Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2)

by Celia Kennedy

  Not really. But I enjoyed the compliment. When we slid the six chairs around it, as much as could be done was done.

  Three hours had passed, and my stomach had repeatedly rumbled. “May I buy you dinner?” I asked, breathless from exertion and his proximity.

  He took in our dusty clothes. “Like this?”

  “I can be ready in an hour. How about you?”

  He glanced at his watch. “I’ll be back at 7:00.”

  Hôtel du Nord

  I waited for him outside the entrance of my building. After a day spent inside, shoving furniture around, I needed fresh air. When he saw me, he smiled.

  “You look beautiful. Where would you like to go?” he said while kissing me on both cheeks.

  I stifled the urge to kiss his lips. “Actually, I have a request.”

  “Oui?”

  “Could we go somewhere nice but normal? With friends in from out of town, I’m going to be up to my eyeballs in fancy restaurants next week.”

  When he grinned at me, his eyes gleamed with delight. “Kathleen, you intrigue me. I think I have the perfect suggestion. The Hôtel du Nord.”

  “I haven’t been there, but I did see the Marcel Carnés film. What kind of food do they have?”

  “Nice but normal,” he quipped.

  Already laughing at his quick retort, I laughed harder when my stomach roared. “My stomach approves.”

  With a grin, he offered me his arm, which I took and then said, “Now we only have to hope the rest of you does.”

  We strolled the cobbled walkway between the chestnut trees and the water’s edge, finally crossing a bridge to Quai de Jemmapes. It was a short walk to the Hôtel, which had a simple façade washed by the shadows of trees in the setting sun. When we stepped inside, I admired the hand-painted tiles and vintage art on the walls.

  “What do you think?” He gestured to the room.

  “It’s perfect.”

  Over absolutely exquisite cheeseburgers and dry Champagne, we talked about my passion for renovating and life in Enclos-St-Laurent. By the time we left, the restaurant was crowded. Walking with him slowly through the darkness, I felt both excited and comfortable. Life seemed exhilarating.

  So exhilarating that I imagined a Kiss Me sign flashing over my head and stifled a giggle. He seemed just as happy, and though I hadn’t dated in quite some time, I was fairly certain he was interested in me, not simply feeling sorry for me. He is, isn’t he?

  To calm myself in case he wasn’t, I made up stories about the people we saw sitting in cafés, items in window shops, the brisk night air—nothing too personal. After we crossed the canal, I asked him if he’d like to sit and talk. He threw himself down in the middle of a bench, tucking his wool coat around him. I sat, too, careful to put some but not too much distance between us.

  An open-topped canal boat glided past. People were oohing and ah’ing. Festive, twinkly lights festooned the boat and reflected on the dark water, creating a beautiful, quivering reflection of Parisian splendor.

  Cold, I snuggled into my coat and stuffed my hands into my deep pockets for warmth. Observing me, he slid closer and rested an arm on the bench behind me. His body heat slowly started to penetrate my layers of clothing. His attentive gesture left me daydreaming. Then I yawned unexpectedly and yelped, “Sorry!”

  “You don’t have to go to such lengths to be free of me.”

  I shook my head, and before I could deny any desire to be gone from him, he chose that moment to kiss me. The kiss was warm and gentle. He held me tenderly, and from the slight tremble of his lips, I knew he was as affected as I was. His taste, his touch flooded me, warming me in tender places, compelling me to lean into him, leaving me wanting to explore him. While I clutched the lapels of his coat to keep my hands busy, my head filled with his scent, and it captivated me. Breathing heavily, he broke our kiss, still gently caressing my cheek with his thumb. His dark brown eyes searched mine. I looked from his eyes to his lips and longed to kiss him again yet remained still, enjoying the sensation of anticipation. We sat somewhat entangled, and in his gentle expression, I could see something indescribable; were I a braver soul, I would have asked him to share his thoughts. But I wasn’t. Not yet.

  He raised my hand and kissed the back of it. “I’ll walk you home.”

  He held my hand as we walked, asking if he could see me soon. I apologized, “It’s a very hectic week, between work and my friends arriving. Once they’re gone?” We had arrived out front of the Art Deco building where I lived.

  “Ah yes. Reality. I forgot about that.” His words made me smile.

  My eyes darted to his lips. “I should go in. Thank you for your help.”

  “Thank you for dinner.”

  “My pleasure, and thank you. Given how the day started, I wasn’t expecting such a pleasant day.” Feeling bolder, I pressed a kiss to his lips and turned quickly away before he could respond.

  I felt his eyes on me as I climbed the stairs. Desire for him added a sway to my walk, and I felt a strong pull to race back down the steps and into his arms. Instead, before disappearing inside, I turned and found him watching me, looking quite handsome in the lamplight.

  8:30 AM, Monday, September 28

  Stella and Sharon

  THE WEEK WAS at hand, and with it came much excitement. Today’s highlights were designers showing at the Espace Ephémère Tuileries, Jardin des Tuileries, and L’ École Nationale Supérieur des Beaux-Arts. I rummaged through a packet and found my official passes. Spending all of God’s hours working was paying off! I had access to many events in the fashion world and, if rumors were true, my boss was retiring at the end of the year, which meant L’Oréal would be looking for his replacement. I wanted to be that someone. As I happily contemplated this, the phone rang.

  “Mademoiselle Ehlers, it is Mrs. Blackwell,” my assistant, Denise, called to me.

  I picked up the phone. “Tiziana?”

  “Ciao bella! I love Paris! Think of all the lovely clothes and wonderful food we’ll enjoy this week.” Her lyrical portrayal sang out to me. She never said, “Hello.” She began conversations as if you’d never gone your separate ways. Almost ten years after meeting her, I had long since realized that she drew you into her world or threw herself into the middle of yours. She didn’t care which, so long as we were together.

  “It’s great to hear from you. How was the trip?” I settled back into my chair. She and her new husband, Ted, had sailed from Saint-Tropez to Malta for their honeymoon.

  After filling me in on the highlights, the conversation turned to this week. “Bella, are we still on for dinner at your place tonight?” she asked.

  “We are, if you’re sure you don’t mind the fact that it is truly a work in progress. More like a work in dismantling.” I snorted.

  “Don’t worry, darling. It only means I will have something to compare it to later. Tonight we should flip through our calendars and plan our week.”

  “Great. Will I see you at Stella McCartney?”

  “Si, bella. We’ll see you there.” I heard some quiet murmuring in the background.

  “I’m impressed that Ted is willing to sit through this for you!”

  “He’s such a darling. See you soon.” Air kisses wended their way across the airwaves as we hung up.

  Looking at the clock on my computer, I realized there was just enough time to primp before leaving for the Tuileries. I slid my shoes on and grabbed my tote bag. It was the first sprint of a very exciting, high-energy week.

  ***

  I found myself outside happily waiting in the sunshine for my co-workers. I was so excited that the first show I would attend this week was Stella McCartney. Not only did I love her designs, I had been enamored of her ever since Karl Lagerfeld questioned her ability to take over creative direction for the fashion house Chloe. Though I loved him, I was a fan of any woman who wanted to chart her own course—hence my helping out Bethany Halvorsen, who was about to hit the big time. The rest, as they
say, is history: Stella had proven herself, and today was the day to see her newest collection.

  As I dug out my sunglasses, a giant black limo pulled up to the curb. The rear door burst open, and Tiziana bolted from the cavernous interior. Wearing a devil-may-care grin, she swept me up in her arms. “Forgive me, darling, but I just had to see you.” Stepping back, she let me go. “You look so beautiful.”

  I beamed from ear to ear, thrilled to see her. “Me? I look so… bland. Look at you.” She wore a bold red, knee-length dress with cut-outs. Caught up in the spirit of the week, I made an educated guess. “Versace?” She was a huge fan of Donatella Versace’s bold colors and designs. She nodded and twirled.

  “Bella, you look so elegant, so professional.”

  My outfit, a gray pencil skirt, paired with a tailored white shirt, white vest, and matching gray jacket, was a mishmash of designers. I wiggled my toes to show off my spectacular new pair of Balenciaga peep-toe heels in deep-purple brushed suede.

  “Gorgeous!” she declared then asked, “Kathleen, can we give you a ride to the show?”

  I called my secretary and asked her to let my co-workers know I would meet them at the Espace Ephémère Tuileries. “I’m all yours.”

  Crawling into the limo, I found Marian, Charlotte, and Hillary hiding there. “Oh my god! You’re here, too!” I threw myself at them. We’d all been together at Tiziana and Ted’s wedding two months before, but it was wonderful to have them here. All of them simultaneously descending on Paris was rare.

  I spied Charlotte’s enormous belly and couldn’t help myself. “I cannot believe you are here! This is seriously crazy.”

  Charlotte, the calmest of us—not overly sarcastic (Marian), not overly dramatic (Tiziana), not overly uptight (Hillary), and not overly wound tight (me)—assured me that all contingencies were covered. When I stared at her belly some more, she chastised me. “You’re making me feel uncomfortable.”

  I think in an effort to boost Charlotte’s confidence, Hillary took her hand and pointed out, “She really does glow!”

  “For feck’s sake, she’s not glowing,” Marian scoffed. “My friends, that is pure, unadulterated fear! If you were about to push someone the size of a watermelon out of your flange, you’d be in a constant sweat!”

  “That’s just poor taste to bring that up,” I admonished Marian, while trying to suppress laughter. “Let’s talk about something that will take Charlotte’s mind off of that.”

  “Impossible. Nothing can take my mind off of that.” Charlotte squinched her face, admitting her concern.

  “Not even that sexy husband of yours?” Marian tried Charlotte’s favorite diversion. He was freakishly handsome and attentive. They were nauseatingly happy. Tiziana appeared to be equally nauseatingly happy. I was happy for my friends. And a little envious. I hadn’t heard a peep from Sébastien since dinner a week ago.

  While Charlotte and Tiziana gushed about the merits of love and marriage, I wondered about the state of Hillary’s relationship with her boyfriend. She had been dating Charlotte’s brother-in-law, Michael, for the past year. When we’d talked last, she’d admitted things weren’t going well.

  “Speaking of husbands, where are yours?” I asked Charlotte and Tiziana.

  “There wasn’t enough room, so they took another car. We’ll meet them at Stella McCartney’s showroom,” Charlotte answered. Hillary and Marian turned the conversation to the day’s agenda, deftly changing the subject away from romance.

  I pulled out the write-ups I had received for today’s shows and passed them around. “What we are supposed to be seeing today. Stella McCartney is paying homage to artists’ muses.”

  In no time at all, we were out front Galerie de Valois, foraying into the masses. It proved not all that challenging. Tucking Charlotte in the middle to protect her, we let Tiziana and her corporeal bounty part the sea of people for us. At the last minute, I splintered off from the group, promising to meet them afterwards in the reception area, and quickly made my way to my coworkers at L’Oréal.

  The space was so tightly packed, with chairs only four rows deep on either side of the runway, that it was easy to spot my friends amidst all the effusive people who flitted about. I waved at them as fashionistas, fashion journalists, paparazzi, investors, designers, and buyers rubbed elbows with a wealth of celebrities.

  My chair was a few seats down from our new Executive Vice President, Daniel Huse, Monsieur Detriche’s boss. I greeted him with a nod. He was the man I needed to impress if I wanted to climb the corporate ladder. Our working relationship had been quite successful so far, and that was great news. This was our first professional outing, if it could be called such. Any anxiety I felt disappeared when the house lights dimmed. Excitement buzzed throughout the room.

  I scanned the room, and, to my astonishment, my eyes landed on Sébastien Langevin. I inhaled sharply and looked away, hoping no one had heard me. I took a quick second glance to see if my eyes were playing tricks on me. Nope! He was sitting next to the EVP of Finance for Vogue Hommes International. He and Anna Wintour, editor-in-chief of American Vogue, were happily talking.

  Who is this guy?

  I turned my attention to the models as they strutted down the runway wearing oversized, plaid, floor-length dresses and wondered what artist’s muse had inspired this. Some country bumpkin? Stella was letting me down. Normally riveted by the clothes and theatrics, I stole another glance at the Vogue entourage and was startled to see him watching me. He nodded when I failed to look away quickly enough. Crap! Some region of my brain absorbed the fact that the models were parading the entire collection as a finale. Stella took her bow in front of the massive black fireplace and then quickly disappeared.

  Photographers and columnists rushed to the reception room. The rest of the masses took their time, for which I was grateful. What would I say to Sébastien, if our paths crossed? While we shuffled along, I attempted to participate in conversation, wanting to appear fully engaged, even as the antennae on the back of my head sought him out.

  I had just given up when I saw him kiss Tiziana’s cheek; she then introduced him to Ted. What the hell? I had plenty of time to ponder this thought as the sea of humanity converged, forcing our paths to collide. Tiziana smiled as I approached. “What did you think, bella? I loved all the color.”

  Maria Sharapova, who had stood beside Tiziana, answered, “The pieces were so wearable…” She continued talking, but I was too curious about Sébastien and how he knew Tiziana to listen.

  I was just about to ask how they knew each other when he greeted me. “Mademoiselle Ehlers, I am delighted to see you. How did you enjoy the show?” He leaned in to kiss me on both cheeks. “Did you see anything you must have?” My being here wasn’t a surprise to him. Why not?

  I saw four sets of eyebrows lift upwards. There was more than one way to get information. I took the direct route, beginning with, “I enjoyed the show very much. I see you know the Blackwells.”

  “Tiziana and I have been friends for years. I worked with her at Olivetti. How do you know each other?” He appeared equally curious.

  “We were at Oxford, studying business law together.” I felt curious eyes bounce back and forth between us.

  “I wonder how we haven’t met before.” He looked at Tiziana. “There was a time Tiziana was determined to introduce me to every available woman within fifty kilometers.” The suspicious grin he wore displayed his slightly crooked but amazingly white teeth.

  “Not true. I had a friend from Bologna come down for a weekend once.”

  He ignored her. “I’m just surprised! When I returned to Paris, you should have introduced me to Mademoiselle Ehlers.” His smile kept the mood light.

  “She is a very close friend, and you were a young Frenchman. Besides, you seem to know her now!” Her answer was delivered with a sultry laugh and a verbal slap on his wrist.

  Just then, Sting and Trudi Styler, Jessica Biel, and Jennifer Lawrence walked past us. While the girls w
ere gawking them, I bravely asked Sébastien why he wasn’t surprised to see me. “I Googled you.”

  What? You could Google me?

  Ted interrupted our conversation to introduce Sébastien to Liam.

  Tiziana corralled us. “How do we get them out of here? We need to get to Cité de L'Architecture et du Patrimoinel to see Sharon Wauchob.” I chuckled at Tiziana’s pronunciation; her Italian accent contorted some words almost beyond recognition.

  Marian shrugged, her upper lip tugged downwards. “He’s your fecking husband. Tell him to move his arse!”

  It was then that I saw them. “Is Des here?” Des was Ted’s best friend and international movie star extraordinaire.

  Tiziana shook her head. “No. He’s been in Canada, filming a movie. Why, bella?”

  I pointed to the two men hovering near Ted who looked remarkably like Des’s bodyguards. “Aren’t they Mr. NoNeck One and Mr. NoNeck Two?” We’d invented the nicknames for Des’s bodyguards when we’d first met him.

  Marian chuckled as she squinted at them, running her eyes up and down them. “Jaysus, the size of their…”

  “Shoulders,” Hillary inserted.

  Charlotte picked up the thread. “And their arms… and legs. Actually, I’ve always wondered how a penis on guys built like that looks.”

  I watched their gazes simultaneously flit to the musclebound men’s crotches. Tiziana came to her conclusion first. “I would think silly. Small. They don’t get bigger just because the man is more muscular.” She waved her hand around. “Anyway, they are Ted’s security. Besides, NoNecks are everywhere.”

  Ted was so low-key that, at times, I forgot that he needed bodyguards. He was in between jobs, having stepped down from his software company after making more money than God. I surveyed the room and found darkly dressed, cropped-haired, muscly men—who looked freakishly identical—scattered about the room. Apparently, he was in good company.

  Seeing my friends were happily distracted, I decided to make my exit. “Gotta run. I’ll see you soon.”