot remained the same—such as the way his heart beat a faster cadence at the mention of her name.
Even so he reminded himself that Margeaux hadn’t come home for him.
That was a thought that was oddly more disappointing than helpful.
After finishing the call with Luc, Henri made his way to the Ferdinand Gallery where Sydney had said she’d be waiting for him. He glanced around, but she wasn’t there.
He contemplated telling her to behave herself—to quit flirting. However, knowing Sydney, that would only encourage her. Instead, he decided to leave well enough alone and focus on more pressing matters such as how to expedite the rest of the paintings through French customs. They’d been on loan to a museum in Brussels and the orders to have them shipped straight to St. Michel should’ve been clear, but the paintings had mistakenly been returned to Paris. Henri was beginning to think that it might have been faster to pick them up at the Musée d’Orsay and bring them to St. Michel himself rather than wait for a bunch of bureaucrats to unravel the unnecessary red tape binding the priceless works of art.
He walked over and straightened one of the Monets already in place—a landscape of a house and overgrown garden that reminded him of the Broussards’ home with the sprawling terrace and thick, wild orchard where he’d spent so much of his youth. His thoughts flew to Margeaux, and her father’s situation.
Colbert could’ve hired home healthcare, and he had friends and staff who would’ve ensured that he was cared for. The man wouldn’t have been left high and dry. Still, Henri was one-quarter surprised Margeaux had come home and three-quarters relieved. It was nice to know that she’d come when her father needed her.
Because he wasn’t so sure the woman he’d read about in the tabloids over the past sixteen years would have made the trip. That tabloid heiress, who’d been estranged from her family and friends for more than a decade and a half, hardly resembled the girl who’d once been his best friend and first lover.
“You’re a million miles away from that Monet, love,” whispered a soft feminine voice. It made him jump. When he turned to face Sydney, she flashed that broad, sexy smile that usually coaxed a return grin from him. Today, however, her charms weren’t working.
“I was just taking a mental inventory of all that we have left to do before the exhibit opens.”
Her gaze locked with his and her mouth turned down into a slight frown. Arching a brow that seemed to convey that she didn’t believe him, she said. “Oh, you mean all those things we discussed in the meeting? I took excellent notes. I’ll send you a copy, so you don’t have to worry.”
He’d always found her attractive, and most of the time he found her no-holds-barred approach appealing. But for some reason, today, it was off-putting, too much for the workplace. The closer she got, the more claustrophobic he felt. It was as if she were backing him into a corner. He fought the urge to step back, to put some space between them. Instead, he turned back to the painting and studied it.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Do we want to keep it here or should we move it across the way?”
He pointed toward the shorter wall on the other side of the room.
“So, you’re not going to tell me,” she said.
“Tell you what?” Henri asked.
“Who this person is who has shanghaied your thoughts?”
Henri crossed his arms.
“It’s a family matter. I don’t want to discuss it at work.”
Sydney’s green eyes darkened a shade, and she shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was simply concerned about you.”
She reached up to touch his hand, but he uncrossed his arms and shoved his fists into his trouser pockets, dodging the contact.
Sydney flinched. “Henri?”
He lowered his voice. “That’s not what we should do here.”
She blinked once. Twice.
“What I mean is we agreed to keep matters strictly platonic at work.”
“Yes, of course we did.” Suddenly all business, she was the one who took a step backward. Henri sensed the transformation immediately. “I’ll be in my office reviewing the PDF of the show catalogue.” With that, she turned and walked away. He was amazed at how fast her demeanor could change. One minute the flirt, the next the serious businesswoman.
Henri felt that old familiar inner riptide of uncertainty, which should’ve been reason enough to let her keep walking. Even if Sydney had been pushing the bounds of what was appropriate in the workplace, at least she knew when to rein it in.
Unlike Margeaux, who had created a reputation for herself as a socialite run amok. She seemed to take pleasure in embarrassing her father with her headline-grabbing antics. Even if she had been lying low for the past couple of years, her reputation preceded her. Fille sauvage, her father had called her for as far back as Henri could remember. As if living up to the label her father had slapped on her, Margeaux Broussard had, indeed, proven herself every bit the wild child.
Not the type of woman he needed to get involved with if the Crown Council was ever going to take him seriously.
“Sydney, wait.”
She stopped underneath the archway that led into the main gallery, but she didn’t turn around.
Henri knew he’d hurt her feelings. He hadn’t meant to. He was simply skittish about public displays of affection at work, even if it was simply the brush of a hand or an I-want-you pucker of lips. He expected no less of his other employees. He had to lead by example.
“Please let me know when you hear about the missing pieces for the catalogue,” she said, without looking back at him. “If we don’t get this to the printer by Wednesday, we won’t have the catalogue in time for the opening.”
He glanced around. They were the only ones in the gallery.
“If you’re free tonight, perhaps we could have some dinner and proof them…together. Two sets of eyes are always better than one.”
This time she turned around and faced him, that devilishly sexy left brow of hers rising, a question mark. She crossed her arms over her chest, creating a barrier between them.
“A business meeting?” she asked. “After hours?”
She wasn’t going to make this easy.
Still, he nodded.
“I suppose that might work,” she said. “But I have one stipulation. I want to go out—to Le Coeur Bleu in the Hotel de St. Michel.”
The Hotel de St. Michel. Where Margeaux was staying. No doubt she’d read his notes about the Hotel St. Michel. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.
It was a bad idea to bring Sydney there, even though the chance they’d run into Margeaux and her friends was remote. He should go there alone. He should contact Margeaux and arrange a private meeting….
Even so, as he opened his mouth to suggest a different restaurant, he heard himself agreeing, “Le Coeur Bleu it is.”
Chapter Two
Margeaux paused in the hospital hallway, a death grip on the bouquet of colorful flowers. The door to room 436 was ajar, and classical music drifted through the scant opening. She drew in a steadying breath of antiseptic-smelling hospital air and summoned her strength. On the other side of the door was the man she hadn’t seen in more than sixteen years.
Her father.
She was an accomplished photographer. She’d put herself through college and had taken herself all over the world.
But standing there, about to see her father for the first time after all the years and bad blood that had passed between them, she was suddenly desperate for her father’s approval.
Sadly, she wasn’t entirely sure he’d be glad to see her.
She was so nervous she couldn’t get a good breath, and for a heartbeat, she was paralyzed—right there in the hallway as the nurses and orderlies passed by with purpose. One of Margeaux’s hands held the flowers like a torch; the other was frozen in mid-knock as a deluge of emotions and questions rained down on her.
Run!
Turn and run!
But this is your father. He’s sick. He needs you.
Right, he’s never needed you. What if he doesn’t want to see you? What if he sends you away again?
Suddenly, she felt sixteen again, awkward and unsure of where she fit into the life of her only living relative. A girl out of control, starving for the acceptance of a self-involved father who was too busy to deal with her antics.
But she wasn’t a child anymore, and it had been at least three years since the press had skewered her with scandal.
Knock.
Her hand did just that. As if on its own, her knuckles sounded a quick tap-tap-tap on the door.
“Qui?” What? barked a gruff voice from inside. Her breath caught, icy in her chest, and a rush of adrenaline urged her away. Run! Go! Leave now!
“Papa, it’s me.” The voice sounded as if it came from outside herself, but it was her own. Then for the span of several heartbeats all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. Until the gruff voice softened and asked almost tentatively, “Margeaux? Is it you?”
Her fingertips grazed the door’s cool wood surface as she pushed the door open a hair and looked in.
“Why are you lurking out there in the hallway?” The voice was gruff again. “Come in here.”
Before her feet could carry her in the opposite direction, she pushed the door open the rest of the way, and found herself face-to-face with her father. Unsure of what to do—whether to sit or stand, whether to hug him or hang back—she simply stood there and drank him in.
His once dark, full head of hair was thinner and silvery white. His cheeks were hollow and his previously strong, proud shoulders appeared rounded. Hooked up to IV bags, pulse monitors and a host of other machines, he looked wizened and frail, but the fire in his dark brown eyes burned strong, belying time’s havoc.
She tried to see past the lines time had etched on her father’s face. She tried to ignore the creases around his eyes and the wisps of silver hair. She tried to see past the lost years and the pain of rejection to the possibility of new beginnings. He needed her. She was here. Wasn’t that enough?
Please let that be enough.
“Come in and shut the door,” he insisted. “No use allowing the entire ward to gawk at us.”
As if paying penance for the obedient child she’d never been, Margeaux found herself submissively closing the door and turning back to him, still unsure of what to do with herself.
“Come over here so I can see you.” The commanding tone of his voice was just as strong as the fire of self possession that blazed in his gaze. As she approached his bed, her father’s gaze took her in, but his expression did not betray an ounce of approval. In fact, he watched her so stoically she wondered if he even saw her, or if, as had usually been the case, he was looking right through her, toward his own affairs. Immersed in a world that had always taken him away from her.
Finally, his eyes locked onto hers—a steel trap closing around her heart, and they stared at each other for a long moment. Margeaux didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she wrapped her arms around her middle as if to keep herself from falling apart. She stood there searching his face for something, anything. A sign to tell her how to proceed.
Breaking the ice was the hardest part, she reassured herself. She’d been giving herself a pep talk from the moment she’d decided to come home: Everything will be fine as soon as we make it past…this.
Margeaux tried to ignore the voice inside that asked, would it be fine? Why would it be fine now when it had never been fine before?
“Sit down.” Colbert pointed to a chair adjacent to the bed. That’s when she noticed his hand was shaking. Maybe this wasn’t easy for him, either. Or maybe it was the effects of the stroke.
Either way, it was unsettling.
Margeaux settled herself in the chair and smoothed her cotton turquoise skirt.
“Tell me, what are you doing these days?” her father demanded.
“I’m a photographer.”
He pursed his lips as if a bad taste had assaulted his mouth.
“So you’ve turned the tables, eh? Now, you’re the one taking the photographs rather than serving as the paparazzi’s favorite subject.”
Then something miraculous happened: he smiled.
And Margeaux could breathe again.
“Oh, Papa, how are you?” She ignored the sting of tears. She wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t allow herself that luxury because her father would see that as a weakness. And things were going so well.
He shrugged. “Other than being irritated and inconvenienced by being here, I’m fine. In fact, they say I’ll probably be released tomorrow.”
“That’s great news!” He must not be as sick as he looked.
He waved away her joy. “Lord knows, I don’t have time to spend one more day in this place. I told them if they kept me here I’d probably end up killing myself. So, they’re smart and are doing the right thing by releasing me.”
Margeaux frowned. He’d had a stroke and was darn lucky the episode hadn’t set him back any more than this. His body might be showing the wear of time and toil, but his will was stronger than ever. Impatient as ever. Obviously, that hadn’t changed. Maybe that’s why he was in here. In fact, given the lethal combination of high-stress politics, mixed with his explosive temper, she was surprised he hadn’t found himself in the hospital before. This was a warning he needed to heed. He’d only been in the hospital less than a week, and it seemed awfully fast for him to be going home after suffering a stroke.
“Dad, don’t be stubborn. When it comes to your health, you shouldn’t push it. Business will wait. The Crown Council won’t make any important decisions without you. The only thing that matters is that you rest and allow your body time to heal.”
Again, he waved her off. But this time he seemed too tired to argue the point. He simply turned his head and gazed out the window.
Pink and violet hues of twilight painted the sky, which was crowded with cumulus clouds gilded molten by the setting sun. The window framed the melancholy scene, provoking an air of sadness in Margeaux.
There was something about twilight—that limbo between day and night—that had always unsettled Margeaux. She wasn’t sure if the pull of sadness tugging at her was because of that or her father’s aloofness.
He’d always been aloof. Now, the two were virtual strangers since they’d been estranged for so many years. Margeaux knew her antics certainly hadn’t helped them bond, though until he’d made the quip about her being the tabloids’ favorite subject she hadn’t been certain he’d ever seen any of the sensationalized stories, since his responses to the press were usually, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” or a steely “No comment.”
