French Twist

by Roxanne St Claire

  She tried to talk, but could only fight back tears. She ran her hand over his head, as she had done a million times. “I love you, Nicky.”

  He smiled and leaned on her shoulder. “You’ve proven that.” He grinned up at her. “Are you scared of ghosts?”

  She laughed a little. “I welcome them. I hope that Bérnard is here, so he knows that I’ve finally come home to him.”

  Nick stood up and took her hand. “If he’s here, he’s down in his wine cellar.”

  Except to fix the vent and put a temporary bolt on the door, Luc had avoided the cellar over the past month. Only Arlaine had been inside, cleaning up after Lisette’s accident. But it was time to face the past.

  “Let’s go get a good bottle and celebrate, Mom. That’s what Bérnard would want.”

  But it wasn’t Bérnard’s ghost that seized him as he shoved aside the temporary bolt; it was Janine’s memory that haunted him. He could still remember the feel of her slender frame when she fainted in his arms, the taste of the Romanée Conti on her lips, and the tickle of her silky mane in his fingers.

  Playing hide and seek and spin the bottle. He smiled to himself. That was when he’d started to fall in love with her.

  Holding his mother’s arm, they descended the stone stairs to the dirt floor. It was exactly as when Lisette had hidden them. The table, two chairs, a single oil lamp, the rack of glasses, the alcoves of wine that had been lovingly made or collected by Bérnard. Good Lord, there must be a few million dollars in wine down here.

  And now it belonged to him.

  He pulled out a chair for Gabrielle and opened the new vent he’d installed, then laid the flashlight down to light the lamp. He could tell by the wistful look on his mother’s face that she had her own memories of the little room.

  “La Romanée, n’est ce pas?” he asked in her native tongue.

  She frowned at him. “You would waste that nectar on me?”

  “It’s not a waste. You deserve the best.”

  She sniffed. “I want Pinot, Nicky. Bérnard’s favorite year was—”

  “Eighty-nine,” he finished for her. “Believe me, I had a few with him.”

  “Eighty-nine? His old favorite year was fifty-three. I guess they’ve had some better vintages since then.” She paused and beamed at him. “I’m so glad you knew each other. My two favorite men on earth, drinking wine together. That makes me happy.”

  He reached down and kissed her on the top of her head. “Good. You deserve to be happy. I’ll get the wine.”

  “His father kept the better Pinot in alcove five,” Gabrielle said, as she opened the drawer and pulled out the corkscrew. “We used to help ourselves to it occasionally.”

  “It’s still there.” Nick answered, already in front of five. “Wow. There are a lot of bottles missing.”

  Then he remembered Lisette’s fall; at least a dozen bottles had broken in it. What had she been doing down there, anyway?

  A whisper of insight chilled him. There had been plenty of wine upstairs when he’d arrived. Why had she gone to the cellar that night?

  Slowly, he took a step back and stared at the alcove. The thick layer of dust blanketed the bottles, all the way up…until the top. That whole row had been wiped clean. What had removed the dust from a row of wine bottles eight feet in the air?

  He reached up with one long arm, then stood on his toes and stretched as far over the top of the wine bottles as he could.

  His fingertip grazed a rough edge of…burlap. The chill turned to ice in his veins.

  It couldn’t be.

  He grabbed the chair and positioned it in front of the alcove.

  “Be careful,” his mother warned, still examining the contents of Bérnard’s drawer. “That’s how Lisette fell.”

  Oh yes. Exactly how Lisette fell.

  Standing on the chair, he shined the flashlight into the alcove. It landed directly on a canvas bundle. His heart thumping but his hands steady, he closed his fingers around the fabric and carefully dragged the bundle over the top row of bottles.

  He gathered it up with two hands, feeling the curved angles of the ormolu handles just beneath the material.

  “What is that, Nick?” his mother asked, coming to stand next to him. “What have you found?”

  He’d found a treasure. He’d found a trump card to lay on the table of the director of the FBI. He’d found freedom.

  Nick laid the rolls of burlap on the table, then slowly folded back the layers. Gabrielle gasped at her first glimpse of the most beautiful indigo violet ever glazed onto a piece of soft paste porcelain.

  “I just found the rest of my life.” And he knew exactly who he wanted to spend it with.

  Chapter

  Twenty-nine

  M other Nature had outdone herself when she created a clear California sky washed by a Santa Ana wind. Janine thought of all the artists who’d tried to capture it but failed. She leaned back on one of the columns that flanked her favorite perch along the side of Royce Hall, closing her book and giving in to the beauty above her.

  It reminded her of the sky over Lake Geneva, which reminded her of Luc, which reminded her that she hadn’t thought of him for, oh, six or seven minutes.

  A record.

  Such good behavior should be rewarded with a nice juicy memory. She closed her eyes against that impossibly blue sky and pictured the perfect angles of his face when he smiled. The warm, insistent taste of his lips when he kissed. The magic of his fingers when he braided her hair. The warmth of his baritone when he spoke her name.

  Szha-neen.

  Oh, yes. She smiled. She could remember it perfectly.

  “What amuses you, Janine?”

  Her eyes popped open and she jerked forward, her heart plummeting to her stomach and her book tumbling to the ground.

  She must have conjured him up. How else to explain that he stood right in front of her, with the California sky above his head and Royce Hall’s red brick in the background?

  “A young woman with pink hair told me I could find you here.”

  His eyes were real. His voice was real. He bent over and picked up her book, glancing at the cover. “The Poems of Lamartine?” He grinned at her as he handed it back. “Excellent choice.”

  She managed to find her voice. “Luc?”

  He laughed softly and shook his head. “I’m Nick Jarrett.” Reaching out for a handshake, he added a devilish wink. “Pleased to meet you.”

  She took his hand, and instantly he tugged her off the narrow stone wall, right into his chest. Sucking in a breath as their bodies touched, she dropped her head back and looked up at him.

  “You are real.”

  He laughed again. “Yes, I’m real. And you’re beautiful. And I’ve missed the hell out of you.” He tunneled his hands into her hair and pulled her face toward him. “And before you say another word, kiss me hello.”

  All the blood rushed from her head as his lips captured hers. Her heart thumped like it would explode. He broke the kiss for air, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t breathe anyway.

  “What—what are you doing here?”

  He cupped her face in his hand—his strong, magical hand—and studied her. “Official business.”

  She refused to let her heart drop. Business or pleasure, she didn’t care. He was here. “What kind of business?”

  “I’m looking for the world’s foremost expert on Sèvres porcelain.” He raked her with one of those smoldering gazes. “That pink-haired girl in the Art History office told me that would be you.”

  She smiled as he stroked her cheek. “What do you want to know about porcelain?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute.” He kissed her forehead. “Right now I want to know more about the expert.”

  An insane thrill danced through her and she smiled. “What would you like to know?”

  Sliding his arm around her neck, he tucked her into his side. Home, she thought fleetingly. This is home.

  “For starters,” h
e said, as they started walking into the building, “I’d like to know if she is free.”

  She gave him a questioning look as they entered the cool, dark hall. “Free for the next hour or free for dinner tonight?”

  “Free for the rest of her life.”

  She stopped midstep and slowly lifted her face to him. “Why do you ask?”

  He shot her a smug smile and guided her forward. “Because I am.”

  She stopped again. “What?”

  “I am free for the rest of my life.”

  “You mean—you mean you got the pardon?” She clamped her hand over her mouth and felt the tears burn in her eyes. “Really?”

  “It’s a done deal as of three days ago.” He wiped a tear from her eye and touched the finger to his lips. “Don’t cry, now. I told you I’m here on official business.”

  Nick was free. Free. Pardoned and free to go on with his life. “Shall we go in?” she asked, pointing to her office.

  “No.” He tilted his head toward a door across the hall. “In there.”

  She reached out to put her hand on his arm, but he slipped away. “That’s Albert’s office. It’s locked. You can’t go in there.”

  He twisted the handle and shot her a deadly grin. “Evidently, I can.”

  Her jaw dropped, and then she let out an exasperated breath.

  He held out his hand to her. “Pink hair let me in. Now close your eyes.” Pulling her toward the open door, he covered her eyes with one hand. “No peeking.”

  With a thudding heart and shaky legs, she let him lead her into Albert’s office. She hadn’t been in here since before she went to France, unwilling to face the memories.

  Suddenly she felt Nick lift her hair and drop a steamy kiss against her exposed flesh, sending a shower of delight over her.

  “Don’t open your eyes,” he whispered. “Just tell me something.”

  She nodded.

  “Have you forgiven me for lying to you in France?”

  Her legs nearly wobbled out from underneath her. “Yes, I have.”

  “Can you forget what I was?”

  “No, but it doesn’t matter to me.”

  She thought she heard him sigh as the softest breath caressed her ear. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?” he whispered.

  Surely she would faint. No air, no strength, and her heart had squeezed up into her throat. “No.” It was barely a sound, let alone an answer.

  He burned her neck with another kiss and tightened his hand over her eyes. “I love you more than life. More than I thought it was possible to love another person. More than anyone will ever love you as long as you live.” Another kiss, this one so tender she thought she might melt. “You are the reason I wake and breathe and eat and drink and sleep. I love you, Janine Coulter.”

  She dropped her head back into his chest and didn’t say a word.

  “Could you possibly love me, too?”

  The breath she’d been holding came out in a whoosh. “I do. I love you, too, Luc.”

  He chuckled softly. “It’s Nick, but I’ll take that as a yes. Now, about our business.”

  Business? She was dying of love right now!

  He lifted his hand from her eyes, and she blinked at the light. Then she blinked again, and brought both hands up to her mouth as she gasped.

  “Voilà, madame. My Plums.”

  She took a tentative step toward them, then stopped. His Plums? Turning to him, she narrowed her eyes. “They belong to France.”

  He shrugged. “A technicality. They were found on my property, Château Soisson. Right in the wine cellar where Lisette had hidden them. I would like you to verify their authenticity, please.”

  Her jaw dropped. “No! In the wine cellar?”

  “Yes. That’s why the tracking device didn’t work.”

  Unable to stop herself, she reached out and carefully touched the gilded bronze handle of the center vase. Her fingers grazed the translucent enamel and the reproduction of Jeanne-Antoinette’s great moment as the king’s mistress.

  “They’re beautiful,” she said softly. She tapped the base with her nail and scraped about a quarter inch of the golden glaze. “And real.”

  Her hand was shaking and she pulled away, afraid she might knock one over.

  Nick Jarrett was free. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He was here; he was real; he loved her and she loved him. And they had the Plums. What more could she ask?

  “Pick it up,” he encouraged her. “Go ahead.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.” She laughed nervously. “I’m so shaky, I’m afraid I’ll drop it.”

  “No, you won’t.” He took each of her hands in his and placed them on the gilded handles. Slowly they lifted it together. “Now shake it.”

  She glanced at him. “Shake it?”

  He shimmied the vase and something skated around the bottom. Her eyes widened. “Is that the tracking device?”

  He laughed. “Of sorts.” Lifting the vase higher, with her hands still under his, he turned it on its side, then upside down. Something hit the desk with a clunk. “It will track my wife—if she’ll wear it, and not flush it down the toilet when she’s mad at me.”

  Janine could barely see the diamond ring through the tears in her eyes. It will track my wife.

  He carefully set the vase down as she stared at the platinum circle with a sizeable stone. “It’s—it’s beautiful.”

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered, picking it up. “I bought it.” He took her hand in his, held the ring poised over her finger, and locked on her gaze. “I have a lousy past, but if you’ll marry me, I know I’ll have a very bright future.” He tightened his grip and lowered his voice. “Will you marry me? I promise, this offer is as legitimate as it gets, Janine.”

  And this euphoria was as good as it got. “It’s Szha-neen, Luc.” She slid her finger into the ring.

  “It’s Nick,” he whispered.

  And then he kissed her until they couldn’t remember who they were.

  Epilogue

  T his was overkill. One bride, one groom, five guests, and a chapel the size of three football fields. Total freaking overkill.

  Tristan shook his head and smiled. He and Nick had to move heaven and earth to get the new director of Versailles to allow a private wedding in the Royal Chapel. But, once again, mountains had been moved for Nick Jarrett.

  There was something about that guy.

  And, there was something about his sister.

  Tristan sneaked a sideways glance, knowing his attention should be on the happy couple, but it was stolen by the potent presence of the woman standing next to him.

  “Isn’t it gorgeous?” Claire looked up at him with that magical glimmer in her ebony eyes.

  “You are,” he whispered back.

  They shared a smile, and Tristan turned back to the couple at the foot of the altar. Nick was beaming down at his bride, who looked like a medieval princess with her long blond braid and white lace train. After all they’d been through, he had to admit Versailles was the perfect setting for this wedding—and not just because Janine was about to relaunch the Pompadour exhibit in the next few weeks. At least she had her own private security consultant to accompany her around the world, now; that ought to keep her out of trouble.

  And then they would live in L.A., with Nick running Claire’s newest auction house. Janine wanted to stay at UCLA, but also planned to supervise the permanent Pompadour exhibit at the Getty Museum. In the new Albert Farrow Hall, so named by the anonymous and generous donor who’d paid for its construction.

  Or not so anonymous, considering the very public recent sale of a significant portion of one of France’s most valuable wine collections.

  Oh, yeah, there was definitely something about that guy. Something very, very good.

  He watched Nick slide the wedding ring on Janine’s finger and couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to do that himself someday. To take the hand of the woman he loved, to pr
ofess undying love.

  Undying love was for people who believed they wouldn’t die.

  Claire shifted next to him, and her slender hand closed over his. He turned his palm up and weaved their fingers together.

  Maybe he was wrong. Undying love was for people who believed. Period.

  Yeah. He liked that much better.