by Avery Scott
It wasn’t a dream then…
The hammering of Abby’s heart increased when she noticed Hudson Quinn sitting across from her. He had changed clothes at some point during the night and was sporting a fresh navy-blue suit and French blue button-down with a yellow Hermès tie. His hair was combed away from his face, and his nose was buried in the English edition of the Parisian newspaper, Le Soir. He looked perfectly collected. There was no sign that he had spent most of the night in transit.
Abby knew that her own appearance was far less appealing. She smoothed her pale blonde hair off her forehead and wished she had packed a breath mint. The knit dress, thankfully unwrinkled, had hiked up her thighs as she slept. She tugged it down sharply, catching a flash of movement from her periphery as she did so. She looked up at Hudson. Had he been watching? His eyes were still trained on his newspaper, but she thought there was a ghost of a grin on his lips.
“We should be on the ground in half an hour. If you would like to use the lavatory to freshen up, you should do that now,” the attendant said quietly.
Abby gratefully accepted the suggestion, escaping to the bathroom to splash some water on her face. Nearly a month deep into her unemployed wallow, she wasn’t wearing any makeup. At least she didn’t have runny mascara and patchy foundation to deal with. On the other hand, she hadn’t packed so much as a lipstick to make herself more presentable. Even in the understated black dress, she was painfully aware of how unprofessional she looked.
Stealing a trick from her college days, she tied the top of her hair back in a loose knot, allowing a few stray tendrils to frame her face. Then she pinched her cheeks in a bid for some color before finally emerging to retake her seat.
Hudson still hadn’t said a word. He seemed to be absorbed in his reading, but she had the sense that she was being watched as she settled back into her seat.
She turned her eyes to the window. It was only five hours since they had taken off from New York. Over Europe, the sun was already starting to rise. Abby watched the band of pale gold at the edge of the horizon grow and spread, tinging everything it touched in pink, then orange and gold in swift progression as dawn began to break. It looked like an oil painting with an almost-liquid stream of sunshine pouring through fluffy brushstrokes of clouds.
She could have stared out the window all morning, but she didn’t have the time. A low chime rang through the cabin, followed by a quiet reminder from the attendant that they should buckle their seatbelts.
The plane began its slow descent. Abby bit her lip to hold in a squeak of terror as she felt her stomach drop in tandem with the plane.
She must have been doing a terrible job at hiding her fear because Hudson reached across the table that separated them, settling his hand over hers and offering a light, comforting squeeze.
“It’s okay,” he whispered.
Abby nodded weakly.
“Look.”
Hudson jutted his chin toward the window. Abby’s gaze obediently followed. Wisps of condensation streaked past the windows, interspersed with flashes of light. The confusing vision, combined with the sensation of falling, made her feel as if she might be sick. She started to turn away, but then she saw it: the clouds were suddenly gone, replaced by a patchwork of roads and buildings bathed in a soft morning glow.
Paris.
Abby had never been out of the United States before, but she had studied maps of the great French capital as if they were a sacred text. The weather was still hazy. From the window, the only familiar landmarks she could make out were the skyscrapers of La Defense, but her imagination filled in the space beyond what she could see: The dome of the Basilica of Saint-Denis. Beyond that, to the South, Sacré-Cœur, the Opera House, the Arc d’Triomphe and the other sites that she had dreamed of visiting for as long as she could remember.
This isn’t a sightseeing trip. She tried to temper her excitement, but it wasn’t any use. Her fear of flying was instantly replaced with an impatience to be on the ground.
Landing was uneventful. The plane taxied along the busy runway for a time and then turned off toward a row of hangars. When it finally came to a stop, an official-looking electric cart whizzed forward, a black limo trailing in its wake.
Abby and Hudson followed instructions to remain seated as the forward hatch was opened and a portly gentleman sporting bushy mustache and flat black hat stepped out of the cart and boarded the plane.
“Immigration Officer,” he announced in heavily accented English. “Passports, please.”
Hudson pulled a leather folio from his breast pocket and handed it over to the bureaucrat for inspection. The man flipped through several pages, almost reaching the end before he found a space to apply his official stamp.
“Bienvenue en France, Monsieur Quinn,” the officer muttered by way of greeting before returning the documents and shifting his attention to Abby. “And your companion?”
“Mademoiselle Gabrielle Levesque,” Hudson said, by way of introduction.
The custom’s officer took the passport and opened the first page. His eyes skimmed the document and he frowned.
“Abagail Suzette Levesque,” he read the name aloud and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
Hudson leaned forward in his chair.
“Gabrielle is a…nickname,” Abby supplied quickly.
“Wouldn’t it be ‘Abby’?” Now Hudson was frowning too.
“Er…right…Gabby. Abby…They sound the same, right? My…uhm…grand-mère liked to call me Gabrielle after…a…uhm…girl she used to know. She liked it better than Abigail and it… well, it just sort of…stuck…but Abagail is my legal name. You can obviously see that it’s me.” It was a painfully lame excuse, but the best she could manage in the moment.
The immigration officer studied the passport intently, checking the edges of the pages for tampering and carefully comparing the photograph to Abby’s face. In the end, he shrugged and applied his stamp.
“Bienvenue en France, Mademoiselle Levesque. First time, I see.”
Abby offered what she hoped was a convincing smile. She held the look frozen on her face until the man scurried off the plane. She exhaled to release her tension. The relief was short-lived, however.
“First time in Paris?” Hudson spat. “What is that about? When I hired you, you told me that you’d been twice to Europe before. Then, last night, you started in with the whole, ‘I’ve never flown over the ocean’. You told me-!”
“It’s a new passport,” Abby lied.
“But what about the flying comment?”
“I came over on cruise ship.”
“That’s not what you told the immigration officer.”
“He saw the blank pages and just assumed. I didn’t think it was necessary to correct him. He was already…confused…about my name.”
“That makes two of us!” Hudson snapped. “Gabby…Abby. That explanation makes no sense.”
The intensity of Hudson’s gaze made her uncomfortable. She shifted in her seat.
“You know me, I’m an enigma. I like to keep people guessing,” she said, doing her best to sound carefree and nonchalant, just like her sister would have. “Besides, Hudson, it doesn’t really matter how silly it sounds, it’s the truth. I mean, how would I have a passport for Abigail Levesque if it wasn’t my real name?” For once, Abby was grateful that her sister was so self-absorbed. Gabrielle had apparently never mentioned that she had a twin. If she had, Abby would have been screwed.
“I don’t know,” Hudson finally admitted, but it was clear that he hadn’t completely dropped the problem from his mind. “You do speak French, at least, don’t you?”
“Yes, I speak French,” she shot back. “I told you, it’s a new passport and I just never thought to mention the cruise ship thing.”
“All I’m saying is that it’s weird. You’ve been acting strange since I picked you up last night. If there’s something you’re not telling me, I’d rather hear it now. I’m not lying about how important this de
al is. If we screw this up…”
“Everything is fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“I promise.” Abby was a terrible liar. Her cheeks were flushed and she wasn’t able to meet Hudson’s eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice. She caught a lucky break. He needed to believe her.
“Okay,” Hudson muttered, and finally rose to leave the plane.
Abby followed Hudson onto the tarmac and into the limo. All the tension melted from her body at the first touch of morning mist against her skin.
French air. The prevailing aroma was jet fuel, followed by an acrid note of diesel, but it was magical just the same. Abby was far too enthralled by her surroundings to admit that they were ordinary in any way. French concrete was somehow softer. French cars were shinier. French leather was smoother. She stared out the window adoringly as they left the airport and merged into the crush of morning traffic headed into the capital city, delighting in every novelty she discovered, no matter how mundane.
They hadn’t travelled far before Hudson turned his attention away from the outside scenery. A plain gray box was sitting on one of the seats. He reached inside and withdrew two black objects.
“Here,” he said, handing her one of them. It was a sleek new mobile phone. “Your normal phone should work without any problem, but I don’t want to take any chances with spotty networks.”
Abby tried to contain her relief as she slipped the device into her pocket. The real Quinn Holdings cellphone was in Cozumel. This was a lucky break.
Safely on the ground and feeling more positive about her prospects of pulling off her ruse, Abby allowed herself to acknowledge a bit of excitement as the car wove deeper toward the heart of Paris. They started on a busy highway, but beyond the concrete barricades on either side of the median, she spied the hipped roofs and geranium-bedecked windows that she had always associated with France. After the better part of an hour, they turned left onto a broad, cobble-stoned boulevard. That’s when she saw it, towering over the roadway, gleaming white in the morning light.
“L’arc de Triomphe!” Abby said, breathing the word as much as saying it. She pressed her face against the glass of the limousine window, craning her head for a better look as they inched forward, and then entered the roundabout to pass. She twisted around in her seat to look at the retreating image through the rear window. That’s when she noticed Hudson, leaning back in his seat, regarding her with thinly veiled bemusement.
“New passport, eh?”
Abby decided it was wiser not to answer. She settled back down into her seat and tried to maintain some decorum until they arrived at the hotel. She didn’t have long to wait. They only traveled a few blocks before turning right again. Then the car glided to a stop in front of the hotel.
“Here we are,” Hudson announced. “The George Five.”
“Cinq,” Abby corrected absently.
“What?”
“L’oh-tell zhor-zhuh sank,” she said slowly, pronouncing the words phonetically. “It may mean George the Fifth in English, but you’re in Paris now.”
A doorman helped Abby out of the car, while a bellhop retrieved the luggage. Abby had to fight her instinct to stop him, wincing with embarrassment when she spied her battered yellow valise piled on the cart alongside Hudson’s impeccable gray Globe-trotter trolley cases.
The concierge met them at the curb, offering champagne on a silver tray before leading them into the impossibly opulent lobby. Abby didn’t know where to look first. Every inch of the space was dazzling. Shocking pink blooms accented with electric green foliage were massed in unbelievable profusion. A giant crystal chandelier dominated the ceiling. The walls were covered in mirrors and intricate gilded woodworking. Even the floor was beautiful. She wished that they had time to linger, but the concierge swiftly conveyed them to a bank of elevators where he inserted a key into the panel of brass buttons, allowing them to travel to the Penthouse Suite.
They stepped off the elevator into an elegantly understated hallway. Wood panels painted eggshell white adorned the lower half of the walls. Ecru and silver damask wallpaper covered the rest.
The concierge strode forward to a broad white door with a silver handle and swung it open with a flourish.
“Your suite, monsieur, mademoiselle,” he announced and then stood to the side while the guests entered.
Hudson strode purposefully into the main living area to toss his jacket and briefcase onto the sofa. Abby lingered behind, practically gawping at everything she saw.
Just inside the doorway was another narrow hall, containing a small powder room. Abby glanced inside, admiring the marble countertop and bright chrome fixtures. At the end of the hall the wall curved to the right, opening into a large living area.
Bowls of white roses sat on almost every flat surface, scenting the air with their delicate perfume and providing a bright contrast against the Gold curtains hung all around the room. The gleaming draperies framed a pair of floor-to-ceiling windows and covered the wall behind an oversized sofa. A glass coffee table, a leather ottoman and a pair of Louis XV armchairs upholstered in gold damask completed the scene.
A doorway on the left wall led to the bedroom. Abby followed the concierge inside as he pointed out the features of the space. Her shoes sank into the plush gray carpet that covered the floor. A king-sized bed was flanked by oil paintings. On the opposite wall, double doors opened to a small balcony.
To the left, an archway led to a bathroom that was nearly as large as the bedroom itself. It was covered in marble tile with a rectangular tub partially sunken in the center of the floor. A glassed-in steam shower was behind the tub, and the rest of the room was filled with glass cases full of live orchids.
The tour returned to the living area and moved up a short flight of stairs to a green room set up as a dining nook. Beyond the table, there was a pair of french doors, and then a rooftop terrace. Abby followed the men outside and gasped aloud when she saw the Eiffel Tower nearly straight ahead.
“The accommodations meet with your approval?” the concierge asked, leading them back into the suite.
Abby looked quickly from side to side. There was one area she hadn’t seen yet.
“Where is my room?” she blurted.
The concierge cleared his throat and looked to Hudson for an answer. The businessman’s lips twisted into a bemused smirk.
"My assistant seems to be forgetting that she’s the one who made our reservations.”
Abby felt a flush spread over her skin. Of course, Gabrielle had made the travel arrangements. She could be so careless sometimes. She had either failed to confirm the number of bedrooms available or, more likely, simply asked for the most expensive option and called it a day.
“Do you have any two-bedroom suites?” Hudson asked when Abby remained silent.
The concierge’s face fell. “I’m afraid not, sir. We have some other distinguished guests with us this week who have reserved all of the family suites. If you prefer, I could provide a pair of adjoining rooms on one of the lower floors? Or, perhaps, a separate room for mademoiselle?”
“I believe that mademoiselle ordered a roll-away bed,” Hudson said when Gabrielle failed to volunteer the information.
“A…‘rollaway’?” The concierge’s English had been perfect to this point, but he acted puzzled by the word.
“Un lit d'appoint,” Abby quickly translated, but the look on the concierge’s face remained unchanged. Clearly, it was the concept, not the word, which he found objectionable.
The Frenchman turned to Hudson, who laughed and shrugged. “Whatever the lady wants.”
“Oui, monsieur,” the other man relented, then forced a thin smile to his lips. “Is there anything else I may do to make your stay more comfortable?”
Hudson’s eyes drifted around the room. Somehow, the bellhop had already come and gone. The luggage was arranged neatly in the center of the room, and his eyes alighted on Abby’s battered yellow suitcase.
“Yes,”
Hudson jutted his chin toward the offending bag, “Mademoiselle appears to have...under packed. Could you have some things sent up? We’ll be attending business meetings for most of the week. A few formal dinners.”
“Of course,” the concierge plucked the bag out of the pile, holding it away from his body. “I’ll take care of it directly. If you think of anything else...”
“My assistant will be in touch.”
Chapter Seven
The rollaway bed arrived a few minutes after the concierge’s departure. Hudson felt sorry for the staff members, pushing priceless antiques out of the way and trying to make a battered aluminum fold-up bedframe look like it belonged in the middle of the living room of a $5000 a night suite. He still didn’t know how to interpret Gabrielle’s strange behavior or rather, he still didn’t believe it. The ruckus she raised over separate beds seemed to be a pretty strong clue about where he stood.
It crossed Hudson’s mind that he should have sent his assistant off to a room of her own and let the whole thing drop. He certainly wasn’t wanting for company, and he knew better than to get involved with his employee (again). Unfortunately, doing what he should wasn’t Hudson’s style. Where was the fun in that? So what if it made him a walking cliché. Gabrielle’s “hard to get act” was turning him on. It wasn’t very often that a woman made him work for it. He was up for the chase.
“Let’s go get some lunch,” Hudson suggested, as the staff continued to struggle with the furniture arrangements. His stomach was still on New York time and didn’t need more than a cup of strong black coffee, but he could tell by the way his assistant had been glued to the windows since their arrival, that she was itching to get out and explore.
The invitation was enthusiastically accepted. Soon, they were downstairs in the flower-filled lobby again. He hadn’t even noticed them when they first arrived, but when Gabrielle stopped to admire the boldly colored blossoms perched atop their delicate stems, he realized just how beautiful they were.