Stefan sniffed and pressed his glass against his mouth.
I looked at him, curious about the sudden silence. My eyes narrowed. “What?” I asked.
“What, what?”
I rested my glass down and twisted on the barstool until I was looking in Stefan’s face. I pointed at his eyes. “What’s that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Stefan, your eyes are doing that thing they do when you have something to tell me when you really don’t want to.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I stared at him.
“Okay, don’t get mad,” he said.
I stretched my neck and folded my arms.
“You’re getting mad already,” he accused me. “I can see it!”
“I’m not getting mad,” I said. “It’s just the last time you said don’t get mad, I was busting my balls trying to fix the problem you’d created.”
“What? Come on, Dyl, you’re exaggerating.”
I leaned forward. “Really? So you saying don’t get mad, and then me having to pull on my client – who shall continue to remain nameless, by the way - to prevent your ass from getting smoked by those Italian gangsters is exaggerating?”
“You didn’t have to go there,” he said sheepishly. “You always go too far...”
“I’m just saying, you know I hate when you say that,” I warned him.
“Okay, you have a point, but this is nothing like that,” he assured me, “and the only reason I didn’t tell you is because it didn’t matter. I handled it.”
“Handled what?”
“And it still doesn’t matter,” he said slowly, “but I’m going to tell you anyway because you deserve to know.”
I stared at him, waiting for him to spit out whatever it was.
Stefan lowered his head as if he was about to release classified information. “About two months ago, your boy called me to do an investigation.”
I looked at him. “Who the hell is my boy?”
“The intern. The one who’s a he.”
“Hanson?”
Stefan nodded.
“An investigation? On who?” I demanded.
“On Laila Renaud. On you.”
I froze.
“He wanted to know who she was seeing and what she was up to.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
Stefan shook his head.
My eyes narrowed. I sat forward. “And you’re just telling me this?” I pounded my fist on the counter. “Why are you just telling me this? This guy has been investigating Laila - and me - which means he knew that I was screwing her the whole damn time?”
“See, I knew you would be upset and that’s why I didn’t tell you right away,” Stefan said, patting the space between us. “I handled it, Dylan.”
“What do you mean, you handled it?”
“Instead of passing the investigation off to one of my guys the way I normally would have, I handled it personally. I met with him a couple of times and gave him some random pictures of you and Laila to throw him off your scent.”
My eyes tracked Stefan as he reached into his bag and pulled out an envelope. A label with a case number was stuck across its front. I grabbed it from him. When I opened it, there were pictures of me and Laila: in my office and in Paris. “What the fu—”
“Okay, you’re angry and I can see that...” Stefan was touching my shoulder, “but Hanson never got these. These are the pictures I kept.” He paused. “For both professional and personal reasons...” His head tilted to one of the photos I was holding and his face distorted. “God-damn, Dyl. When you said ochre, I didn’t know you meant ochre. This girl is blazing!”
I rubbed my brow.
“Is that what you were working with?”
“This isn’t a joke, Stef.”
“Well, I can see that.” He was still staring at the picture of me and Laila in Paris.
I shoved the photos back into the envelope. “How did you even get these?”
“That’s what I do, Dyl. I’m a private investigator. Hopping a flight to Paris isn’t a big deal. And besides, it was easy getting access to your office and setting up a few cameras. These are the perks of being the CEO’s BFF.”
“I’m gonna need to have a conversation with my secretary,” I muttered. “So what was his plan? What was he trying to do?”
“He was trying to take Laila down. He wanted proof that she was she was violating the terms of her internship agreement. He was also planning on getting evidence of you sleeping with a student. It was a case of if-I-can’t-have-her-no-one-will.” Stefan shrugged. “He was very persistent. It took some time, but I talked him off the ledge. Of course, he wasn’t satisfied until I’d given him some tangibles. That’s why I had to take these.” He pointed to the envelope.
I ran my hand over my face. Steam was lifting from my skull.
“Of course, he had no clue he was soliciting the services of the CEO’s best friend, but if I was you, I’d get rid of him. He’s a snake. You can’t have someone like that working for you. I would also venture to say that Miss Renaud should think twice about being involved with someone like him. The guy is heartless, and he doesn’t care about her. All he cares about is winning. He said he loved her, but, how could he? He was going to ruin her and take the spoils for himself.”
Just like he’d done in my office when he accepted a fulltime position.
“I agree,” I said. “He needs to be taught a lesson. I’m not one of his peers from Johnson and Wales.”
“Precisely,” Stefan agreed, “which is why I came up with another plan.” Stefan pulled out another envelope with a case number on it. “Take a look at this.”
Chapter Thirty
Dylan
‘Durand Original’
I stared at the business card Durand had given me through the dim-lighting of my office, rolling it back and forth through my fingers. I had been looking at it for at least thirty minutes, trying to build up the courage to call the number embossed on the bottom. I pressed my back against my leather seat and leaned back. I glanced at my watch. It was just after midnight, which meant it was early morning in France. I wondered if Monsieur Durand was awake but knew there was only one way to find out.
I picked up the phone and paused only for a second, before punching in the digits. I rose from my chair and started pacing.
Durand answered after a few rings. “Bonjour.”
“Good morning, Monsieur Durand. This is Dylan Hamilton. You might not remember me. My lady and I were in Roussillon about a month ago looking at your work in the market.” Reference to Laila as my lady forced a throbbing pain to shoot through my chest.
“Ah, but of course,” Monsieur Durand said, “but how could I forget you or the beautiful lady? It is wonderful to hear your voice, Monsieur. Are you back in Roussillon?”
My shoulders relaxed at the warm reception. “No, we’re not, I mean, I’m not,” I clarified. “But I would like to talk to you about your offer. You said you might be able to make a custom Maxime Durand piece for me.”
I could feel the man smile through the phone. “But of course,” he said again. “I would be honored to do so. Perhaps we can talk over the phone and you can let me know what you would like. Or, if you have the Internet we can – ”
I interrupted. “I was hoping you could make some time to meet me in person,” I said. I pressed my mouth together. “This is... really important to me and I would prefer a one-on-one consultation. Please, check your schedule and let me know what is available.”
“But of course, monsieur.”
I heard him flipping papers and imagined he was reviewing his calendar.
“I am available this week and one day next week,” he informed, “but when can you be in Roussillon?”
“I can be there by tomorrow,” I said quickly.
“Trés bon,” he replied. “Then I shall schedule an evening appointment.” Monsieur Durand gave me the address to his home and I scri
bbled it down on a piece of scrap paper. When I stopped writing, I noticed that my hands were trembling. I balled them into fists and then flexed my fingers.
“So I will see you at eight-thirty tomorrow evening,” Durand confirmed.
“Yes,” I replied. “I look forward to seeing you again.”
THE JET TOUCHED THE ground and a waiting limo whisked me to the train station. It didn’t long for memories of Laila and my trip there to blitz me. I could see her standing next to me, wearing the jeans and silk top I’d bought for her. If I inhaled deeply, I would catch a whiff of her fragrance. I inhaled and closed my eyes, but when I opened them, the starkness of my reality washed over me like a cold wave. I steadied myself and headed toward the ticket booth.
“Roussillon, please,” I said. The agent took my cash and handed me the ticket with a small smile. I gasped, wondering if she could feel the anguish seeping through my pores. I was trying not to be overcome, but it required sufficient energy to keep my head on. Yet I was buckling. Every nerve in my body seemed to be responding to my predicament. I was taking drastic measures and had no idea if the plan I’d devised to win Laila’s affections would work. It was my last shot, but it was worth the try.
I thanked the woman in the ticket booth and headed for a metal bench in the middle of the terminal to wait for my train. People milled about, engaged in conversation with friends and loved ones. My gaze attached to a couple, a black man and a white woman and I blinked. My heart ached. I stared at the strangers’ faces as the man pulled his lover into an adoring embrace and she threw her head back, laughing.
They were in love. There was no doubt about it. I had no idea what challenges they might be facing. I didn’t know if they’d had an argument that morning or made love last night, but I was drawn to them and suddenly, an urge deep within forced me out of my seat.
I pushed through the crowd heading towards them. “Monsieur,” I called out.
A train pulled up and they dashed towards it oblivious to my calls which were consumed by the din. I quickened my pace, hoping to catch up to them, yet having no idea what I would say when I got there. The train door opened, and the billowing crowd swallowed them.
My heart crumbled. I froze. My eyes fell to the sidewalk and a swarm of emotion rattled me. I was losing my mind. I stood, staring at the train as its doors closed and it rumbled into gear. I shrugged away a deep sense of regret and looked up just in time to see the train to Roussillon gliding into the station. I sighed and headed for my ride.
THE TAXI PULLED UP outside a rustic, tawny mansion sitting on a crest, peering over the red hills of Roussillon. Lights glowed in the windows like fireflies trapped in jars at night. Olive trees stood tall and majestic lining the property and the smell of aromatic wildflowers growing at will filled my nostrils, though I could not see them for the darkness.
I looked at the address I had scribbled down on the paper just as the driver pulled up the break and peered at me through the mirror. “Here we are,” he announced.
“Thank you, monsieur,” I said reaching into my pocket and passing over the fee. I pushed the door open and no sooner had I stepped from the taxi than Maxime Durand was standing on the front steps. The taxi whittled away, and I turned to look at Maxime. My heart thudded in my chest.
“Monsieur, what a pleasure.” He tapped his watch. “And right on time, eh?”
I smiled grateful for the warm reception. The trip had been long and emotional. I was glad for some relief, even if it was just a few minutes.
“Monsieur Durand, it is good to see you again,” I said.
We shared a firm embrace.
“I must admit, monsieur, when I suggested you should come back to Roussillon, I had no idea it would be so soon.”
I rubbed my nape. “Neither did I,” I admitted, “but a sudden turn of events required it. I hope you can help.”
“If we were talking about cooking, I might not be able to help,” the old man said, “but you are talking about fine jewelry and that, monsieur, is my specialty. Follow me this way.”
At the mention of food, my stomach growled, and it was only then that I remembered I hadn’t eaten since the flight to Paris. By now, though, my stomach was otherwise occupied with a barrage of butterflies that had paraded inside of it. Food could wait. I was ready to get down to business.
Durand led the way and we slipped down spiral stairs into an elaborate studio in a basement. The concrete walls were decorated with tall shelves and bright lighting. Tool kits and elaborate machines were scattered about the space, and hammers, shears, and sawblades hung haphazardly on the walls. Near the center of the room was a circular wooden desk, which looked like the adult-version of a kindergartner’s arts and craft station, but over in the corner was a desk that seemed to be the place where the real work took place. Durand had prepared for my visit. On a black, satin cloth lay an array of precious stones. They glittered under the purposeful lighting beaming on them from the hutch of the desk.
“Sit, sit,” Durand instructed pointing to a chair. “Let’s get right down to business. Tell me about this very special piece that you are looking for. Please, I insist.”
I exhaled and hung my head as the gravity of the situation piled upon me once again. “That woman I was with when I was in Roussillon last month...”
“Yes, I remember the woman,” Durand confirmed. He lowered his tone and his eyes at the same time. “She was very beautiful monsieur. I can look in your eyes and see how much this woman means to you.”
I nodded. “Yes, she is,” I agreed. “She is very special, and I am in love with her. Unfortunately, she doesn’t believe that a love between us could be possible.”
His mouth fell open in shock. “How can that be so?” he demanded. “She must be crazy not to believe a man as suave as yourself,” he said.
“It’s complicated,” I said rubbing the back of my neck.
“Ah, love,” Durand exhaled. “It can be so fickle, no? But do not worry, monsieur. I believe it was Madeleine de Scudery who said, ‘L’amour fait les plus grandes douceurs et les plus sensibles infortunes de la vie.’ Do you know that means? It means that love makes the greatest pleasures and the most sensitive misfortunes of life... or something like that,” he muttered at the end. He cleared his throat. “The point is, that is love.” Passion dripped from his voice and his hands moved dramatically in the damp air. “The good feelings and the bad feelings, they are all love, and the beautiful lady will realize that in the end. Do not worry yourself about it one bit.”
I pressed my lips together thinking about the old man’s wise words. I leaned forward. “I need something to give her,” I said. “You told me I could come back to you in the event that I did.”
“Indeed, monsieur.”
“Do you remember she talked about a ring that her Papa had given her mother?”
“Quite clearly, monsieur. She said she it was stolen.”
I nodded. “I want to give her another one. Not a knock-off like the one you gave me a few weeks ago. I want to give her a Durand original, like you promised.”
Durand released a hearty laugh. “In that case, we must not waste any more time with this talk of love and get to work.”
He handed me a pair of gloves before slipping a pair over his aged hands. Then he turned to the table, approaching the stones with all the reverence they were due. His fingers glided over the stones. “Which one resonates with you, monsieur?” he whispered.
“She said it was ruby,” I reminded him. My eyes glossed over the exquisite trinkets and settled on a blood-red gem. Durand had tracked my eyes and retrieved the ruby from the desk without my asking.
“Ah, yes,” he breathed pulling a magnifying eyepiece over one eye. He picked it up, examining it. “What you have there is a D-scale stone with no fluorescence. It is internally flawless and is 1.64 carats.” He eased it into my hands.
“This is it,” I muttered. I nodded. “This is the one I want. I don’t need to see anything else.”
“Your feeling is correct,” I confirmed with a smile.
It was early evening by the time I’d finalized the details regarding the gift I was going to give to Laila... if I could find a way to get her back into the office. The yellow cab bustled down the winding road and I peered out of the window, becoming lost in the memories I’d created with her a few weeks ago. Pain sat itself on my chest and emotion lodged in my throat. It wasn’t too long before we were back at the train station.
MY THOUGHTS ON THE plane ride back home were different than the ones I had going over. Things were clearer, though there was still a huge piece over which I had no control. I had no idea how I’d get Laila into my office, let alone in my arms for long enough to give her my heartfelt gift. The ring was being shipped and I had no idea what I would do with it. We had hurt each other, but I still wanted her. The question was, did she want me?
Chapter Thirty-One
Laila
‘Mental Health Leave’
My footsteps were thunderous as I approached the office of the Dean of the Johnson and Wales business school. At first, I considered having Dr. Wyman assigned as my academic advisor a blessing, but now in light of the conversation I was about to have with him, there was no doubt in my mind that it was a curse. I’d sent him an email indicating that I was no longer interning at Hamilton Associates. Not only was I no longer an intern, I was short on my hours and the possibility of my not graduating was very real.
He’d scheduled an immediate meeting.
I knocked on the door and rocked back on my heels, dreading the moment he would invite me inside. I’d been practicing all day, trying to come up with believable reasons for why I had failed, yet I couldn’t come up with even one excuse.
I’d have to wing it, think on my toes. Hopefully Wyman wouldn’t read me and realize that I’d fallen in love with the CEO and compromised every value I owned.
Oui: A BWWM Romance (The French Connection Book 1) Page 18