The chairlift began to climb steeply. I searched for Sébastien and spotted him easily. For Christmas, I had given everyone ski helmet covers. His was a red Mohawk. It was so incongruent with his natural elegance that I couldn’t resist it. Then I realized he was talking animatedly to a person wearing a jester’s hat. Des. How had they managed to run into each other? I hadn’t seen Des in line earlier. As we reached the summit, I said to Chantal, “Take off your helmet cover. Let’s hope your dad and Des think of it.” She immediately figured out why. Off came her pink dreadlocks, which she stuck inside her jacket.”
Nope. They didn’t think of it. So, as the two men stood off to one side, being photographed by paparazzi, Chantal and I took off down the hill. Out of the crush of skiers, I slid to a stop and waved Chantal over. I sent a text to Sébastien and told him to take off his helmet cover and meet us at the bottom. I hoped he didn’t tell Des to take his off, since I wanted the press to follow him. We’d figure that out next.
When we regrouped, I purposefully stood between father and daughter. “Everything okay?” I asked, wondering what he and Des had had to say to each other.
He nodded, his lips a bit tense and his brow a straight line. He looked at Chantal, who finally looked worried. He looked at me and saw my concern. “Everything is fine. Des apologized. I cannot believe he is so unprepared for such events. He…” He searched for words to vent his anger. Now was probably not the time to tell him about Chantal taking advantage of the attention, nor the fact that Des shouldn’t have to live under siege or spend his life surrounded by NoNecks. “Thank you, Kathleen. Undoubtedly you handled that better than I would have.” He leaned forward and kissed me gently.
Chantal thanked me, also. I couldn’t tell if the look of contrition was about facing her father when the photos hit print or because she had taken the situation too lightly. I quickly determined she felt guilty. She was too inexperienced to realize how far this could follow her. Oh, to be hunted by the press.
Sébastien advised his daughter, “Stay away from him for the rest of the day. Just ski with us.” She immediately agreed. I guessed none of us were happy about that. I had been looking forward to skiing with him, having some time alone, but was getting a taste of what being a stepmother could be like.
Halfway down the next run, Sébastien let Chantal blast past him and swooshed to a stop. I slid in close beside him, spraying his skis with snow. The sun glinted off his helmet as he gathered me close in his strong arms. I couldn’t see his eyes because of his sunglasses, but I could see the crinkles at the corners. A dimple came and went as he lowered his mouth to mine and kissed the breath out of me. Father or not, the man was smokin’.
***
Mum was still the word that evening. Hillary and Marian had fled to town to take in the nightlife, while the rest of us except for Chantal lounged around a blazing fire. She was upstairs indulging in a bath in one of the largest tubs I had ever seen. My eyes were riveted on the fire, watching the flames bounce and change color, while I kept track of the conversation.
Ted and Tiziana were planning their boat-renaming party for some time in August. When Charlotte asked her if they had come up with a name, Tiziana refused to reveal it. “It’s bad luck, bella. Only the ship’s captain can know. That is the tradition.”
Ted grinned at her. “Actually, the tradition has to do with the breaking the bottle of Champagne against the boat.”
Tiziana shot him a confused look. “Si?” He nodded. She shrugged and gave us a comical grin before relaxing against him once again.
“Where does that, the tradition, come from?” Liam wondered.
It was Sébastien who answered, “Legends say that it is to appease Poseidon, or Neptune, who rightfully names and protects all water vessels.”
Des, impressed and very eager to appease Sébastien, refilled wine glasses while asking, “How’d you know that, mate?”
“One of the perks of working for Condé Nast! I read the magazines.”
10:30 AM, Monday, December 28
Sure Enough
“MERDE. MERDE. FUCK!” I was shocked once again. Sébastien’s face was florid with anger. His eyebrows were angry slats above penetrating, nearly black eyes. He was spectacularly angry, and I knew why.
In a repeat of the day before, I kept a blank face and cautiously inquired what the problem was.
He shoved a hand through his hair and stated, “Chantal.” I felt relief that he laid the blame at her feet and not Des’s.
I gently pulled the paper from him and hissed at the headline: Des’s Nouvelle Grande Jeune Femme: Tasty Chou à la Crème Française. Literally translated: Des’s New Young Woman: A Tasty French Cream Puff. My jaw dropped. Just below it were pictures of Chantal striking a myriad of tried-and-true poses, some far too sexy for her to claim being caught off guard. I said nothing. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would comfort him or paint her in a better light.
“Why would she do this?”
I assumed it was a rhetorical question and gave him an “I have no idea” look, suggesting he go talk to her. He dropped a kiss on my head as he walked past me. I called after him, “She’s probably still asleep.”
“She won’t be for long.”
Not having seen this side of their relationship, I wasn’t sure how things would play out. I just hoped she was the only one to be awakened. Hillary and Marian had returned quite late from town, and a tired, hung-over Marian wasn’t something I would wish on anyone, let alone add to the tension between father and daughter.
I picked up my coffee and sipped cautiously as I flipped through the paper and put the matter out of my head. That is, until I saw page three, where a picture of a tearful but exquisitely beautiful woman taking long strides down the streets of Vancouver, Canada gained my attention. Well, that and the headline, Des Abandons Lover for Ski Bunny Teen.
Oh fuck. This was about to get bigger. I didn’t know how or why. I just knew that it would. I tore the page out of the paper, folded it up, and stuck it in my pocket.
***
A chagrined Chantal apologized to Des over breakfast. He waved off her apologies, clearly used to people taking advantage of his fame to get a few minutes in the spotlight. While she smiled at being so easily forgiven, Sébastien’s expression clearly said he wasn’t pleased, but he remained silent.
“Skiing today?” Hillary asked as she nibbled on toast and drank coffee.
“How about something completely different?” Des suggested snowshoeing. Immediately, he got quite a few takers.
“See, he’s trying,” I whispered to Sébastien. “He’s trying to protect them both and keep them out of the line of fire.”
I walked over to Des and said, “Snowshoeing is a great suggestion,” then continued softly, “I have something from the newspaper that I need to give to you.”
He frowned at me and nodded. “You can put it in my room.”
I gave him a smile for an answer and then called over my shoulder, “See you soon.”
I was standing in the shower when Sébastien entered the bathroom. “Are you going snowshoeing?” I asked.
His eyes traveled the length of me. “Only if you are. I can think of other things to do.” He stripped and stepped into the shower.
“Me, too,” I said against his mouth.
***
I lay on my side, staring out the window and watching snow fall, while Sébastien dozed behind me, his arm thrown across my waist. I found myself wondering how one conveys falling snow in a painting. I had painted some complex images when I was young but never attempted falling snow or rain. Wind blowing and objects caught in motion were much easier to paint, I imagined. That which was normally “looked through” seemed more challenging, since you would want people to look at the images beyond the rain and snow while having a sense of the precipitation, as well.
Sébastien’s wandering hand returned me to our bed. He pulled me up tightly against him. The feel of him undulating gently head to to
e against me left me breathless. His gentle hands caressed my breasts and belly. All of my most sensitive and tender flesh was aroused, so that I was left wantonly pushing back against him, wanting release. When it came, I opened my eyes and watched the snow fall gently, noting how peaceful it was, in comparison to the free fall one took when an orgasm ensued.
***
As we set about dressing, he walked to the dresser and pulled out the gorgeous lingerie he’d given me for Christmas, exquisite pieces from the Simone Pérèle collection. I took the bra from him and ran my fingers over the delicate lace and satin. Looking quite devilish, he handed me the matching thong. “Indulge me, chérie.”
At this, I raised an eyebrow. “I did. All afternoon. You prefer this to the other?” He had also given me a front-closing bustier that was cupless and narrowed at the waist. It was absolutely decadent, with black floral-embroidered guipure lace stitched onto pale blush Italian crepe, both dramatic and demure.
“This,” he said, caressing the bra, “will work better with your dress.” His intimate gesture made me blush.
Shyly, I admitted, “I’ve never worn a bustier before.”
He seemed pleased by my admission. He lowered his lips to mine and pulled me to him. Before passion could blossom beyond control, he gently released my lips, using his thumb to dry the moisture there and causing little bumps to erupt across the surface of my skin.
Squatting down, he looked up into my eyes. “Chérie, if I cannot be next to your skin, I would like this to be.” I stepped into the thong he held and swayed into him as he slid it up my legs. The gesture was intimate and exquisitely erotic.
Unable to resist him, I gently tugged his earlobe with my teeth and then whispered softly, “They are beautiful, and I would love to wear them for you… and for me!”
He brushed the back of his hand across my cheek, gently gliding over my upswept hair. “No man could conceive it possible that someone as enchanting as you has never received such a gift.”
Clutching the bustier to myself, I kissed him several times before confessing, “I only care that you gave them to me. I love them.”
“I am glad to share another first with you. I’ve never bought a woman lingerie,” he admitted.
***
Tiziana had arranged for a formal dinner at the chalet and requested that we all dress accordingly. Although it was not necessarily clothing I would wear to L’Arpège, I put on a beautiful, bright-blue Karl Lagerfeld cocktail dress. The Peter Pan collar and plunging neckline was just sexy enough. When packing, I had pondered my clothes carefully, since Chantal was with us. She’s twenty-one. Still, she lived in Paris. People wore sexier clothes to the grocery store. Sometimes.
In the living room, a fire crackled, and the heavenly scent of garlic and rosemary drifted in from the kitchen. Everyone was dressed beautifully, cocktails in hand. Immediately, I sensed celebration in the air.
Ted asked, “Kathleen, would you like a French 75?”
“I would love one.”
Sébastien took one and raised his glass while everyone followed suit. “To Kathleen, for climbing one step further up the ladder of success. And let us not forget Monsieur Detriche. May he enjoy a pleasant retirement, while Kathleen leads L’Oréal into the future.” They all cheered and whooped while my belly did somersaults. I beamed at their compliments, returning excited hugs and thanking them for their support.
“I’m so happy for you, bella. You are achieving your goal. But we knew you would. Someone should tell your new boss he had better be on his toes. His job is next!”
I laughed. Daniel Huse had nothing to be worried about. Despite my current state of happiness, I knew my time at L’Oréal was limited. I had set my mind to pulling my two halves together. It was just a matter of when.
8:30 AM, Tuesday, December 29
Baby Blues
“MERDE!” SÉBASTIEN SAID for the third morning in a row, as he sat down to read the paper.
This time, I sighed. “Now what?”
He tossed me the paper. Des Bannerman to be First-Time Father! was emblazoned in massive font across the top of a national tabloid. I quickly took my phone out of my pocket and looked up The Times’s arts section. “Oh. My. God.” It appeared to be true. There was a comment from Des’s publicist, acknowledging the relationship and pregnancy, but no due date or other facts, simply a request for privacy. I bolted out of the chair and ran upstairs to Des’s room, where I quietly knocked.
“Yes?”
He looked utterly exhausted, sitting in a chair by the window, his hair an unruly mess.
“Are you all right?” What else could I ask?
With a groan, he leaned forward in the chair and held his head in his hands. “I take it it’s in the paper.”
I confirmed his fear. “Your publicist kept it to a minimum.”
A deep, awful-sounding groan escaped him.
“What can I do?”
“Thanks, but I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do until the paternity test has been done.”
I squeezed his hand. “So, it might not be your baby? How far along is she?”
He sat upright and shrugged. “Six weeks. Barely. There is a chance, but to be fair, she’s utterly lovely. I cannot imagine her being like… that.”
“She’s the woman in yesterday’s paper?”
He nodded. “She is a caterer. Makes fabulous tabbouleh.” He snorted, erasing some of the tension in the room.
I heard someone clear his throat. Des and I looked up together to find the doorway crammed with concerned faces, Ted at the forefront. I rose to my feet as Ted walked in.
As I went to leave, he whispered, “Close the door, will you?”
As I pulled it shut behind me, Hillary said, “So, it’s true.”
I followed Des’s cue and said, “Early days. He’ll get it sorted out.”
In our room, Sébastien asked me what I knew. I told him about the photo in the previous day’s paper. “A hell of a way to find out one’s going to be a father,” he muttered.
“Makes it easier to forgive him for all the other stuff, doesn’t it, realizing his life is always under a microscope?”
“Yes, chérie, it does.”
I sat down on the loveseat in our room and patted the space beside me. “Sébastien, sit with me.”
As we sat side by side, staring out the window, I approached the one critical topic we had yet to discuss: children. I was nervous, really nervous, but the subject had been presented, and I needed to know where he stood on having children, more children.
As we watched snowflakes fall, I said, “Given recent history, you might think I’d been keeping this a secret, but I haven’t. I wanted to talk about this a long time ago, but, given all the upheaval and perhaps a certain amount of cowardice on my part, I haven’t asked. Sébastien, do you want more children?” My breath was tight in my chest as I waited for his answer, knowing the plummet to earth would hurt so much more after just getting things back on track.
Tears sprang to my eyes as the silence stretched between us. When he saw the storm of concern in my eyes, he gathered me to him. “Chérie, I wouldn’t have told you I loved you if I didn’t want to explore the future with you. Forgive me for giving in to stereotypes, but I assumed that you would want to have your own children, sooner or later. Do you?”
My head was nestled between his neck and shoulder, my hair tangled around my face, stuck in the dampness of my tears. I managed to say, “I don’t know when, but someday.”
I moved so that I could look at him easier. “I think you will understand this, because of Gisella. I loved Mikkel with absolute certainty. I had no doubts about our future together, but when he didn’t call me after leaving Seattle, I felt misled. When I learned he’d died, I was so ashamed of myself for having doubted he loved me. I was ashamed that I had thought so little of him, that I could believe he would use me for a summer fling. I spent so much time feeling that, it was only when I returned to England that I real
ized I might be pregnant. I took a pregnancy test. Two blue lines. I was pregnant.
“While I was absolutely terrified at the idea of being a single mother, I was thrilled to have a part of him still with me. Unfortunately, there were complications. After a mad dash to the emergency room, I was told nothing could be done. All the decisions were taken out of my hands. I had a miscarriage. The doctor said it might have been the stress or shock. I wasn’t far enough along that anything could be determined.”
He held me while I cried, while I mourned Mikkel, our child, my worries. He stroked my hair and murmured sweet things in my ear. When I calmed down, he left briefly, returning with a warm cloth and box of tissues. I patched myself up without looking at him. It wasn’t smeared mascara and a red nose I worried about.
“What are you thinking?”
He wiped the warm washcloth gently under my eyes, scrutinizing me as if to make sure he did a thorough job. “It takes a lifetime to reveal the details of one’s life to another. At least, I believe so. Right now, I feel sad. That time in your life was quite tragic, and you were alone during it.” His words turned my thoughts to the girls and their feelings of being shut out. When he had my full attention again, he said, “It doesn’t surprise me that it took you a long time to be willing to fall in love again. I’m just amazed that you fell in love with me.”
“You were so easy to fall in love with,” I whispered against his mouth.
He pulled back just a fraction, and I saw perfect happiness bloom across his perfect features. Warmth and tenderness rang clearly in his voice. “When we have babies together, I would love for them to have their mother’s eyes. One blue, one green. They would, from the very beginning, know how unique and incredible they are.”
Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Page 24