by Jan Moran
“I know a place you might like,” Lance said. “Are you up for walking?”
“I’d love it. It’s such a beautiful city. And it’s my last night.” Before returning to reality.
“On this trip,” Lance said, touching her shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll be back.”
“I visit our clients here a couple of times a year. But it’s mostly business.”
They passed an outdoor café where a group of people were engaged in a heated political discussion over a table littered with wine, coffee, and cigarettes.
Verena brushed his hand. “You haven’t been smoking here. Did you quit again?”
“I haven’t touched a cigarette since you chastised me about it. Although I have to admit I’m tempted here in Paris.”
“Don’t do it,” she cried. “Remember your skin—and the rest of your body.”
He caught her hand and held it. “For you, anything.”
She squeezed his hand, feeling a thrill at his touch. They walked past a nightclub where the music was throbbing, and fashionable people were milling around outside on the sidewalk, having a good time.
“Do you ever go to nightclubs in Paris?”
She laughed. “No, that’s not usually on my agenda.”
“It should be, it’s fun.” He looked at her, brushed away a strand of hair that had blown into her eyes. “Come on, I know a jazz club that I think you’ll like. You can dance, can’t you?”
“Of course, I can.” She shook her head in amazement. He was a man of many surprises. Though the night was cool, his hand felt warm and sure. A connection flowed between them, linking them in a manner she had never known. Not with Joe. Not with Derrick. Was this one of those signs Mia often spoke about?
They continued wending their way through the streets until they turned onto Rue Jean Giraudoux.
“Here it is, Le Speakeasy.” At the entry, Lance spoke in French to a slim man, who quickly swept them into the dimly lit club, which was styled in chic 1920s fashion.
They wound through a young, stylish crowd, past a long bar with ruby-red covered stools and into a room filled with black sofas, tables, and chairs.
They slid onto an ebony leather banquette near a piano, where a Josephine Baker look-alike was draped across the polished wood, cooing a sensual jazz tune in French that made Verena feel like she’d been transported back in time.
Lance put his arm around her shoulders and leaned into her to speak above the music. “This isn’t a traditional French club, but it’s still fun. It’s a mix of French and American jazz.”
“Looks great,” she said. There was that word again: fun. When was the last time she’d had any fun? As he spoke, his breath was warm on her neck; each puff sent a tingle through her. “I didn’t know you spoke French.”
“Un peu,” he said, grinning. “When I worked in Europe I picked up a smattering of languages. It sure helped in the kitchens where I worked. I can say ‘that’s burning’ in half a dozen languages.”
Verena laughed. “I have to admit, cooking is not my strong point. But I can bake.”
“Really? Then we’re a good match. That’s quite a science; I usually leave it to the pastry chefs.”
“Mia and my mother taught me when I was young. The three of us used to gather in the kitchen, with Mia showing my mother how to make old family recipes. Tartes, brioche, and pastries.” Verena gazed off, remembering the good times they’d had and how much she’s taken for granted.
“Does your mother work in the family business, too?”
Verena hesitated, carefully choosing her words before she spoke. “She did. In fact, she was wonderful at everything she took on. But my mother and father died in a car accident when I was eighteen.”
Lance looked shocked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“How could you?” Verena lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “It’s been ten years, but I still miss them. I think about them so much, often wondering what they would do in this or that situation. How would my mother handle a marketing issue, or how would my father deal with the bank? They ran the business together after Mia stepped down, but when they died, it all fell on me.”
Lance didn’t speak, but covered her hand with his, and she could feel emotional strength flowing from him. She idly traced the scars on his fingers as she continued. “When it happened, Mia was in Switzerland undergoing intense cancer treatment. She was quite ill. Instead of going to college that fall, as I’d planned, I accepted the responsibility for the business and the twins.” She blinked, remembering. “Besides, it helped occupy my mind.”
“Did you have help?”
“The staff at the salon rallied around me, taught me everything I needed to know. They were—and are—so loyal to our family.” She shook her head. “As a teenager, I became licensed and worked summers giving facials, but I was unprepared for the financial, marketing, and human resource sides of the business. I was so inexperienced.”
“How did you manage with the girls?”
“I hired a nanny when Anika and Bella where little, and a few years later I hired Fianna—who you met at the Beverly Hills Hotel—to care for the girls after school. Fianna was working her way through the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising at the time. The girls loved her, and it gave me time to throw myself into a crash course on business. That’s when I began expanding the company.”
He stroked her hand, listening. “You’ve certainly succeeded, Verena.”
“If I succeeded, it was only with the help of my assistant, Lacey, and that of my accountant, attorney, and banker. They took time to teach me, but I had to learn fast, because important projects were in progress. My first one was to expand the product line and sell it into luxury department stores. My father had started the process, but I had to implement the plan. Next we expanded the salons across the country.”
“Sounds like it was a rough period of time, but you came through it.”
She nodded. “After that, nothing seemed insurmountable. When you’ve faced the worst that life can serve up, and pushed on, moment by moment, day by day, until you’ve finally overcome your challenges, there isn’t much that can ever faze you ever again.”
“You were strengthened by fire.” Lance looked deep into her eyes. “But there’s something troubling you, isn’t there?”
She found it so easy to confide in him. “Am I that transparent?”
“Only to me.” He angled his head with interest. “You’re worried. Your meeting today didn’t go as you had hoped. Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes, thinking.
“Do you have another plan?”
An image of Derrick flashed through her mind. She raised her eyes to Lance and sighed. “We have an investor.” Tomorrow, when she landed in Los Angeles, she’d have to call Derrick. She raised her eyes to Lance. And this—whatever this is—will have to end.
As Lance gazed at her, a new song began, and a few couples near them began to sway with the slow, soulful piano music. “Dance with me?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. We should leave. Her nerves were definitely on edge.
Lance rose and held out his hand to her.
Verena hesitated for only a moment before following him to the dance area. She moved into his arms, surprised that the movement felt so natural.
He held her close to him, and their bodies melded together as they moved in rhythm to the music. His sure touch sent a wave of relaxation through her, and the disappointments of the day were swept away. She pressed against him, felt his heart beating in his firm chest. She caught her breath; she’d never felt such a strong physical attraction to a man, including Derrick, who had pursued her with such persistence that she’d finally agreed to go out with him.
In the beginning of their relationship, Derrick had been so flattering to her, and had taken such an interest in her work. He had wanted to know everything about her company and her plan for it. He was far more intelligent in
business than she was, but the longer she knew him, the more volatile his personality had become, and it concerned her.
By contrast, she hardly knew Lance. Yet she could not deny their natural affinity, their easy connection. She looked up into his eyes.
A smile curved his mouth and she reached up to touch his inviting, generous lips. He kissed her fingers, teased her fingertips with his tongue. She trailed her fingers across his chin and slight stubble, and then onto his neck and chest, exploring.
He slipped an arm around her waist, moving gracefully with her in unison to the smoky vocals and jazz piano.
He slid a finger under her chin, and she lifted her eyes to his.
“Verena, you’re an amazing woman,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “You must know how deeply you’ve affected me.”
His words were a panacea to her soul, a caress to her heart. She hardly dared to speak. “As you’ve touched me,” she whispered.
He ran his thumb along her neck and bent to kiss her. Verena responded, awash in pure pleasure. Their surroundings fell away, and all that was left was the two of them, dancing as one, their desire mounting.
“Never stop,” she whispered, and he kissed her again.
Another song began and they continued dancing, blissfully gliding from one tune into another, until finally, Verena pulled away, breaking the magic. “It’s getting late,” she murmured. If only she could turn back the clock on Derrick.
Lance found her mouth again, and left a kiss lingering on her lips. “As you wish,” he said, and then guided her back to the table. After paying the tab, they stepped out into the night.
Lance put his arm around her and drew her close to his side.
Verena rested against him, content for the moment despite her inner turmoil. As they strolled through the streets of one of the world’s most romantic cities, she smiled to herself. It’s true what they say about Paris.
Lance slid a finger under her chin and raised her face to his. “Verena, I know your situation, but you can’t deny what we have.”
His words were a soothing balm, but she had to ask, “What do you think we have, Lance?”
“Why, a deep connection. Surely you feel it, too.”
She smiled up at him. “You’re a magnificent man. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be with in Paris.”
“Or anywhere else?” he asked, grinning at her.
She looked into his eyes, unable to answer, her mind riddled with confusion.
They strolled on in silence, savoring the moments they had. When they came to the hotel, Lance walked with her upstairs to her suite. They stopped just outside of the room.
“Here we are,” he said, kissing her on the nose.
“I had a wonderful evening. Thank you for making this trip special.” She inclined her head toward the door. “For all of us.”
“And for you?”
“Especially for me.”
Lance kissed her, and this time their connection was deeper than ever before. “This feels so right,” she said, threading her fingers through the back of his hair that curled along his collar. She pulled him to her and found his lips, their desire building again.
After several minutes, they parted with reluctance.
“Good night, my darling Verena,” Lance said, his voice thick with passion. “I wish you were staying longer.”
“Me, too.” She cradled her head in the crook of his neck.
He trailed a finger along her jawline. “Paris won’t be the same without you.”
“Nor will my life be without you.” She closed the door behind her and leaned into it, hardly daring to believe what had happened on this trip. And then she realized she had just betrayed her fiancé.
14
“Thank you for the ride, George,” Verena said.
The driver turned into her driveway and stopped. “It’s my job, Miss Verena.” The older man got out of the car and made his way to the trunk.
“I’ll help you with the bags,” she said. Her father had hired George to ferry clients to and from the salon—the elderly, the city dwellers who didn’t drive, the sweet sixteen parties. He made product deliveries and airport runs, but more than that, he’d always been like an uncle to her, listening to her travel woes on her extensive travels to visit retail store buyers and conduct training across the country for them.
“Nonsense, it’s my exercise. Beats lifting weights,” he said hoisting the bags.
“How’s your writing, George?”
“New detective book coming out next month,” he said.
“Someday you’re going to sell the film rights and become a big Hollywood writer, and leave us all behind,” she said, joking with him.
“Hasn’t happened in forty years, but I still enjoy it. I think it’s important to have a creative outlet and take the time to do something you love.”
“So true.” Verena thought about her work, and how much she loved helping people—women and men alike—feel attractive and pampered. For many people who lived hectic, time-starved lives, their visit to VSS was the only time during the week or month that they had to themselves. She’d observed the ravages that stress could cause in a person’s life. She loved seeing the successful effects of their treatments—people emerged feeling less stressful and more optimistic.
Verena truly cared about the people she saw at the salon and those who bought their products; she felt she was doing her life’s work, and felt fully alive and engaged when she knew she was helping people.
But the financing deal and the doubts in her mind over Derrick were taking its toll on her. Now she was the one who needed a therapeutic massage. She couldn’t wait to slip into her whirlpool tub and close her eyes.
Verena opened the front door, and there in the foyer was an enormous vase bursting with a dazzling white arrangement of fragrant lilies, fluffy peonies, and elegant calla lilies. The intoxicating scent filled the air.
“My goodness, looks like your fiancé missed you an awful lot.” George placed her bags inside, said good-bye, and closed the door behind him.
Verena leaned in to smell the flowers. Derrick usually sent classic red roses; he even joked that he had a standing order at the florist.
A pang of guilt shot through her. She hadn’t called him when she touched down. Mentally, she was still in Paris, still with Lance. Time to re-enter real life. She pressed her palm to her forehead. But then, what was really real?
She thought of all the people who depended on her—not just her family, but her employees and their families. I should do the responsible thing. She sighed. She should call Derrick, thank him for the flowers and make arrangements to go forward with the Herringbone financing.
She plucked a tiny envelope from the bouquet, picked up the phone, and dialed Derrick’s number. He answered on the first ring.
“Hi, are you back in L.A.?”
“Yes, I am.” She could hear noise in the background, could hear him excusing himself.
“Listen, I can’t talk, I’m at dinner with a client.”
“I just called to thank you for the flowers, they’re beautiful.”
Derrick paused. “I didn’t send you flowers.”
“No?” She opened the envelope and slid out a small card. A remembrance of Paris. She caught her breath as she remembered where she’d seen a similar bouquet. In the foyer at the Majestic. With Lance. She had mentioned how much she loved the floral arrangement. “Ah, they must be from Mia.”
“But you just left her.”
“She’s thoughtful,” Verena said. “I’m here alone until they return.”
“Mia spends a lot of money, Verena. This trip with the twins, for example. Was it really necessary?”
Where did that come from? Verena didn’t know what to say. Mia had never been extravagant. She had saved money for her retirement, and she certainly wasn’t a spendthrift.
“Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “We have things to discuss.”
Click. Verena sta
red at the phone, and then her eyes fell on the note card. It was simply signed: L. She ran her fingers across it and slipped it into her purse.
Roper’s raspy voice crackled across the line. “Have you floated the deal yet?”
“Just a moment, sir.” Derrick muted the phone. “I have to take this call, babe,” he said to the woman next to him at the table.
“Another call?” Greta Hicks pouted as he slid out of the booth.
“Won’t be long, babe.” He cast a longing eye on the way the Hervé Léger dress he’d just bought for her hugged her svelte body. Maybe she was a little too thin, but once the lights were off, that hardly mattered.
He wound through the restaurant and stepped into the bar. “Verena’s just returned from Paris,” Derrick said to him.
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“I thought it better to present this offer to her in person,” Derrick said. “Tomorrow, for sure.” Derrick thought Roper’s idea bordered on crazy, but then, the venture capitalist always pursued the big idea, and he usually won.
Roper’s fortune had been built on creating synergy among companies. Assembling and dissembling companies had become second nature to him—sometimes the value was in the parts, other times the value was in the combination. This deal was no different, but Derrick knew that Verena wouldn’t be easily sold on the idea.
Roper spoke again. “I’ve decided I’m not interested in her company unless we can do the deal my way.”
“But that’s not what we discussed,” Derrick said, rubbing his forehead. The old man was greedy.
“Changed my mind.”
“She might not go for it.” If there was one thing Derrick knew about Verena, it was that she had high ethics in business. When people promised one deal point, and then reneged, she didn’t approve. He’d never hear the end of it. Some women just don’t understand the art of the deal.
“You’ll convince her.”
He swallowed hard. “I’ll do that, sir.” It’s a game to him, Derrick understood. And Roper always plays to win.
“Get that company for us, Derrick.”