Love Redesigned

by Collins, Sloane B.

  Beside her, Roman stiffened, and his hand clenched around hers under the table. He leaned close to her, his jaw tense.

  “I’m so sorry. I had no idea she was invited.”

  “What do you—”

  The host spoke again. “Please help me welcome Patrice Toussaint.”

  The applause became a dull roar in her ears, and she wanted to sink into the floor and die.

  She walked out from behind the curtain and stood at the podium. Not a silver hair out of place on her perfectly coiffed head. The evil she-wolf turned to Roman and they shook hands. Patrice leaned forward as if to kiss him, but he subtly sidestepped. Her glance fell on Genevieve. Recognition dawned, and her gray eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, and she detected a crack in Patrice’s icy facade.

  They hadn’t spent much time around each other back in the Paris days, but she could tell the older woman had wanted him for her own little toy.

  Patrice had been a cougar before the term was coined.

  Calculating the passing years, she guessed Patrice had to be in her mid-fifties by now. The woman oozed elegance, poise, and sophistication. She was cool under pressure, determined to have everyone kowtow to her.

  But this devil always wore Chanel.

  Patrice began speaking, her voice low and modulated. “I first met Roman when he was a young man of seventeen, at the home of his aunt, and my dear friend. He was always drawing in a sketchbook, his head buried in it for hours. I finally had the opportunity to see what he worked so diligently on, and I was amazed at his talent for designing clothes. As his aunt and uncle entertained, he would linger in a corner, and draw the guests. But the clothing he always altered, with subtle lines, or variations on the color and silhouette.”

  Patrice laid her hand on his shoulder, and Genevieve wanted to yank it off him.

  “I finally asked him one time why he always changed the clothing on guests. He explained the changes made the women look better, more elegant, more refined. And he was inevitably correct. I encouraged him to begin designing clothes on his own, incorporating his own ideas. I once had to attend an important tea at the Palais Royale, and asked him what I should wear. He designed the perfect outfit for me, and I was the best-dressed woman there. I eventually encouraged him to attend the Paris Fashion Institute for formal training, and once he graduated, I dropped a few words to a design house, and launched him on his career in fashion. And the rest is history!” The audience rose again for another ovation as Roman stood to accept his award.

  So proud of him it hurt, and as much as it galled her to admit it, he wouldn’t be where he was today without Patrice. And she herself might never have met him in Paris.

  At the end of the dinner, people swarmed Roman, congratulating him on the award. The models all flocked to him, and he greeted each one warmly, and by name. They were all beautiful, tall, elegant, and exotic.

  What the hell is he doing with me? Jealous spikes darted up and down her spine, surprising her with the intensity.

  Pushed away from him by the throng, she signaled to him she’d be back.

  He nodded and continued talking to the people surrounding him.

  She headed toward the restroom, but turned back to glance at him. He stood head and shoulders above the crowd. So handsome. He took his celebrity in stride, as at ease in the crowd as he was when alone.

  Pushing open the door to the ladies room, she was relieved to see no one. At last, a quiet refuge from the crush of people and photographers. She settled on one of the cushioned stools in front of the mirror to repair her lipstick. Pulling her smart phone out of her bag, she scrolled through the emails, hoping to see the one she’d been waiting for all month. Still nothing.

  The door opened, and someone walked in, sitting a couple of stools down from her.

  “Georgina, isn’t it?”

  Dammit, she knew that silky voice. She’d just had to listen to it gushing about Roman and how she’d discovered him.

  “No. It’s Genevieve,” she corrected Patrice, icy disdain evident. “Not that you’ll remember it five seconds from now.”

  “My. You’ve grown some claws over the years, haven’t you?”

  Genevieve slipped her phone back in her purse and snapped it closed as she stood up to leave.

  “You do realize you’re only a novelty, do you not? A fling from his past?”

  Her hand froze on the doorknob. “Excuse me?”

  Patrice continued. “You would have held him back from the brilliant career he was destined for. He would not be the man he is if you had stayed. Do you really think you will fit into his world now? You may be dressed up this evening, but we both know you are not right for him. What do you want? Money? Is that why you came back?”

  Genevieve’s hand itched to slap the cotton stuffing out of the older woman, and the rage roaring through her was as foreign to her as a teetotaler at the VFW Hall on St. Patrick’s Day.

  She rounded on Patrice. “You bitch,” she said, her voice low. “I know you were responsible for discovering Roman and encouraging his talent, and it’s because of you he got his chance to become a designer. But you couldn’t leave it at that. We know you lied just to break us up. You wanted him for yourself. Well fat lot of good it did you. You caused more damage than you’ll ever know.” Opening the door to leave, she made sure to close it quietly, and not slam it.

  Leaning against the wall, she shook, unable to control the tremors. I’ve never spoken to anyone that way. My mama would be ashamed of me. Or maybe not, considering the damage Patrice did to us.

  A group of women were heading her way, and she needed to leave. She pushed off the wall and headed for the elevator. She kept her gaze lowered and didn’t make eye contact. The long ride to their floor only prolonged the agony of knowing Patrice was right.

  She was nobody, and he was better off without her.

  Roman opened the door to the suite and scanned the opulent room, near frantic after realizing Genevieve had been gone well over half an hour. He checked the small kitchen, then headed toward her bedroom. As he opened the door, he heard the water running in the bathroom, and relief warred with guilt. He should have noticed much earlier she hadn’t returned to the ballroom, but the number of people he had to speak to kept him distracted.

  Steam fogged the mirror, and he loosened his tie. He grinned. Why not join her in the shower? His body tightened, thinking about running his hands over her soap-slicked body. He slipped his jacket, tie, shoes, and socks off, anxious to hold her again.

  Unbuttoning his shirt, he opened the frosted glass door, and almost reeled back in shock. She crouched on the floor in the corner of the shower as the water streamed over her. Her hands covered her face and her shoulders were shaking.

  “Genevieve! What is it? What is wrong?” He stepped into the shower, cool water pelting him. He shut the water off, and knelt before her. He ran his hands over her lightly, checking for injuries.

  She looked up at him, startled, her eyes rimmed in red from crying. She hiccupped. “You’re . . . getting y-your clothes . . . w-wet,” she said, her breath hitching.

  “It does not matter. You matter. Please, tell me what is wrong.” He picked her up in his arms, holding her shivering body close to his warmth. He stepped out of the shower and snagged a towel off the rack. He set her down gently on the low bench and wrapped the towel around her shoulders. Grabbing another towel, he gently squeezed the excess water from her hair.

  “I had . . . a run-in with Patrice in the l-ladies room.” She wiped her eyes on the towel.

  Rage flared hot, and his jaw clenched around the vitriol he wanted to spew. He inhaled, fighting for calm. Inhaled again. It would not do any good to lose his temper with her already so upset. “Are you all right?” He shook his head. “Eh, stupíde! Of course you are not. What did that chienne say to yo
u?”

  She half-smiled through her tears. “I lost a lot of the French you taught me, but I do remember that word. I already called her that in plain old English.”

  He grinned. “Good for you, my love. She deserved it, and more. I would like to wring her neck.”

  “You mean her scrawny, over-botoxed, plastic surgery neck?”

  He could see the effort she was making to make him feel better. He stood and helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you dried off and to bed.” He removed the towel from her shoulders and started drying her off.

  She leaned against him. She had to be weak from sitting in the shower so long.

  His protective instincts took over. He went slowly, rubbing the soft towel over her, not to seduce, but to comfort.

  Her eyes closed, and she sighed.

  Reaching her stomach, he noticed a long scar across her abdomen he had not noticed earlier when making love with her in the darkened bedroom. He knelt down to look closer, and chills raced through him, freezing his blood.

  “Mon Dieu! What happened to you?” He looked up to meet her horrified gaze.

  She grabbed the towel from him and clutched it to her front. She backed away from him.

  He followed her, held her shoulders to stop her. “Tell me.” He fought to keep his voice gentle. “What happened to you?”

  She started shaking again, her teeth chattering, and the tremors scared him. He grabbed the fluffy, thick hotel robe off the hook and wrapped her in it. Once she was bundled in the robe, he picked her up and carried her to her bedroom. He sat on the chaise longue in the corner, and held her on his lap.

  “You do not have to tell me. But just know I am here for you.” He pulled her close, stroked her back, hoping to soothe her. Willing her silently to tell him what had happened to her.

  “I was in a car accident,” she said, her voice quiet.

  His hands tightened on her, and he breathed until he could calm down. “When?”

  “Fifteen years ago.”

  His eyes closed. It must have happened after she returned to the States.

  “About two weeks after I returned from Paris, I wasn’t feeling well, so I went to the doctor. I found out I was . . . p-pregnant, about t-ten weeks along.”

  A child? His head spun, and shock raced through him, numbing him. “We have a child?” he croaked, his throat parched.

  “No.” Her voice broke. “I’m so . . . so sorry,” she sobbed.

  “I don’t understand. What happened to it?”

  “The doctor told me I was pregnant, and even though I was in shock . . . I was ecstatic. I couldn’t wait to tell you I was having your baby. As I told you yesterday, I called you . . . Patrice answered. I was h-heartbroken . . . she was h-horrible. I wasn’t thinking straight. I had to get to the hospital. Dad was scheduled for another surgery. I was numb, in shock. There was a terrible thunderstorm, flooding in the streets. The car hydroplaned, and . . . and crashed . . . into a t-tree. I was pinned . . . behind the wheel, until someone f-found me and called 911.”

  Tears slid down her face, and he wrapped his arms tighter around her.

  Terror lodged in his throat, and he fought to catch his breath. She could have died. Helpless and alone. I should have been there with her.

  “There was so much damage from the accident. I almost died. My b-baby . . . our baby girl . . . didn’t . . . couldn’t make it. I had to have a . . . h-hysterectomy.”

  Grief edged out the shock. He wanted to rage at the world. He’d almost lost her, and he’d lost his child. Our child.

  She sobbed against his shoulder. The sound tore him apart, and he felt helpless. What could he do?

  She clutched his arm. He’d have to be strong . . . for her. He would give in to his own grief later.

  “If only I hadn’t been driving, I’d still have h-her today. I would’ve h-had a piece of you in my life. Even after l-losing you.”

  “I’m so sorry, so sorry. I could kill Patrice right now. I’m so thankful you survived. I hate you had to go through this alone. Was your father supportive? I know he was in the hospital, but was he there for you?”

  Her breath hitched, and she shook her head. “I never told him. He was out of it for days, and by then I was starting to recover. I couldn’t add more stress to him while he was recovering. Daniel was th-there for me, though.”

  Jealousy, rage, and grief sliced through him, cutting his heart into pieces. I should have been there for her. For her and my baby. He closed his eyes as a wave of pain engulfed him.

  “No one else knows, just Daniel. And now you.”

  “Not even your cousin?”

  “No, she was too young, and this wasn’t something I wanted to share with anyone. The grief was too raw. I had to take it a day at a time just to stay sane. I buried myself in work and taking care of Dad.”

  “You said it was a girl?” His voice cracked. But he had to be strong. For her. He hadn’t been there for her fifteen years ago, but he would be now.

  She nodded against his shoulder. “I named her Catherine Paris Haywood. Catherine for my mom, and Paris because of where I found you.”

  He held her, until her breathing evened out and she relaxed into sleep, worn out from the emotions she’d experienced. She had lost so much, been through too much in her young life. All these years he had blamed her for a lie. He’d hardened his heart to her, trying to forget her, and all that time, she’d been suffering alone.

  He vowed he would do whatever he could to help her, to make it up to her, as much as he could. Whatever she needed . . . and please God, let it be me.

  Chapter 12

  The next afternoon, Genevieve looked for Connie Sue to ask her a question about the cupcakes for the shower that night. She leaned against the wall outside the ballroom, so bone-tired she hurt. Reliving her nightmare the evening before had wiped her out completely. She’d never wanted him to know what happened. But now he knew.

  He’d been so distant on the flight back to St. Armand. Yes, he’d been solicitous, taking care of her in little ways, but it felt like the ocean that separated them was even wider and deeper now. She shouldn’t have slept with him, or told him about the accident. Why did she leap from one mistake to the next?

  The door to the ballroom opened, and Connie Sue rushed out.

  Genevieve pushed off the wall and stopped her cousin. “Hey, Cuz, got a question for you. Do you want the cupcakes out on the table during the shower, or brought out later?”

  “Um, I think on the table. I want everyone to see your gorgeous cakes right away. Who knows? You may end up getting enough business from my wedding you’ll have to move here.”

  Genevieve rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. I’m starting to build a small following at home. I don’t want to risk it.” She turned to head back to the kitchen, but Connie Sue grabbed her hand.

  “Wait. You have got to see Melly and Bella in their flower girl dresses. Roman is doing their fitting right now, and they are just precious. I left my phone in the office, so I’m going to call Francois to get over here for this. I’m also going to get the camera. Toodles!”

  Genevieve grinned, and opened the door to the ballroom quietly so she wouldn’t disturb the little girls and their fitting.

  They were both standing on the platform, holding still, staring at themselves in the mirror. Roman knelt behind them fiddling with the tulle skirt on one of them—she didn’t know which twin she was yet.

  Connie Sue was right. They are too cute for words!

  He sat back on his haunches. “Well, ladies. Do you like your dresses?”

  Melly and Bella turned around and launched their little bodies at him. He grabbed them close so they wouldn’t fall off the platform.

  “Merci, Oncle Roman! Nous sommes comme des princesses!” Their excited
chatter filled the cavernous room, echoing off the walls.

  She smiled. She recognized the word ‘princesses’, their current favorite game to play, according to Connie Sue.

  Each little girl kissed him on the cheek. His arms tightened around them. He held them close, and one of the girls squeaked.

  She glanced at his reflection in the mirror.

  Grief was etched on his face, heavy shadows beneath his eyes. He’d taken care of her the night before, been strong for her.

  Her heart constricted. She recognized grief—it’s what she had lived with every day for fifteen years. And he had just found out last night.

  She couldn’t bear to talk to him right now. It would only upset Melly and Bella. She quietly closed the door, and sank onto the chair in the hallway. She bent over, dropping her face into her hands and tried hard to stem the tears as they leaked through her fingers.

  She had cried more on this trip than she had in the last several years.

  “Are you slacking, Sugar?” Daniel asked, laughing.

  She looked up, startled.

  He hurried over to her. “What is it? What’s wrong? Why are you crying? You’re pale as my white duvet.”

  “Sorry. I was just . . . Roman . . .” She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose.

  “What did Frenchie do now?” he ground out.

  “He didn’t do anything. He’s got the twins in the ballroom. They’re trying their dresses on, and he was hugging them. It was the most precious thing, and it damn near broke my heart.”