Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2)

by Celia Kennedy

  My heartbeat jumped at his tender glance and fluttered happily when he took my hand. It suddenly occurred to me that this was more like a first date. I found myself utterly beguiled by him and this gorgeous day.

  We wandered past the playground and down the main esplanade to where the six color-themed gardens were located. In the end, the most intriguing to me was the silver garden, with its wooden stepping stones, wide bands of nubby lavender cotton, sensuous lamb’s ear, and spikey icicle plant, all growing beneath a low canopy of silver maples. It was all that was elegant in a garden: a beautiful pairing of calming colors and intriguing textures.

  Toward the river was the wild garden where wildflowers, bamboo, and shrubs grew in a dense mass. There, a passel of children played hide-and-seek. Sébastien suggested sitting down on a large rock tucked amongst the taller rushes.

  A petite little girl shouted, “Ready or not, here I come,” and then darted out stealthily, prowling about the overgrowth, looking for playmates.

  “She’s pretty fast,” I observed.

  “Oui, very impressive.” It didn’t take too long for someone else to be tagged “it.”

  “Are you ready to go? Or would you like to wander some more?”

  With a quick glance at my watch, I saw that it was time to head home, if we were going to change before the Galliano showing. Part of me wanted to leave; part of me was very content to sit still amongst the easy laughter of the children. Before I came to a decision, he nudged me. “Un centime for your thoughts.”

  “They’re worth much more than that,” I teased. “I was just trying to decide if I really wanted to go home and change… Or even go, for that matter. I suddenly feel quite done with fashion week.”

  He looked at his clothes then said, “It would be much easier to not attend. You look beautiful, as always. I, on the other hand, must change.”

  Smiling, I asked, “Do you have to go?”

  My blood fizzed inside me when he gave me a drop-dead sexy smile before kissing me. I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him close. When he answered, his warm breath skipped across my skin. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. Selfishly, I cannot help but think that, if you go, then I can see you.”

  “So, you’re a ‘have your cake and eat it, too’ kinda fella.”

  I slid my fingers into his hair and received an encouraging moan. He brushed the tip of his nose across my cheekbone, caressing me, as his hands pulled me closer. “Oui, chérie, I am.”

  I sighed dramatically, tugging his hair just a little, “Okay, let’s go change.”

  He gave me a smoldering glance. “We should have left just a bit earlier.” Then, he gave me a kiss that made the world fade away. I wiggled provocatively against him, my body saying “yes,” while my brain reminded me, “not here.” Feeling me squirm, he raised his head and took pity on me. “I feel the same, chérie. Fortunately, we have so much time, once this week is over.”

  Flustered, I nodded as I pushed myself off the rock and brushed away any debris clinging to my skirt.

  From close, very close, behind me, he told me, “You have little pieces of grass on your skirt. If you’d allow me…?”

  “I’m not going to have you fondling my posterior in public,” I flirtatiously tossed over my shoulder. Smiling, I thought to myself, I kinda hoped he would. I was enjoying getting to know him.

  ***

  At Belleville Station, as we climbed the stairs, he glanced at me alluringly. “Would you like to share what you bought at Cadolle?”

  I smiled. I had been wondering if he was going to ask. “Tell you? Or literally share, as in model? Tiziana bought several things, of course.”

  “I’m happy for Ted. Did you not buy anything? You love beautiful clothes.”

  “Is there an equivalent store for men?” I wanted to distract him, hoping to keep my purchases a surprise for another day.

  He spoke without pausing. “Close, but not exactly.”

  “Well, let me tell you a little story about men and their underwear,” I said to divert him.

  Gaining his full attention, I told him with the tale of Charlotte’s brush with fame. Once we got past my defining the term “celebrity crush” (Des had been Charlotte’s), I told him about how we’d spied Ted and Des at a casino in Chamonix a few years earlier. When I described using Tiziana as bait to get Ted’s attention, his eyes lit up with laughter. Once Tiziana had Ted’s attention, we’d made sure that Charlotte was on hand, so he could introduce her to Des. Charlotte and Des paid heavily for spending an evening together in the casino. They had been hounded by the paparazzi for a few days; unfortunate photos and lurid headlines were splattered across tabloids around the world. I quickly finished my story as we arrived at my apartment. Amidst the questions, laughter, and relief at the outcome, he seemed thoroughly entertained.

  “That is a great story! It explains why Des turned up at their apartment.” He laughed some more, then added, “Chantal loves him, of course.”

  Speaking about his daughter completely changed the direction of my thoughts. Because he had Chantal and had talked about Gisella to her, he seemed healed, comfortable even. Me, on the other hand, I was still coming to terms with the fact that I had finally shared the story of me and Mikkel with my friends and yet didn’t know if I would ever become comfortable enough to throw his name out there in everyday conversation.

  He pulled me out of my thoughts when he pressed a kiss to my lips. “See you soon.”

  I stretched up and whispered against his mouth, “I’ll be ready.”

  The Princess and McQueen

  After John Galliano’s show was McQueen.

  Since Alexander McQueen’s death, Sarah Burton had been the visionary at McQueen. This season, she made a dramatic shift away from what had been done in the past. Most significant to the collection were Burton’s historical references: collar frills that could rival any found in Henry VIII’s court and corseted homages to Victorian silhouettes, complete with dangling tendrils of hair. I immediately thought of Pride and Prejudice.

  Where was the edgy avant-garde attire? We’d come to see the elaborate and theatrical. Where was the House of McQueen heading? I found myself very disappointed. Most of my favorite designers had struck out this season, as far as I was concerned.

  “Well… that was a bit of a letdown,” Marian sighed.

  I nodded in agreement. “A big one.”

  “This was supposed to be the grand finale, the tour de force!” Tiziana proclaimed morosely. Apparently she wasn’t a fan of Sarah Burton’s collection either.

  “What are you talking about? It was marvelous.” Well, at least Hillary had fallen in love with Sarah Burton.

  Grimacing as she shrugged into her coat, Marian informed Hillary, “That was not Alexander McQueen. Do you think we’ll ever see the likes of him again?”

  Charlotte assured her that, somewhere in the world, there was someone as great as Alexander McQueen, about to take the fashion world by storm. “God, I hope so,” I muttered. It seemed ridiculous, but I felt sad. I missed Alexander McQueen. I never thought of him without feeling sad about his death. Poor Sarah. What a tough act to follow.

  Wanting to change the subject and shrug off my mood, I focused on food. “What are the plans for dinner?” Everyone shrugged their shoulders. There were no dinner plans. Our last night in Paris together, and there were no dinner plans. We looked one to the other, disbelieving, and then laughed.

  “Options! We need options, Kathleen.” Marian clapped her hands together, chop-chop. Sébastien and I were brainstorming when a huge smile spread across Hillary’s face. Aksel Pedersen was making his way over, clearly the man behind the sparkle in her eye, bounce in her walk, and all that business.

  While I watched them talk, I felt Sébastien grow tense. Whatever had happened between the two men must have been big. Earlier, while he and I had strolled around the gardens, I had tried to think of a way to broach the subject and hadn’t succeeded. Most of our time together had been
with other people, or our libidos had been in control. In the two days since Bethany’s show and my meeting Aksel, our relationship had taken giant leaps forward. But I was uncertain how he’d feel about me bringing it up. He had kept the matter to himself. If the girls hadn’t seen his reaction to Aksel and me talking, I might have never known. He had clamped down on his feelings for Aksel Pedersen, and I’d been left thinking I needed to respect his privacy.

  I went back to casting my mental net over the immediate surrounds, to see if I could think of somewhere we could go without a reservation. It being Sunday night at 10:00 pm made this tricky. My whirling brain came to a screeching halt when Hillary happily offered a solution. “Aksel and some friends are having a party on the private rooftop terrace you were talking about earlier, Kathleen. He’s invited all of us to join them. What do you say?”

  I darted a glance at Sébastien. He kept his expression neutral while thinking it over. He must have decided he could handle the situation, because he said, “We have a solution.”

  ***

  The last time I stood inside the rooftop garden, it had been midsummer, for a work event, and there had been absolutely no romance in the air. Tonight, everything was different. Well, not the view. The Tuileries and the Louvre still felt like they were within touching distance. The Eiffel Tower beamed to the southwest of us, and, much closer, the Arc de Triumph was ablaze with lights. As for romance, it felt romantic. The mood was set by quiet music; lowlights cast the potted topiary trees and dense railing hedge into deep shadow, perfectly framing the distant views. Elegantly dressed people, most of whom I didn’t know, milled around, holding glasses of wine and quietly murmuring; occasionally, there was a cackle of laughter.

  Behind me, Sébastien rested his hands on my shoulders and discreetly nuzzled my ear. I was warmly wrapped in a knee-length, silver-fox coat, but his body encircling me added delicious intimacy. We stood quietly and absorbed our amazing surroundings.

  He turned me so that I stood within his embrace. “Chérie, I have a favor to ask.”

  The timber of his voice was low and melodic. The faint rumble made my knees weak. I steadied myself, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Yes. Anything.”

  “The next time we are alone, would you wear just the coat? I have a feeling, a very erotic one, that it would be quite… satisfying.” His lips hovered teasingly just above mine, the flint on the tip of a match just a whisper away. Softly and fleetingly, he pressed his lips against mine in between each word, “If only we were alone.”

  I nodded vaguely, as I imagined me, naked in the fur, with him pulling me against him. My breath hitched in my throat, and the apex of my thighs ached. I stood lost in my fantasy, until I felt his heat, his physical reaction, move against me. Knowing we were surrounded by people, I endeavored to slow my breathing, while I pretended to mull over his request. When I thought I had myself under control, I attempted to answer. With my limited skill at sensual banter, I replied, “The coat and I have to talk about it.”

  He lowered his head, nudging aside the fur so that his lips brushed my collarbone, buried deep within the coat. The cold air hitting his moist kiss sent ripples across my skin. He must have felt me shiver, because he lifted his lips just enough to ask, “Have I convinced the coat?”

  I gyrated a little. “The coat is in. I, however, wonder what I will get out of this.”

  Sébastien raised his head further. Riveted on his full lips, I watched his perfect mouth say, “Always the negotiator.”

  I raised my brow and leaned further into him, giving up appearing unaffected. “But of course.”

  Not caring who was nearby, he lowered his lips to mine and gave me a long and deeply arousing kiss that left me gasping for breath and aching in all the most wonderful places.

  “And now?” he eventually asked.

  “Still thinking,” I answered.

  He tossed his head back and chuckled, while holding me tightly in his arms. Always happy to see him laugh, I felt charged. I swayed, brushing intimately against him, and felt his body shudder. I trembled in response.

  “How about we split the dry cleaning bill?”

  “Ah, chérie, you drive a hard bargain, but we have an arrangement.” He chuckled in my ear.

  “I believe we do.” My voice was muffled as I nipped gently on his neck.

  Marian made her way to us. “Join the party, you two. I need a translator.”

  “Ah, so quickly to the heart of the matter,” Sébastien observed drily.

  “Okay, who’s the guy? That is always at the heart of the matter,” I asked her while keeping my eyes focused on Sébastien.

  Marian inclined her head in the direction of the bar, where a group of elegantly dressed men stood talking. “The blond guy in the navy suit.”

  We strolled to the bar and introduced ourselves in French then explained Marian didn’t speak French. The group of men were a warm and friendly group. They happily switched to English. To their credit, their English was terrible, but, with one sultry bat of Marian’s eyelashes, the blond in the blue suit appeared willing to do whatever it took to keep her attention.

  The mood changed when Hillary and Aksel made their way over. When Sébastien and Aksel shook hands, I noted they were cordial enough but Sébastien was still not his easygoing self. I gave him a questioning glance, which he answered by smiling at me.

  I collected myself and thanked Aksel for letting us crash his party.

  “It is my pleasure. Now we have many more distinguished and beautiful guests in our party. We are the fortunate ones. I will leave Ms. Cavendish with you while I see to things. I was dreading leaving her alone—someone else would have swept in and tried to woo her.” His kind response added to my confusion about what could be going on between him and Sébastien.

  Extracting a promise from Hillary that she would save a seat beside her, he disappeared into the crowd. Hillary announced demurely, “He is interested in discussing some ideas I have, particularly one I am having trouble getting off the ground. With his backing…” She continued on while I puzzled over Sébastien’s response to Aksel.

  When we entered the dining area, I saw Ted and Tiziana entrenched in conversation with a power couple, so I steered clear of them. Liam hovered around Charlotte, who was sitting in a corner, looking miserable. Marian and Gérard, the blond in the blue suit, were lost in their own little world, which was about to be intruded upon by a couple I hadn’t met. I spotted four seats at the nearest end of the table and went to claim them for Charlotte, Liam, Sébastien, and me. “Want to grab these and I will go get Charlotte and Liam?”

  “Grab them?” Sébastien teased.

  Sometimes I literally translated slang into French, and it often didn’t work. “Take them, claim them, or lay yourself across them—whatever!” I teased back, happy he was himself again.

  As I approached, I asked Charlotte, “All right? Want to eat?”

  Before she could answer, Liam responded, “No, she’s not. I want to take her back to the apartment, but she doesn’t want to be a bother. Tell her it’s okay to leave, Kathleen.”

  The week had clearly been too much for her, for them. I sat down next to her and held her hand, looking into her watery eyes with compassion, “Charlotte, you should be looking after yourself and that baby. Get some sleep while you can. I promise, we’ll all be together again soon, celebrating your baby!” Her smile of acquiescence was soggy.

  She wiped away a few escaped tears. “Okay.” She stole a glance toward the dining room.

  “Go. I’ll say goodbye for you. Everyone understands,” I said before worry could set in again.

  When I made it back to the table, I found Hillary and Aksel sitting with Sébastien. She wore a quizzical expression. I explained Charlotte and Liam’s departure then took in the ambiance. “Beautiful.”

  As I shrugged out of my coat, Sébastien seized the opportunity to help me. We shared a playful glance over the silky fur before I asked quietly, “Everything okay?”
<
br />   He nodded. “Everything is fine. How about you?” Clearly referring to Charlotte and Liam’s departure, I nodded.

  Dinner. Five courses divinely prepared and carefully paired with wine. A pianist, somewhere out of view, serenaded us with tasteful grace, moving effortlessly between Gershwin, Duke Ellington, and even a little Puccini, while waiters with impeccable skills tirelessly toiled. Hillary and Aksel talked about everything under the sun. Conversation flowed around Marian and Gérard, who were focused solely on each other, and Tiziana and Ted were in the middle of what could only be described as a very animated conversation.

  Sébastien and me? I wouldn’t say you could hear a pin drop, but just about. The piano was a little too loud for that. I left him to cogitate while I plotted. Talking didn’t appear to be on his agenda, but maybe I could get his attention another way.

  I cast a glance around the room, and, seeing that things were relatively dark and discreet and that Hillary and Aksel had quite forgotten us, I slipped my foot out of my shoe and scooted it up his pant leg. I watched as he first looked startled and then took delight as an aroused gaze warmed his expression.

  His eyes locked onto mine. I bit my lip as his eyelids fluttered shut and he lifted my foot to his lap. I slid down in my chair a bit. A groan escaped me when he trailed his fingers along my leg. He gently circled my ankle before a single finger ran from my heel, across the arch of my foot, to the end of my toe.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a waiter approach, and when I went to pull my foot away, his eyes snapped open as he clamped down on it. While he and the waiter talked wine, I circled my ankle, curious to see how far he would let my seduction go. He moved my foot to rest between his legs. Quite far, I decided, as I contemplated my next move.

  One little flick of my foot, and I had his full attention. I ignored the waiter and met Sébastien’s lust filled gaze. He turned back to the waiter and told him to bring more wine. He hadn’t stilled my foot. Instead, he eased forward, allowing my foot to fit more snugly against him.