Harlequin Superromance February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: His Forever GirlMoonlight in ParisWife by Design

by Liz Talley

  She had Tara.

  She picked up her phone and touched her precious daughter’s number.

  Tara answered on the first ring. “Hi, Mama.”

  Uh-oh. She sounded breathless. Oh, surely not. It was midafternoon over there.

  “Hey, sweetpea. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  “No, a good time, actually. I could use some cheering up.”

  Faith assessed the situation quickly. Tara wasn’t distraught. Just down. Man trouble? Had she seen the folly of her ways? “Why?” She used her sympathetic mom voice. “What’s wrong?”

  A long sigh whispered over the line. “I just located another wrong Jacques Martin.”

  “Oh, that’s got to be hard. I know you had your hopes up.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this whole thing...my snap decision to try to come find him.”

  “Yeah,” Faith agreed. “It was a bit hurried.”

  “Well, you know how you and Dad always taught us that everything happens for a reason? I’m thinking that the reason I’m here may not be to find Jacques Martin. Maybe I came here to meet Garrett and Dylan.”

  Emotion gripped Faith’s heart and squeezed. “Oh my, Tara. That sounds way too serious.”

  “I am serious, Mama. I’m falling in love with him. Them.”

  “Honey.” Faith switched to her let’s-be-reasonable tone. “It’s too soon to be thinking about that.”

  “And yet, here I am thinking about it. That’s what makes me think it’s real.”

  Arguing would do no good. Tara had Sawyer’s stubborn streak, blood-relation or no. When either of their minds got set a certain way, they held on to the belief like a snapping turtle holds a stick...and they wouldn’t let go till it thundered. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything, Mama. Just be happy for me.”

  “I’m always happy for you, sweetpea. Happy for you in my life.”

  Tara’s laugh sounded relieved. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  “By the way.” Tara’s tone changed. “Emma said the picnic was cancelled because of weather.” It was a statement, but the question was evident.

  “Well, it’s turned out pretty after all, so I’m thinking we might throw one together.” The microwave dinged, reminding Faith of the breakfast she’d started. “Your dad’s already headed to the lake, in fact,” she added for authenticity.

  “Good. It sounds like things are back to normal.”

  Faith wouldn’t answer that with a lie. “My bacon’s ready, so I need to go, sweetpea. You be careful, now. You hear?”

  “I hear. See ya.”

  “See ya.”

  Faith opened the microwave and set the bacon on the counter. Despite its mouth-watering aroma, her appetite had fled once again.

  So Tara believed her reason for being in Paris was to meet Garrett.

  “The universe is unfolding as it should.” Ollie’s words from yesterday scampered across Faith’s brain, causing the hair to rise on the back of her neck.

  Only one thing would change Tara’s mind back to her original intent...and shake her loose from the stick she was clamped on to.

  Faith sent up a prayer for thunder in Paris...in the form of an address for the elusive Jacques Martin.

  * * *

  GARRETT ENDED THE CALL and gestured Henri to come in.

  The Frenchman held a paper fisted in one hand and a mysterious expression on his face. He stepped in and closed the door behind him.

  “What’s up? You been watching those old Pink Panther movies again?” Garrett chuckled at the joke that his friend obviously didn’t understand. “I was just talking to Marc Fornier. He’s agreed to add Soulard to the beer flight dinners at le Verrou.”

  “C’est formidable!” As was his custom, Henri chose the armless chair at the north end of Garrett’s desk. He perched on the edge, resembling a bird on a wire.

  “Yeah, wonderful news for us.”

  Henri nodded. Garrett hadn’t seen so much excitement in his eyes since they’d test-driven that Ferrari last year. “And I may have wonderful news for Tara.” Henri pushed the paper he held across the desk.

  Garrett scanned the document, a spreadsheet, much like the one Henri made for Dylan’s activities, but this one held a list of names—well, actually the names were all Jacques Martin. Most had two columns of addresses, work and home, and a slew of other columns, some filled out and others empty.

  Three names had been circled in red.

  Garrett pulled his copy of Tara’s list from his pocket and compared the two. They were totally different. He dropped the new one on the desk and spread his hands in question. “What is this?”

  “Ce sont les Jacques Martins who are not in the telephone book or found easily over the internet.” Henri’s rigid posture hardly matched the nonchalant tone he affected.

  His friend’s manner, so different from his normally perfect composure, sent a chill up Garrett’s spine. “Where did you get this information?”

  “If I tell you, mon ami, I will have to kill you.” His grin dissolved as quickly as it appeared. “Vraiment, Garrett, no one must know that I have done this.”

  “What did you do?” Garrett fought to control the panic in his voice. “Hack into a government website or something?”

  “Oui.” Henri shrugged one shoulder. “Or something.”

  “Damn it! You could get arrested.”

  “Oui, and go to the prison for a very long time. Mais seulement if it becomes known. This is why you must tell no one.” He wagged his finger. “Not Tara. Not anyone.” The wagging finger dropped to point at the circled names. “But I am certain one of these is the correct man. The three are of the correct age to be the father, and all were in the U.S. during the right time.”

  Garrett’s hands were sweating. He clenched and unclenched them, not sure if he should kiss Henri or kick his ass for pulling such a stunt. “How did you get your hands on all this?”

  “Much information is available, mon ami. One only needs to know where to look.” He gave a sly grin. “And how.”

  Garrett became aware of how fast his heart was racing when a drop of sweat ran into his eye. He wiped it off, then reached for his phone. “Tara could be meet—”

  Henri snatched the phone from his hand. “Tread carefully, Garrett. These are men of means. They are not found easily pour une raison.”

  Garrett jerked his hand back. “You mean they’re crooks? They might be dangerous?”

  “Non.” Henri’s bottom lip drooped as he pondered the question, then he pinned Garrett with a meaningful stare. “But there is some reason they—how do you put it?—‘fly below the radar.’”

  “Shit!” Garrett wiped his hand down his face.

  Henri answered with a low chuckle. “Oui, and very deep. And, s’il te plaît, you must burn the document when you finish with it.”

  Garrett studied the names and addresses circled in red. If he made first contact with Tara’s father, he could assess the situation and arrange for their meeting—and prepare them for each other.

  He grabbed a pen and made the notes he needed, then returned the paper to his friend. “Do whatever you want with it, Henri. I have what I need.”

  Henri’s perfect posture slumped in relief, but only slightly. “Peut-être Tara will stay in Paris a little longer maintenant. To know her father, oui?”

  That Henri had gone to such measures to gain him and Dylan more time with Tara was staggering, and Garrett was overwhelmed with emotion. Loosening his tie did nothing to ease the tension in his neck and jaws. He leaned forward to capture Henri’s gaze. “I’m speechless...that you would go to this extreme. You’re a devoted friend, Henri, and Dylan and I are so blessed to have you in our lives.”
>
  Henri’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and for a split second, Garrett thought he saw mistiness in the Frenchman’s eyes. “We are more than friends, Garrett. Nous sommes frères.”

  Garrett stood and walked around the desk, pulling Henri to his feet and into a hug. “Brothers. I like that.”

  They slapped each other’s backs extra hard to keep things on a mature male level, and then Garrett checked his watch. “If I leave now, I can go by the Kléber address on the way home.”

  He gathered the papers he’d been working on and stuffed them into his briefcase in the improbable event that he’d feel like looking at them once he got home. His gut told him tonight was going to be an exciting one with Tara.

  Hell, every night was exciting with Tara.

  Henri held the office door open for him to pass. “Bonne chance, Garrett.” He added another hardy clap on Garrett’s back.

  “Thanks.” Garrett headed toward the elevator, walking backward for one last acknowledgment to his friend. “I owe you,” he called as the doors opened.

  Henri’s hands were in his pockets and he gave a shrug. “Oui.”

  Less than a half hour later, Garrett stood in the massive corridor of an ancient but elegant building that looked as if it had once housed a large corporation, but had now been divided into small, though impressive, suites.

  The door his hand rested on had a thick, leaded glass window trimmed in rich mahogany. The etching on it read simply: Jacques Martin, le concessionnaire.

  So this Jacques Martin was a distributor of goods although no hint was given as to the kind of goods distributed. But the location of his business spoke of his success.

  Garrett pushed the door open to a small waiting room. Stepping inside was like hopping from one century to another. While just as elegant as its exterior, the office interior was very contemporary decked out in blue-gray walls with low, Italian leather sofas in the hue that he called purple but Henri insisted was l’aubergine—eggplant.

  A young woman who looked as though she had been supplied by the Chanel School for Receptionists sat at a desk of sorts. Made either of glass or clear acrylic, it had no drawers and no real legs—except for the model-worthy ones that belonged to the receptionist. The workspace was nearly bare, holding only a small appointment book, an equally small pad, a pen, a cell phone and the elbows of the receptionist, though not her weight, as she sat very straight.

  “Bonjour, monsieur.” She greeted him with a tight smile. “Comment puis-je vous aider?”

  “Bonjour, madame. Je m’appelle Garrett Hughes.” He concentrated to keep the question out of his voice. “Je voudrais parler avec Monsieur Martin, s’il vous plaît.”

  A question lit her eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. She glanced at the appointment book. “Avez-vous pris rendezvous?”

  Was he expected? Hell, no. Nor was the news he was bearing, if this turned out to be the right guy.

  “Non. Je suis ici pour—” he chose his wording carefully “—une affaire personnelle.” It didn’t get much more personal than this.

  A flare of color bloomed in the young woman’s cheeks, but her manner remained cool and poised as she stood. “Un moment.”

  The tight, black dress clung to every curve of her body as she swayed to a door at the end of a long, narrow hallway. He watched her movements, imagining what the dress might look like on Tara, and found himself grinning at the image despite the nervousness that was causing his heart to beat a staccato rhythm.

  The young woman rapped twice and stepped inside the office, though Garrett couldn’t hear an invitation.

  He stood waiting for two of the longest minutes of his life, and then the door opened again, and the young woman swayed out, followed by a middle-aged man with deep-set eyes and jet-black hair, combed back much like Henri’s coif.

  “Monsieur Hughes?” The man questioned, and Garrett’s mouth went dry.

  The lips. The mouth. It was the same one he had kissed a thousand times over the past week.

  And it belonged to a man who, without a doubt, had to be Tara’s father.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  GARRETT HAD BEEN LED into a false sense of security by Jacques Martin’s easy, though cautious, manner.

  The preliminaries had gone smoothly with the two men sitting across the desk from each other in Martin’s office. Yes, he was Jacques Martin. Yes, he attended a year of college at Murray State University. His English was flawless, and he had shifted to it almost immediately.

  The trouble started when Garrett asked if he remembered Faith Franklin.

  A flash of recognition lit Martin’s eyes at the mention of her name, or perhaps it was the sudden understanding of where this conversation was leading. His face drew in, as if he was concentrating hard. “No, I remember no person of that name.”

  Garrett had thought that might be the answer. He plunged ahead with the details of the story, assuring Jacques Martin that his memory was of no concern. “You and Ms. Franklin—Faith—celebrated together on graduation night. She admits that you both had too much to drink and ended up in bed together. A few weeks later, she found out she was pregnant from that encounter.”

  The Frenchman’s face blanched. “That is impossible.”

  “But true.” Garrett used the understating technique Henri was so fond of.

  “Faith and I...” Jacques paused. “Had no relationship.”

  His use of the woman’s given name convinced Garrett she was indeed remembered and hope flickered in his chest. “Perhaps not, but you slept together, and a daughter was conceived. She’s twenty-eight years old now.”

  Martin’s white pallor seeped away, replaced by a red that had a purplish quality—though not quite l’aubergine. “And I suppose this person hired you to find me?” Resting on the desktop, his hand clenched and unclenched repeatedly.

  “No.” Garrett thought it best not to shift the focus to him and Tara. “She’s a friend of mine, and she’s come to Paris to find you.”

  “Surely with her hand out expecting part of my fortune.”

  The acid in his tone burned Garrett’s insides as an image of Tara’s injured hand flashed through his mind. “Tara’s not like that. That’s her name, by the way. Tara O’Malley. And she’s not a...a gold digger. She’s a wonderful person.” Reminding himself to remain calm, he loosened his fingers from their tight grip and spread them wide to show he had nothing to hide—and neither did Tara. “She only wants to meet you. Nothing else.”

  Jacques snorted derisively, and then shrugged as if he were turning down a piece of chocolate. “I have no desire to meet her.”

  Garrett noticed his fingertips were leaving perspiration marks on Jacques Martin’s antique cherrywood desk. He shifted farther back in his chair. “She’s come a long way just hoping for a chance to meet you. She’s a daughter you should be proud of.”

  Jacques’s head tilted. “Is she?” He arched an eyebrow. “So are my other two children who were born to me by women other than my wife. My very jealous wife.”

  “But Tara is from a relationship twenty-eight years ag—”

  Jacques Martin’s fist slammed on the desk, but his voice was almost a whisper. “There was no relationship!”

  Nothing good would come of engaging this man in a heated confrontation. Garrett backed off and tried for an offhand, man-to-man approach. “Surely, your wife wouldn’t be threatened by anything that long ago, Monsieur Martin.” He forced his lips up at the corners. “We all bear the sins of our youth.”

  The Frenchman leaned on his forearms, his tone conspiratorial and quiet. “My wife is young and beautiful—you met her when you arrived—and she is jealous of everything, even things that happened two years before she was born.”

  The new information slid into place, and the puzzle began to form a clearer picture in Garrett’s
mind. The young woman in the waiting room was a jealous trophy wife with a philandering husband who had two known children from outside his marriage. Now there was a third. Jacques Martin’s character solidified, and if Garrett didn’t care for him before, he disliked the man intensely now. He motioned with his head toward the door. “Your wife?”

  “Yes, and my receptionist. Yvette is quite spoiled, and she detests sharing my fortune with the two other bastard children who surfaced. She threatens divorce if—” he placed meaningful weight on the word “—she learns of any further indiscretions. I have no desire to pay more alimony or look for a fourth wife yet, though I suspect I shall someday. Perhaps then I will arrange to meet your friend.”

  The statement was wrong on so many levels. Garrett had a strong desire to punch the Frenchman right in his arrogant pout. Believing Tara could have come from the loins of this asshole took a stretch of the imagination.

  The two men eyed each other for a long moment, then Jacques Martin stood. “Now, Monsieur Hughes, I have work to do. If you will excuse me.” He gestured toward the door.

  Garrett stood and straightened to his full height, playing the intimidation card just for the hell of it. “I’ll tell Tara you don’t wish to see her, but I don’t think that will keep her from coming anyway.”

  “If you do not want your friend hurt by rejection, I suggest you keep her away. If she comes here, I will refuse to see her.” The man spoke as if he were referring to a cocktail mixed incorrectly.

  Garrett’s words pressed through gritted teeth. “Tara is a person. A beautiful, precious daughter.” He paused, shifting his stance to throw one last curveball. “She looks like you, you know.”

  Interest flickered in Martin’s eyes along with the hint of a smile. “Yes?” Obviously, that touched a nerve with the conceited bastard. But the moment passed quickly, and the near-smile glided into an oily sneer. “Then my imagination will have to serve me well. Au revoir, Mr. Hughes.”

  Garrett’s imagination churned up an idea. If Martin could just see Tara’s smile, hear her laugh. Could anyone who knew her not want her in his life?