No More Lonely Nights

by Nicole McGehee

  They met at Sans Souci, the famous power-lunch spot across from the White House. Michelle, of course, knew everyone on the staff, and Dominique was shown to the other woman’s table as though she were visiting royalty.

  The comtesse greeted Dominique with kisses on both cheeks as the waiter poured white wine from a bottle resting in an ice bucket. After he had left them alone, the women launched into machine-gun rapid French. They discussed the holidays, their families, the cold weather, and the famous columnist seated at the table next to theirs.

  Finally, Michelle leaned forward and fixed her gaze on Dominique’s face. “How is your business?”

  Dominique knew that the first rule of commerce was to act confident. She lifted her chin and said, “Fine, thank you. My clients have all been pleased and I’ve gotten a number of referrals.” Her jaunty tone wavered a bit as she added, “Of course, the first year is always difficult…”

  Michelle gave her an understanding look. “I was sorry to hear about the Corcoran contract. I thought surely you would get it.” She sighed. “I suppose my recommendation wasn’t as influential as I thought.”

  Dominique protested, “I wouldn’t have even been considered if it weren’t for you.” She shrugged philosophically. “I’ll try again. They’ll give me another chance.”

  Michelle frowned. “It’s ridiculous that all this happened over something so trivial. And the irony is that you’re not even seeing Senator Patout any—” Michelle stopped in mid-sentence. And then she did something Dominique had never imagined was possible. She blushed. Michelle’s pale Gallic skin never betrayed a hint of blush, except where cosmetically applied. She epitomized sangfroid. But now her brow creased in a pained expression and her face flooded pink.

  The women stared at each other in stunned silence. Michelle was the first to recover. “Forgive me.” Her eyes reflected genuine regret.

  Dominique found it almost unbearable to look at her friend. Her ears burned with humiliation. She stared at the tablecloth, unable to think of a response. How did Michelle know? Who else knew? “Did he tell you?” Dominique blurted out. How could he embarrass her that way?

  “No!” Michelle said at once. “He would never deliberately hurt you.” She leaned forward and covered Dominique’s hand with hers.

  Dominique raised tortured eyes to Michelle. “Then… how?” she whispered.

  Michelle averted her gaze. “We attend many of the same parties. I’ve seen him and…” She paused, obviously ill at ease. “You weren’t with him, so I drew my own conclusions.”

  Dominique’s eyebrows went up, her expression puzzled. “But he’s always attended plenty of receptions alone.”

  Michelle slumped in her seat. She looked down, then lifted her glass and took a long swallow of wine.

  In a voice that was deadly quiet, Dominique said, “How stupid of me. He obviously wasn’t alone.”

  To Michelle’s credit, she derived no thrill from imparting the news. “Look,” she said, meeting Dominique’s gaze squarely, “if it’s over between you, you must expect this sort of thing. Senator Patout is one of the most attractive men in Washington.”

  Dominique nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Of course, Michelle was right. Had she expected Mark to remain alone? Yes, she had. Or at least she had hoped he would. To be truthful, she had counted on it. What a fool! She pictured Mark’s face, with its charming one-dimpled smile. Women melted at the sight of it. How could she have thought he would remain alone? Oh, God, what had she done? She raised her eyes, sick with regret, and met Michelle’s concerned gaze.

  Dominique tried valiantly for a smile and only half succeeded. Lowering her lids, she asked, “What was she like?”

  Michelle gave her friend a pleading look. “I don’t know. Dark hair. Young.”

  Dominique’s lips tightened. She searched Michelle’s eyes. “Beautiful?”

  Michelle turned up her palms. “In a hard sort of way.” She shook her head. “You’re far more attractive.”

  Dominique was touched by the other woman’s loyalty. Her eyes softened. “Your prejudice is showing.” Then, all at once, it struck her. Young, brunette. Beautiful, in a hard sort of way. She sounded like Clay’s wife! A knife twisted in her gut. How could she go through this again? How could she stand it? But you caused it, this time. You drove him away.

  “Dominique, is there no chance for reconciliation?” Michelle asked.

  Dominique shook her head vehemently. Just like Clay’s wife. It was a stuck record playing in her mind. She couldn’t stand to be hurt like this twice.

  But what if she called Mark? Told him she’d marry him. Would it be too late? She wanted to race to the phone and do just that. But, of course, she couldn’t. Couldn’t marry him in a panic of emotion. And then, suppose she humiliated herself for nothing, as she had done with Clay? Her memory flashed to the day, two years before, that Clay had left her. Dominique begging him to stay. Clay’s cold, flat eyes dismissing her, anxious to get away. She had never known such humiliation.

  It wouldn’t happen twice! Dominique took a deep, ragged breath. Her face turned to stone. “I’ll get over Mark,” she told Michelle.

  The other woman met her eyes. There was a long silence. Finally she said, “I know you will.”

  With hands that shook ever so slightly, Dominique picked up the menu and opened it. Not a word on the page registered. Without looking up, she said, “What do you suggest?”

  Michelle’s voice came back poised, casual, as if nothing had happened. Playing along with Dominique’s face-saving act. “I always have the sole.”

  Dominique closed the menu. “That sounds fine.” She lifted her wine glass and took a sip. Then another.

  Michelle spared Dominique from talking to the waiter by ordering for both of them. That done, she launched into a monologue about the repairs necessary at the ambassador’s residence—inconsequential chatter designed to allow Dominique time to recover her composure.

  After a few minutes—and a few more sips of wine—Dominique found herself smiling as Michelle told an anecdote about waking in the middle of the night to find the roof was leaking—straight into their bed. “From the outside, the building is magnificent, but oh la la, we don’t dare look in the attic!”

  By the time the waiter brought their entrees, Dominique was able to concentrate on the discussion, and even inject a few comments of her own. As Michelle promised, the sole was delicious, the golden wine refreshing, and by the end of the meal, Dominique felt genuinely better.

  “I’m glad to see you smile again,” said Michelle as the waiter placed tiny cups of espresso before them. She pulled a cigarette from her red lacquered case and lit it. “I originally asked you to lunch to discuss a subject I hoped you’d find pleasant,” she said ruefully.

  Dominique tried for a chuckle but, from the guilty look on Michelle’s face, she wasn’t sure she succeeded. Wanting to ease her friend’s qualms, Dominique leaned forward and said teasingly, “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  Michelle exhaled a puff of smoke and said, “Were you aware that we will return to Paris on the first of May?”

  “No!” Dominique cried. “Why?” She hated to lose her new friend and, equally important, a good client.

  “It’s routine,” Michelle explained. “Ambassadorships are not indefinite. We’ve been in Washington for four years, and the president has asked my husband to return home now.”

  “Will he be assigned somewhere else?”

  Michelle smiled. “Washington is the highest post any diplomat can attain.” She paused and her smile turned mischievous. “However, once a diplomat has attained that position, he may be ‘promoted,’ if you will, to the president’s cabinet.” Michelle looked down and said with quiet modesty, “My husband has been named minister of trade.”

  Dominique was excited for her friend. “You must be so proud of him!”

  Michelle tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. And, as much as we love Washington, we are looking f
orward to going home. Our family is there. And our country place.”

  Dominique knew that by “country place,” Michelle referred to the count’s ancestral estate in the Loire Valley—a seventeenth-century chateau with five hundred acres of vineyards. She shook her head. “It sounds heavenly, though I’m terribly sorry to see you go.”

  Michelle studied Dominique in silence. Finally she said, “I shall miss you as well.” She paused. “Unless…”

  Dominique smiled. Michelle was undoubtedly going to invite her to spend some time with them in the summer. She probably couldn’t afford it, but the gesture was nice, just the same.

  Michelle put her index finger to her chin in a thoughtful pose. “I would like you to come with us.”

  Dominique stared, uncomprehending.

  Michelle smiled and continued. “My husband will find it necessary to host many foreign delegations, especially from the United States and the Arab nations. He, of course, will have an aide to arrange formal meetings. But we will also be called upon to entertain—to host many events, both in Paris and at the country place. And I will have to arrange excursions for the families.” She paused. “You have lived in Egypt and America, but you’re a French native. And you are a most capable event planner, much more so than the social secretary who serves the embassy here.” She laughed. “I am desperate to have you join my staff. You would be perfect!” She gave Dominique an appealing look. “Please say yes.”

  Dominique was aghast. “Michelle, you can’t be serious! I just moved to Washington. I have my family here, my business.”

  “Your mother and Gabrielle will be better off in France,” Michelle replied breezily. “After all, you say your mother’s French is better than her English and your daughter is already fluent. And”—Michelle held up her index finger—“you can be certain that Gabrielle’s education in France will be superior to what she receives here.” She made a noise of derision. “In America, the children watch too much television and the schools are too permissive. There is no intellectual life.

  “Aside from that, think of what an adventure it would be to move to Paris. You’ve said many times that you love the city,” Michelle reminded her. She lowered her voice. “Your salary would be most generous. And, don’t forget, in France, vacations are mandated by law. A month in summer, a week at Christmas. You’d have much more leisure to spend with your family. All your health care would be taken care of and, ultimately, you could retire with a government pension.”

  “You mean resettle there? Never return to America?” It was hard to take the idea seriously, it was so outside the context of her current life.

  Michelle shrugged. “If you wished to return to America, there would be many opportunities during holidays. Ultimately, you could do so permanently, if you wished.” Michelle gave Dominique a sly smile. “But you would likely remarry. In this position, you would meet many eligible men. And remember, the French do not share America’s obsession with youth,” she said disdainfully. “A woman is not interesting until she is at least thirty-five.”

  Michelle made it all sound so tempting, so easy, but it wasn’t. “Even if the schools are better in France, I can’t move Gabrielle again. It’s disruptive. In the fall, she’ll be going into ninth grade—her last year of junior high.” She shook her head. “I can’t do that to her.”

  “But in France, the structure is different. She would be changing schools in any event and all the students would be new.” Michelle paused, looking thoughtful. “Why don’t you ask her how she feels? Maybe the prospect of moving to Paris would be exciting for her.”

  Dominique looked dubious. “But Michelle, that’s not the only objection.” How could she make this woman of privilege understand? She picked up her cup of espresso and drained it, bracing herself. “I’m honored that you want me, but I’ve made a life for myself in Washington. I’ve started a business.” She gave a self-mocking smile. “I’m not saying that either one is a smashing success. But… it takes time to make things work.”

  Michelle’s look was sympathetic. “I know how hard it’s been. But what do you prove by persevering in the face of such difficulty? What’s holding you here?” She gave her a look pregnant with meaning.

  Dominique flushed, but said nothing. The more she denied that Mark had anything to do with it, the less Michelle would believe her.

  The countess went on. “I could understand if you had no other alternative, but…” She turned up her hands in an expression of bafflement.

  Dominique smiled at her friend’s pragmatism. Abstract ideals weren’t important to Michelle, only the bottom line. “It’s true my business hasn’t made me rich, and I’ve had disappointments. But it’s very important that I stick to the course I’ve chosen.” Without realizing it, Dominique’s hands had formed fists of determination. “It would take too long to tell you all the things in my past that have brought me to this point.” She paused, and her gaze intensified. “But I have to prove I can make a life for myself. A life and a living.”

  Michelle made a sound of impatience. “My dear, your idea of independence sounds like enslavement to me.” She lifted one delicate shoulder. “After all, what is independence? If you have money and your health, you do as you wish.” She fixed Dominique with a severe look. “If you take the job in Paris, you’ll have enough money for independence.”

  Michelle’s arguments sounded so logical. Dominique could easily picture herself in the job Michelle described. And moving to Paris sounded glamorous. Why refuse such a wonderful opportunity?

  Because it meant surrender, and the very thought panicked Dominique. But how could she explain that to sensible, practical Michelle? She gave her friend a sidelong glance, feeling cornered. Aside from the personal relationship, Michelle was one of her most important business contacts. To simply refuse her outright would seem rude and ungrateful.

  Michelle rescued her from having to devise a diplomatic response. The woman signaled for the check and said offhandedly, “Think about it. Talk it over with your family. In the end, I’m sure you’ll be persuaded.”

  CHAPTER 30

  THE YOUNG woman’s long, dusky hair spilled over Mark’s chest as she slid on top of him. She was beautiful, eager to please.

  Mark closed his eyes as he slid into her. She began to move, ever so slowly. Almost at once, Mark could feel the pressure build. It had been two months since he’d been with a woman. Been with Dominique. He tried to push the thought from his mind. Alexa Martinelli deserved better than that. She was an intelligent, accomplished girl. Woman, he corrected himself. A Justice Department attorney, she had pursued Mark with single-minded determination from the first moment they’d met at Buffy Coleman’s dinner party. She had been perfectly straightforward about her desire to sleep with Mark. At first he was put off—almost shocked by her forwardness—then amused and, finally, intrigued. She offered herself so freely, promised so much.

  Mark slid his hands over her silky buttocks. They were hard and taut as a young boy’s. But Mark wasn’t interested in young boys. He couldn’t help comparing her streamlined muscles to Dominique’s voluptuous curves. He opened his eyes and gazed at Alexa’s perfect bone structure. She had it all, Alexa did. Everything to impress and ensnare a man. What’s more, Mark knew she was falling in love with him. With him or with her image of the senator from Louisiana? Mark wasn’t certain, but her devotion was obvious. The little gifts, the notes, and, most of all, the look in her eye. It was tantamount to worship. She was so young.

  Mark kissed her, his touch full of affection—and desire. But what about love? Could he love her? Mark glided his hands up the length of her elegant thighs.

  Alexa ground her hips into him and Mark caught his breath, trembling on the edge of release. She was every bit as delectable as she’d promised. Every bit as accomplished. He closed his eyes again. Tight. Brought his hips up. Hard. Then, with sudden ferocity, he flipped her on her back and pounded into her until he reached a shattering climax.

  “Paris
!” Danielle sighed wistfully into the telephone. “I envy you.”

  Dominique laughed. “There’s nothing to envy—you’ve achieved your dream. I’m still struggling.”

  “So stop struggling. Michelle de la Croix is offering you a way out.” Dominique sighed and pulled her velvet robe—a Christmas present from Solange—tighter. The kitchen was Saturday morning quiet, her mother and daughter upstairs asleep. She kept her voice low so as not to wake them. The last thing Dominique wanted was for Solange to get on the extension and add her argument to Danielle’s. Solange hadn’t stopped lecturing, sermonizing, cajoling since Dominique had told her of Michelle’s proposal two weeks before. To hear Solange, Paris was the promised land, Michelle’s job the golden fleece.

  Gabrielle, on the other hand, was of two minds about the move. “I like my friends here,” she said, “and it’s not like I want to move or anything,… but Paris!” Dominique had secretly hoped that Gabrielle would be vehement in her opposition to the move. That would have put the issue to rest. Instead, the girl’s reaction only added to Dominique’s indecision.

  The problem, Dominique thought sourly, was that Gabrielle had been raised on the idea that Paris was the ultimate paradise. Glamour, lights, beauty—that was the Paris Solange had spoon-fed her granddaughter. And it had been confirmed when Gabrielle had accompanied her father to France, for Clay and Marie had chosen the best hotels, eaten in the best restaurants. Gabrielle had been dazzled by the euphoria that permeated the trip.

  As if reading her thoughts, Danielle said, “The fact that Gabrielle is willing to move should tell you something. Even she probably understands that this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”

  “But so is owning my own business,” Dominique countered.