by Ariel Lawhon
Again.
Slow. Slow. Quick, quick. Slow. Whirl. Dip.
I am bent over backward, my partner’s mouth dangerously close to caressing my neck, when I see him.
Henri Fiocca.
Even upside down he is every bit as beautiful as he was that night at the Pont Royal. Wide brown eyes. Heavy lashes. Full mouth. Dark brows. High cheekbones. Once vertical again, I am only somewhat surprised to see a stunning blond woman on his arm. Fiocca is wearing a nicely tailored suit and a pocket square. The blonde is wearing as little as she can get away with. He is staring at me and she is glaring at him. Stephanie did warn me about that—notorious with the women. So, as my partner whirls me around once again, I do my best to pretend that I never saw him at all.
* * *
Henri
He knows that laugh.
He’d recognize it anywhere, in fact. Full-throated and warm. Self-deprecating, as though she’s laughing at herself and inviting everyone else to join in. The very sound of it makes his ears warm. It’s that woman from the Pont Royal. The one with the black hair and the blue eyes.
“Why won’t you dance with me, Henri?”
Oh. Marceline. He has completely forgotten her. Just like that, one breath of laughter from that woman, and he’s lost all interest in his companion. No. That’s not fair. He wasn’t interested to begin with. Only bored. And lonely. And Marceline, as ever, was persistent. She wanted a night out, so he reluctantly obliged. Even though he knows better.
“I’m a terrible dancer,” he says. It’s a lie, of course. But Marceline has been trying to run her stockinged foot up his pant leg for the last hour, and there’s no telling what would happen if he submitted to a tango—find himself unwittingly affianced by next month, no doubt.
“Then you’ll have to take me out again.” She curls her lips into a perfect rose-colored pout, then a corner of her mouth twists higher when she sees that he’s noticed.
Henri’s father loves brazen women like this. Loves being chased. He wants to be convinced of the challenge, to deem it worthy. Because that’s what it is, in the end, when a woman throws herself at you. Just a challenge. A game. Bait and switch. She reels you in and then you spend the rest of your life trying to catch her. It’s exhausting. And insubstantial. Once you’ve gotten a woman like Marceline, what do you actually do with her? That’s not a question his father has ever been able to adequately answer, and he’s gone through four wives as a result. The real trouble, however, is that he wants Henri to like the same kind of woman. To like Marceline specifically. But this is just one of the many ways in which he is not in the least bit like his father.
That laughter echoes above the music again and Henri cannot help but smile. Marceline thinks the smile is for her and she leans closer. He is in danger of being kissed, so he pushes back from the table.
Again, that pout, but disappointed now instead of provocative. And a question in her calculating eyes.
“Excusez-moi,” Henri says, “I must visit les toilettes.”
A narrow escape. He doesn’t enjoy lying to women but has been known to use the tool occasionally in the act of self-preservation. He does visit the men’s room before going in search of the raven-haired girl from Paris.
Le Bar de la Marine is crowded tonight and it’s easy to blend into the throng as he edges his way around the room. Henri scans the tables and the clusters of partygoers who lean against the bar and gather in the doorways. He looks for bent heads kissing—afraid she might be among them. And he looks for dark heads thrown back in amusement. For bright white teeth and soft curves. Nowhere. He can’t find her anywhere. Henri is beginning to wonder if he imagined the sound, if he summoned it with his longing. But then he hears the familiar cascade again.
She’s only ten feet away, on the dance floor, in the arms of some other man in a poorly tailored suit. She is either new to the tango or he is a terrible dancer, because there is nothing fluid about their movements. And not for lack of proximity. The man is holding her close enough to make Henri’s jaw clench but there is no chemistry between them. He feels both relief at this discovery and an intense dislike for the man.
She is counting off the steps, trying not to miss them, when her partner bends her backward into a dip one beat too early. Her lips purse in annoyance as her long, slender neck bends in a gentle arc. Her hair spills like ink onto the floor. And she sees Henri. He is certain she sees him because there is a tightening at the corners of those wide blue eyes. Recognition. She remembers.
“A friend of yours?” Marceline asks, hand sliding into the crook of his arm. There is a possessive note to her voice that irritates him, and he struggles not to pull his arm away. For the second time tonight Henri has failed to notice her presence.
“We have a mutual friend.” Again, the truth, but just barely.
“She does not dance well.”
No wonder his father loves Marceline. A pretty face and a caustic heart.
He shrugs. “Come, I did not mean to abandon you.”
The music winds to a close and the band takes a break. Henri leads Marceline away and the dance floor clears enough for him to see his laughing girl return to her table across the room. And—ha!—Stephanie Marsic is there as well. Not that he is surprised. She has been insisting for months that he meet this friend of hers. Her presence is the opening he needs. Though, given the number of men surrounding their table, a short one. Now or never, he decides.
“I think it’s time I get you home.” Henri knows there is a wide gap in understanding between his meaning and Marceline’s interpretation, but he lets it stand.
Her smile is broad, lips curling victoriously around her teeth. She collects her clutch from the table and he helps with her wrap.
“But I must say hello to someone first.” Henri leads her across the room, careful to guide her by the elbow and not hold her hand.
Stephanie looks up as they cross the empty dance floor and waves him over. Then she is on her feet, kissing both of his cheeks before he’s had the chance to greet her properly. Their table is littered with wineglasses and partially smoked Gitanes, and Henri sees, out of the corner of his eye, that his laughing girl is wearing a dress the color of plums. Her gown is open at the back and a long string of pearls is looped around her neck, but worn backward so they caress her spine. It’s never occurred to him before that he could be jealous of a piece of jewelry.
“Madame Marsic, a pleasure to see you again.” He returns the kisses. “How is your husband?”
“The Count is away on business. As usual.” Stephanie darts a glance from his face to Marceline’s. And then to her friend. Back to his. She motions to the table. “Won’t you join us?”
“We were just leaving,” Marceline says, all smile but no joy.
“Pity.” Stephanie matches the note of frost in Marceline’s voice. “But Henri, you must meet my friend.”
She is even lovelier up close. Large eyes—he sees now that they are green, not blue as he thought. Broad mouth. Dark brows. High cheekbones. She extends one long arm and he takes her hand, fighting the urge to turn it over and kiss her palm.
“Nancy Wake,” she says in the strangest accent, and it takes him three long heartbeats to place it. Not British. Not Irish. Not Scottish.
Australian. An exotic bird indeed.
“Noncee,” he says, trying to pronounce it correctly. “Henri Fiocca.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” The barest hint of a smile suggests what might be a dimple forming in her left cheek.
“It’s all mine.” And it is, clearly, because he’s still holding her soft, warm hand in his.
Henri lets go with a start and she extends her hand to Marceline. “Nancy,” she says.
Marceline curls both hands around his arm rather than accept the greeting. “Time to go, Henri.”
&nb
sp; “This is Marceline,” he tells them on her behalf, since she refuses to do so.
Nancy’s smile grows wider—and there it is, the fully formed dimple—just the one—and he is transfixed by its singular perfection. She lifts her wineglass from the table and tips it toward him.
“Have fun with that.” She laughs, then turns back to the table, shaking her head.
The last thing Henri sees as Marceline drags him across the dance floor and toward the door is Nancy’s arm draped across the back of her chair, wineglass, now empty, dangling upside down between two fingers.
A long string of shiny black taxis sits at the curb outside the bar and he steers Marceline toward the nearest one. He opens the door and helps with her dress. She scoots across the seat, patting the worn leather, expecting him to join her.
“Good night,” he says.
Fury, jealousy, and disappointment flash across her face in turn and he thinks that perhaps she is not so pretty after all.
“Henri,” she snaps, but it is an order he does not intend to follow.
“Thank you for joining me tonight.” He hands the driver more than enough money to get her home, then shuts the door.
* * *
* * *
Fiocca and his date walk away and Stephanie watches me staring after them.
“What was that about?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“Why is he here?”
Another shrug. “He lives in Marseille.”
“Are you kidding me?” I glare at her. “You did this on purpose! You invited him to the Pont Royal in Paris. You brought me to Marseille. This entire thing was a setup.”
Stephanie grins, not even bothering to deny it. “I thought he would be a fun challenge for you.”
“Did he know?”
“Of course. I’ve been after him for months.”
“And tonight? You set this up as well?”
“No. But I knew he favors this place. I played the odds.”
“What about that woman? Is she a part of this? Some idiotic way of making me jealous?”
“Are you jealous?”
“No.”
“Liar.” She laughs. “If you’d gone over to him at the Pont Royal, that woman wouldn’t be an issue right now.”
“I was there to interview Janos!”
“Yes. But also to meet Henri. You just didn’t know it.”
“I hate him.” I throw my hands up. “And I hate you too.”
“No, you don’t.”
Damn, damn, dammit. What I really hate is that she can read me so well.
“Fine.” I stand up. “Challenge accepted. That’s what you want, right?”
I’m so mad, so blood-boiling mad—at Henri, at Stephanie, at myself—that I am marching toward the entrance before I’ve had the chance to form any sort of plan. I push through the double doors and find Henri Fiocca standing with one foot in the street, closing the door of a taxi. He gives the roof two hard thumps and it pulls away from the curb. It takes him a moment to notice me and I study his profile, trying to read his thoughts, but then he’s turning, and he sees me. Surprise. Then recognition and, I think, pleasure. Or relief, perhaps. A soft emotion. Something tender and open, and it catches me off guard. I keep expecting him to pounce. With hands tucked into his pants pockets he shifts, head tilted to the side, to consider me. And then he smiles.
Oh no you don’t. That famous charm will not work on me. And I wonder just how badly I’d damage that pretty face if I punched him.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, stomping right up to him until the end of my nose is only a few inches from his collarbone. He’s a good bit taller than me and I try not to like this fact as I tilt my head up, waiting for his answer.
“Noncee.” He nods, giving me the greeting I haven’t afforded him. “That’s a strange question.”
“I don’t understand how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Charm every woman you meet. First Stephanie and now that b—” I’m trying to be gracious, so I hedge. “Blonde.”
“Marceline?”
Her name is irrelevant. “Why did you bring her tonight?”
“She rang me up. Asked for a night on the town.”
“She just rang you up?” I try to mimic his nonchalant tone, the purr in his voice.
“Yes.” He sighs, as though this is some grave burden he’s doomed to bear.
I glare at him. “Happens often, does it?”
“Every girl, except for the one that I want, rings me up.” And then Henri Fiocca, the most notorious heartbreaker in all of France, gives me a meaningful look, daring to lift an eyebrow.
It takes a moment, one long stuttering heartbeat, to gather my laughter, but then I unleash the full force of it on him. I laugh so long and so hard that he stands there waiting for me to compose myself. But he doesn’t look offended. On the contrary. Henri Fiocca looks besotted. I am unsure how I gained the advantage in this situation, but I am determined to make the most of it.
“If you want my company, Mr. Fiocca, you will ring me up.”
I leave him at the curb, astonished.
By the time I return to our table, Stephanie has abandoned her cigarette and is blowing smoke rings into the air with a cigar she’s confiscated from one of her many admirers. I listen to the music, relishing the feel of it rumbling across the floor and into my feet. I’m filled with the swell of it. Or perhaps I’m filled with elation from my encounter with Henri. He wasn’t taking that woman home after all. Sending, yes. Taking, no. There is a huge difference between the two, and I can’t decide whether to be pleased or irritated with myself that it matters.
Stephanie is watching me, waiting for me to tell her everything. But I’m not ready to talk about Fiocca. Instead, I ask, “How can you smoke those wretched things?”
“They’re hideous, aren’t they? I abhor the smell.”
“So why do it?”
“Because it is unexpected.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sit down.” She waves one hand at me in irritation. “That’s the point, ma petite. A Parisienne always does the unexpected.” She puffs for a few seconds and then blows another smoke ring from between perfectly painted red lips. “It levels the playing field. Men don’t know what to do with a woman who can clip her own cigar.”
Stephanie has been slowly doling out her secrets since we met and I, the eager pupil, gobble them up. “Teach me,” I say.
She flicks a glance over my shoulder. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
“But—”
I am interrupted by a waiter who is right beside me, a single drink on his tray. He places it on the table with a flourish. “Le soixante-quinze françois,” he says.
The French 75.
Fiocca.
I will not let Stephanie see me smile. I will not. I…dammit.
“Be careful, ma petite, you are in danger of falling in love with that man.” Stephanie taps her ash into the tray. She looks at me knowingly from beneath a fan of dark lashes.
“Nonsense. I’ve only seen him twice.”
She gives me her best pitying glance. “Are you immune to love at first sight?”
“It’s a myth. No one falls in love that quickly.” I tap my chest, hard, with one finger. “I refuse.”
“Go on. Refuse. The heart does what it wants. How do you think I wound up married to a Spaniard that I never see?”
I consider the cocktail instead of responding. I lift the glass and twirl the stem between my fingers. Once again, the combination of gin, lemon, and champagne is exquisite. It’s a bright flurry of anticipation on my tongue. And, to his credit, Henri Fiocca lets me enjoy seven full sips before he arrives at our table.
&nbs
p; “Will you dance with me?” he asks, extending his hand.
I have not refused a dance yet and have no good reason to now, so I accept his hand and let him lead me to the far edge of the dance floor, away from the band and out of the thickest chaos. I have felt the man looking at me twice now, so I expect to feel something at his touch as well, and I am not disappointed. But it isn’t a physical tingling or an elevated heart rate. Nothing so melodramatic. It is internal. Emotional. Once my hand is wrapped firmly in his, I feel…calm. My entire frenetic self begins to idle. As though I’ve been given permission to rest. It is a foreign sensation. Henri pulls me close against his chest with one arm, then takes my free hand in his and weaves our fingers together. There’s no point fighting against the dance, so I drape my arm across his back and rest my palm between his shoulder blades. He sways for a moment, finding the rhythm, and then he whirls us into the dance.
“It is not a crime to enjoy the company of a beautiful woman,” he says, picking up our conversation from where we left off outside.
It takes great restraint not to roll my eyes. “Could you be any more French?”
“As a matter of fact, no. I am guilty as charged, on both sides, for many generations.” We dance quietly for a moment before he adds, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not bad. Just…”
“What?”
“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Mr. Fiocca. But you are trouble.”
“I am not. And please, call me Henri.”
“Stephanie told me so. In those exact words, no less, Mr. Fiocca,” I stress.
“Can you at least drop the Mister? And Stephanie is mistaken.”
“After seeing you with that blonde? I think I’ll be keeping the Mister for now, thank you very much.”
“I have known Marceline since we were children. We used to be friends.”
“And lovers?”
“For a short time.” He leans closer to my ear and whispers, “Just because I spent the evening with Marceline does not mean that I am trouble. Nor does it mean that I have feelings for her.”