Lovechild

by Metsy Hingle

  “Thanks. I’ll take it.”

  She gave Liza a long look. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she lied, returning to her desk. She reached for the phone. “Hello, Mr. Newberry. This is Liza O’Malley.”

  “Oh, Ms. O’Malley, I’m so glad I was able to reach you. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time. Your assistant said you were about to leave for the day.”

  “No problem. What can I do for you?”

  “As I was telling your assistant, I wanted to know how you would like me to handle the, urn, problem about the difference in pricing on the wines.”

  Liza frowned, recalling the lunch meeting in which she had left the wine selections in Jacques’s hands. Feeling a sudden pinch of guilt, she also remembered her eagerness to avoid further contact with Jacques and telling him he did not need to consult with her further on the decision. “Exactly what kind of pricing difference are we talking about?”

  “Well, you’ll remember when I initially quoted you on the wines, I recommended what I thought would be suitable vintages, a fine but moderately priced California Chablis and a Cabernet Sauvignon.”

  Liza pursed her lips as she picked up on the man’s nervousness. She could all but see the man wiping his brow. “Yes, I remember. It was more than we had hoped to spend, but the committee’s board did as you suggested and opted for the better wine instead of the house brands. I thought Mr. Gaston went over the selections with you and approved them.”

  “He did go over them, but he made substitutions.”

  “But within the same price range, right?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Liza’s stomach jerked. “Does that mean the wine cost even more than we originally estimated?”

  “Yes, it did.”

  Biting back a groan, Liza chastised herself for not handling the wine selections herself. She knew how expensive Jacques’s tastes were. Evidently he had opted for better wines than those suggested by Mr. Newberry, wines more expensive than they could afford. “How much more are we talking about, Mr. Newberry?” she asked and immediately began to recalculate the margin of profit, wondering if cutting back on the balloons and floral decorations could make up for the additional costs.

  “Four thousand dollars.”

  “All right. If we were to cut out the ice carving, that would save us another two hundred—” Liza stopped. Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly. “How much did you say?”

  “Four thousand dollars, give or take a few dollars.”

  “But that’s impossible,” she told him, shocked. “How can it be that much over, when our entire budget for the wine wasn’t even that much?”

  “I know it wasn’t, Ms. O’Malley, and I explained that to Mr. Gaston when he insisted on ordering the French wines. But he said he would handle it and there wouldn’t be a difference in pricing.”

  Liza narrowed her eyes. “He ordered French wines?”

  “And champagne.”

  “What brand?” Liza asked.

  “Gaston Vineyards Select.”

  Fury ripped through her. Liza tightened her fingers around the telephone receiver, wishing it were Jacques’s neck. “Mr. Newberry, do you mean to tell me that when Mr. Gaston instructed you to change the wine order, when he told you to order wines that were more than twice what we had agreed we could afford, when he added champagne to that order as well, that you didn’t think you should consult with me first before making those changes?”

  “I wanted to, Ms. O’Malley. But Mr. Gaston assured me he had full authority to make the changes. Besides, he said he was related to the owners of Gaston Vineyards and assured me the wines would be discounted to reflect the prices we had agreed upon.”

  “I take it they weren’t.”

  “No. We just received the shipment, and there’s a copy of the invoice with the order. I’m afraid that these prices don’t even come close to those of the original wines we discussed.”

  “Have you advised Mr. Gaston yet?”

  “I’ve tried, but I haven’t been able to reach him. I was told he left the gallery and I didn’t have a residence number where I could reach him.” He sighed. “What do you want me to do about the wine for the dinner? Even at our cost and just charging a corkage fee, the prices are going to be considerably higher than our original quote to you.”

  “We won’t be serving Mr. Gaston’s wines or his champagne, Mr. Newberry. Box them up for return.”

  “But what about the wines for the dinner?”

  “Can you still get the ones we originally discussed?”

  “I can get some, but I doubt that I can get the quantities we need that quickly. You’ll remember, it’s the Christmas season.”

  Which meant supplies were running low and deliveries even slower. “Do what you can and substitute where you have to.”

  “What about Mr. Gaston?”

  “Don’t worry about Mr. Gaston. I’ll handle him.”

  And boy would she handle him, Liza thought ten minutes later as she stormed out of her office and headed for the Gallaghers’ apartment.

  “Come in,” Jacques yelled over the strains of Mozart while continuing to smooth his thumb along what was the jawline of the clay sculpture.

  The pounding sounded again, this time more in earnest. “I said it is open,” he repeated. He looked from the photograph of Sarah Gallagher, Aimee and Peter’s daughter, to the bust he was making of the child’s head.

  “Jacques?”

  His pulse automatically beat faster at the sound of Liza’s voice. “I’m in the studio,” he called out. So the gardenias had done the trick, he thought, smiling as he heard the soft tapping of her heels on the floor. Ah, the language of flowers. While she had ignored his other gifts, she hadn’t been able to resist the gardenias.

  Lightly stroking his fingers along the cheek of the sculpture, he was still congratulating himself on locating the flowers in the dead of winter when the footsteps stopped at the doorway of the room. “Be right with you,” he told her as he wet his thumb and gently pressed it at the curve of the figure’s cheek to duplicate the dimple in the life-size version of the little girl. Satisfied, he turned to face Liza.

  With her cheeks flushed and her blond hair lying in wind-tossed tangles around the shoulders of her open navy coat, she didn’t look the least bit cool and proper now. She looked sexy as hell. He smiled. “Hello, ma chérie.”

  “You’ve gone too far this time, Jacques.”

  Jacques arched his brow, taken aback by the sharp note in her voice, the snapping fire in her green eyes. “You did not like the gardenias?”

  “I’m not talking about the gardenias.”

  Puzzled, Jacques studied her more closely. No, while she did look sexy, she did not resemble in the least a woman who was enamored and on the verge of capitulating to his romantic gestures. “And I take it you are not talking about the silk scarves, either. No, you cannot be,” he said more to himself than to her. “Those are not supposed to be delivered until the end of the week.”

  “Silk scarv—You didn’t,” she said, her eyes widening in astonishment or outrage, he wasn’t sure which.

  “Ah, but I did. Twelve of them—all made of silk—that I chose myself. You will receive them on Friday.” He grinned as she opened her mouth and then closed it. “I take it you do remember our little game with the silk scarf,” he prompted, referring to the erotic turn their lovemaking had taken when the scarf Liza had been wearing one day had been put to use as a instrument of pleasure.

  Liza’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink. Her back grew even more stiff. “I did not come here to discuss your...your foolish attempts to seduce me.”

  Her words smacked like a cuff to his chin, but he did his best to shake off his disappointment. Calmly he covered with a damp cloth the sculpture he had been working on and draped it with plastic before turning to face her again. “Then exactly why did you come here?”

  “To tell you I know what you did. I know you changed the wine orde
r for the fund-raiser.”

  “I am sorry you found out about it so soon,” he said, disappointed that she had discovered the substitution early. He had hoped to have her discover his generous gift the night of the gala. “I was hoping to surprise you.”

  “You surprised me all right. How could you do such a thing, Jacques?”

  Confused by her clipped tone, he repeated, “I told you I wanted to surprise you.”

  For some reason his answer only seemed to make her angry. “You knew we were on a tight budget. That we needed every penny we could raise for the summer camp. And while I can understand your wanting to help your family in France, I—”

  “What is wrong with you, Liza? And what is this talk of me helping my family? I have no family in France or anywhere else.” Frowning, Jacques picked up a towel and began to wipe the clay from his fingers. “I ordered the wine from Gaston Vineyards because I own Gaston Vineyards. I inherited it when my father died two years ago.”

  “Well, that makes it even worse,” Liza told him, her voice as stiff as her spine. “That you would take advantage of the situation...of me like this.”

  Stunned by her accusation, Jacques could feel his own anger spark, shoot a burning path up his neck, to his cheeks. He threw down the towel and took a step toward her. “Mon Dieu! I give you one of my most expensive pieces of art for your auction. I make a fool of myself trying to romance you with gifts and love verses. I donate thousands of dollars of wine for your fund-raiser. All in an effort to please you. And yet you dare to stand there, look down your regal little nose at me and accuse me of taking advantage of you?”

  “You...you donated the wine?”

  “Of course I donated the wine,” Jacques retorted. “You and your committee could not possibly afford wine from the Gaston Vineyards with that pitiful budget you gave Newberry to work with.”

  “But the copy of the invoice that came with the shipment. Mr. Newberry said...”

  Jacques narrowed his eyes as understanding dawned. She thought he was attempting to line his pockets at the expense of the summer camp for kids. That he had used his position on the committee to make a few measly dollars for himself. Jacques gritted his teeth. “The invoice was for shipping purposes only. I have no intention of billing you or your committee for those wines. They are a gift from me.”

  Liza lowered her gaze. “I don’t know what to say, Jacques. You were being generous and I thought—I thought—”

  “It is obvious what you thought. I could understand Newberry making the mistake. But you, Liza? I thought you knew me better than that,” he told her, disgusted that she had doubted his motives, surprisingly hurt that she had thought so little of him. He wanted to shake her for doubting him. He turned away from her instead.

  “I’m sorry, Jacques. You’re right. I should have realized there was a mistake. That you wouldn’t be so...so mercenary.”

  Jacques swallowed the bitter taste his own anger had left in his mouth as her words washed over him, soothing his temper, his hurt. He had spent a lifetime learning to harness the beast of his temper and for the most part he succeeded. Except where Liza was concerned. Of all the people he had known in his life, only she stirred the emotions inside him so deeply, so quickly. Only she unleashed the anger, the jealousy, the need. Only she could tame his emotions so swiftly.

  Do yourself a favor, Gaston. Forget about her. Forget about trying to seduce her.

  But he couldn’t forget her, Jacques admitted. He wanted her too much.

  “I really am sorry, Jacques.” She touched his shoulder. It was a gentle pressing of her fingers to convey her sincerity, but the action sent a jolt of awareness and longing through him. “I hope you’ll forgive me for doubting you.”

  Silence hung suspended for long moments as he struggled to control the rush of hunger clawing at him. When he turned to face her, Jacques caught her hand before she could move away. “I will forgive you on one condition.”

  She eyed him warily. “What condition?”

  “Come with me to the patron party on Friday night.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “For once, Liza, do not think. Just come with me,” he urged her. He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them lightly, when he wanted to do so much more. “Come with me. Please.”

  When she hesitated, he pressed on, adapting the persona he knew she would expect of him. “You Americans are famous for saying there is safety in numbers. Well, there will be at least fifty other people at the party. How much safer can you be?”

  Six

  There wasn’t anything the least bit safe about being with Jacques Gaston, Liza decided. Regardless if there were an army of other people present, the man was just as dangerous, just as lethal to her emotionally as he had ever been.

  The scarves had been waiting for her when she arrived at her office just after lunch on Friday. Twelve beautifully wrapped boxes from Neiman-Marcus, each containing a scarf made of the finest silk, each more beautiful, more exquisite than the next.

  “Do you remember, Liza?” his note had read. “That evening we skipped out on that boring party and went back to your apartment. You were wearing an ivory silk scarf...”

  A breath shuddered through her, and Liza pushed the memory aside. Of course she remembered, just as Jacques had intended she should. In fact, she had been able to think of little else the rest of the day.

  And she had still been thinking about him when he had arrived at her office to pick her up for the party. In a dark gray suit that made his eyes look more golden than brown, his smile had been filled with sensual appreciation and promise as he brushed his lips against hers in greeting. It had taken every ounce of control she possessed not to respond to his kiss, to keep her expression cool when she felt anything but.

  The close confines of the car hadn’t helped. She had been far too conscious of Jacques’s nearness, his scent, the way his fingers stroked the gearshift of the car as they made the drive to the Carstairs estate where the patron party was being held. Even now, despite the gay atmosphere and a room filled with people, she remained just as tense, her nerves wound just as tightly as a spring, simply because Jacques was in the same room.

  “Can I get you a refill?”

  Liza’s head jerked up, and she stared at Robert Carstairs. She looked down at the nearly empty wineglass in her hand, then back up to him. “Thanks, but I think I’d better pass. I have a long drive home.”

  He quirked one brow in that manner she always associated with his aristocratic breeding. “Gaston isn’t taking you home?”

  She knew the question he was asking, the one he had been too polite to voice even when she had informed him weeks earlier that she could offer him nothing more than friendship. He’d expressed his disappointment and accepted her explanation that she simply wasn’t ready for a serious relationship. But she had known then that he had wondered if it was because of Jacques. Evidently, given her friend Jane’s questions, Robert wasn’t the only one who was wondering if she and Jacques were lovers. “No, Jacques isn’t taking me home and I won’t be going back to his apartment. He picked me up at my office. I left my car there. We agreed that when the party’s over, he’ll take me back there and I’ll drive myself home.”

  “I see.” He paused. “I suspect that’s your idea and not his.”

  Liza could feel the flush of color crawl up her cheeks. Of course, Robert was too perceptive not too notice Jacques’s small statements of possessiveness where she was concerned. The hand at her elbow when they’d arrived, the innocent brush of his arm against hers, the familiarity implied by his taking a sip of wine from her glass. Given his earlier confession about being jealous, she had no doubt that the gestures had been warnings to Robert and anyone else that she belonged to him. Each spoke of an intimacy that went beyond being old acquaintances or business associates. It implied an intimacy shared by lovers. Ordinarily she would have been angered by Jacques’s ploys, but her emotions had been too battered and weak to bother. “Y
es. It was my idea.”

  Robert shifted his gaze to where Jacques stood in the midst of a circle of the guests. His lean face, with all its angles and planes and the slash of high cheekbones, was smiling at something being said, but his eyes were pinned on Liza. “I’m surprised he agreed.”

  “I’m afraid he didn’t have much choice,” Liza said, recalling just how unhappy Jacques had been at her insistence that she be picked up at the office and returned there when the party was over.

  “Liza, I know this isn’t the time or place, but if I’m wrong about you and Gaston... I mean if things aren’t as serious between you two as I thought, I had hoped that you and I...that is, I had thought that we...” He took a deep breath. “I don’t think friendship is such a bad place to start. I’m in no hurry. I’d give you as much time as you needed.”

  Liza took Robert’s hand and squeezed it. She couldn’t give him false hope. She knew she could never love him. He deserved a woman who would. “Robert, you’re a wonderful man. Smart and kind and I’ll always be very fond of you.”

  “But you’re in love with Gaston.”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. More sorry than you can ever know.”

  “Don’t be. I figured as much. But I had to give it a try.” Giving her a wink, he smiled, then squeezed her fingertips once before releasing her hand. “What about our frowning Frenchman over there? How does he feel?”

  “He wants met.”

  He chuckled. “Yes. I sort of figured that out myself, too. And I can’t say that I blame him.” Robert’s grin spread. “But aside from the obvious, what else does he want? Has he said anything about the future?”

  “Jacques isn’t big on commitment. It’s part of the reason things ended between us before.”

  “I see. Then, I take it he doesn’t know that Jack is his son.”

  Liza choked. When she caught her breath again, she asked, “How...how did you know?”

  “You said yourself I’m smart. It doesn’t take a Phi Beta Kappa to figure out that you two share some sort of history, something a bit deeper than friendship with the Gallaghers. Although I have to admit, I was hoping I was wrong. Besides, I’ve met your son. Except for your coloring, he’s the spitting image of Gaston.”