by Sun Chara
Who were these busybodies gossiping about? Bits of their hushed chatter drifted to her, and having heard enough, Julia closed her eyes and swayed to the music floating onto the terrace. Scent of jasmine permeated the air around her, and she was thankful the plant’s leafy stems coiled around the trellis, concealing her from their sight.
“…Leonadis on full throttle.”
The gossipers’ words nearly felled her, and she sagged against the twisted iron rods, drawing deep breaths of the night air. Prickles of awareness rose all over her body, and she sensed him before she saw him.
“Something wrong?” Michalis reached her side, a puzzled look on his face.
“No,” she croaked, then cleared her throat. “Of course not.” She flashed him a strained smile, her nerves twittering, her palms damp and her thoughts swirling. “Michalis mou.” She forced the endearment from her numb lips and touched his forearm. “Everyone seems to be having a nice time.”
“Except you?”
She gaped at him, words frozen on her tongue.
“Julia…”
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to freshen up.”
He lowered his lashes a tad, trapping her in his narrow focus.
“Will you get me a drink?”
“Of course.” But for a long moment, he didn’t move, studying her beneath his brows. When she took a step to go, he inclined his head and placing his hand at the small of her back, escorted her inside.
Skin on skin.
She gritted her teeth against the high voltage shooting up her spine from his touch, and paused center floor of the salon. Tossing him a tremulous smile, she made a beeline for the bathroom, her peripheral vision keeping him within sight. On his way to the bar, friends and colleagues intercepted him to have a word, but smoothly he disengaged himself from his fans.
Mario and Maria approached him, gesturing her way. She waved, smiled and got lost in the crowd.
Julia kept walking, past the powder room, the coat check and straight out the door, down the back stairs and into the starlit night.
*
Loosening his tie, Michalis stomped across the foyer of his home and paused at the foot of the stairs. Just hours ago, he’d stood there, mesmerized by Julia in that risqué rag descending the stairs. At that time, his heart pounded and his gut had hitched as it did now. But for different reasons.
He’d been a fool thinking she’d worn it for him…other than to provoke him. A hint of a smile. At least he’d gotten a reaction from her, a degree warmer than the cold shoulder she’d been giving him from the moment they’d stepped onto the dry land of the Leonadis estate.
The smile vanished from his mouth, and he inflated his lungs, his pulse thrashing in his throat. He’d been ready to take her right there on the floor. A wry chuckle skimmed his tight lips. Hadn’t he learned anything in this last year?
If Julia was dolled up in threads more suited for the catwalk than a party, she’d had an agenda. An agenda, that more than likely didn’t include him.
And yours included her, right? He bashed the irritant from his mind, and stamped on the first step of the staircase.
He swiped away the sweat beading on his forehead with the back of his hand. It was time to lay his cards on the table with his wife…er…the fashion queen, and see if something could be salvaged between them, one way or another. For Amy’s sake.
The thought of his child melted his heart, and about to climb the stairs, he paused. A nightlight at the foot of the stairs cast shadows about him. It was quiet. He frowned. Too quiet. His mind replayed another time…his abs tightened, and he flexed his hands.
He swore and leaped up the stairs, kicking the bedroom door open.
“Julia!”
Deafening silence.
She was gone.
The realization crashed over him before he turned on the light. She’d given him the slip once again, and worse. His heart pounded in his ears, and he rushed into the nursery. A blue streak fueled the air.
His daughter was gone.
He glanced at the Cartier watch strapped to his wrist. Twenty minutes ago. If he hadn’t spent time chatting with Mario and Maria at the bar, they would’ve collided at the door.
“Some scene that would’ve been,” he muttered, curling his lip in contempt. Flipping on his cell phone, he instructed his security to keep her under surveillance, not to make an approach, but to report her every move.
He pounded his fist on the wall. The woman would be the end of him if he didn’t wrap this up soon. And her timing was the pits.
If he chased after her now, there would be another deal in the tank. This one was extra padding for Amy’s trust fund…and so the fashion diva could stew for a while longer. If she knew him at all, she’d know they’d have a confrontation soon enough. In the meantime, he’d seal the business deal, ensure Mario had the paperwork in order, and then he’d take great pleasure in dealing with his ex.
Pocketing his phone, he stomped across the room and stepped onto the balcony, scent of orange blossom wafting over him. He barely noticed; every muscle in his body was coiled for action.
By month’s end, Julia Armstrong Leonadis would be officially his ex, since she wanted it that way. Acid curdled his gut. He wanted it that way too, didn’t he?
A blast of a breath, then his heart booted his ribs in protest, giving him the answer. Brooding, he looked across the ocean, barely visible in the darkness, except for the glimmer of lights in the distance from the ships, including two from the Leonadis Cruise Line, docked at Piraeus harbor.
An image of his uncle and his Lolita taunted his mind. He spun around in distaste and stalked back inside, his foot bumping the blanket on the floor. He stooped to pick it up, and the scent of baby powder nearly made him double over. Squinting, he swept up the crinkled photo from beneath, and got torpedoed.
“What the—?” The American Lolita stared up at him, and her words, ‘With Love to my Julia,’ barbed in his flesh. “Theos mou,” he muttered.
There was an explosion inside him, and he dropped the photo, watching it flutter to the floor. He felt a strong temptation to stamp on it with his shoe, but didn’t move. How in hell had he missed the signs? How in hell could he not have missed the signs? He’d had no clue, none. And to a man of his stature, that didn’t go down well. He shoved his hands in his pockets and prowled the floor; the tendons in his neck tightening, his fury folding his face with each step he took.
“Triple threat indeed,” he growled. But she’d be on the receiving end this time. For some reason, even that notion left no satisfaction. He tautened his abs, and a sliver of common sense pierced his black mood. She’d wanted nothing from him, other than the child. She’d been willing to ‘sell herself’ to him for her child. Could he be wrong about her?
“Oh, yeah,” he ground out, crushing the jolt to his conscience. She’d left, taking nothing from him except what he valued most. His daughter.
His eyes slitted, his jaw turned iron hard. “He’d know the truth soon enough.”
Just then his cell rang, tearing his thoughts apart. “Leonadis,” he barked. “Good work.” Exactly as he figured, she’d ditched Athens for Paris.
He backtracked from the room, changed his mind, strode back and snatching up the picture, stuffed it in his pocket. “A reminder,” he sneered.
He stalked out and down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time. He had to take care of his daughter…keep her far away from Julia, the Parisian Lolita. A cruel laugh detonated from his chest, ripping through the silence of the house. He had no qualms about keeping company with his Parisian Lolita, for as long as it suited him.
Chapter 11
Ring, ring!
Groggy from the emotional stress of the last few days, Julia pushed her head under the pillow of her daybed in her matchbox pad behind the Rue Royale, muting her moan.
“Go away,” she mumbled, pain nipping her cells. “I don’t want to talk to anybody. Not see anyone.”
How could sh
e have made such a mess of her life?
Ring, ring! She snatched the cell phone from the bedside table and blasted, “I’m not home.” Then, she flipped on her back and chuckled at the affronted voice from the other line telling her to get her butt in gear; she was needed.
“G’morning, Chachee.” She yawned and pushing her hair off her face, shuffled up on one elbow. “How’d you know I was back?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He brushed her query aside, his voice filtering through the airwaves. “How soon can you get over to the salon?”
“Would next week do?” She pulled the blanket to her chin, huddling beneath. “I only just got here three days ago, and was hoping to—” What she had to do was regroup, decide her course of action, and seek legal counsel. Which would be expensive. More money she didn’t have. She sighed. For sure, Michalis would do battle with her. It was simply a question of when.
And she had to be ready for him.
“Non, today, s’il vous plaît.”
“Aww, Chach, I can’t.”
‘I’m calling in a favor, chéri,” he said, his words crackling over the line.
“Oh, Chachee,” she murmured, pouting. “Have you no heart?”
“I guess not.” He laughed, and that had her chuckling. “See you in an hour.”
“Once I’ve called Mrs. Knightley to babysit, I’ll be over for a run through.” She keyed off the connection, glanced at Amy sleeping soundly in her cot, and sniffed, blinking tears pressing against her eyelids. God help her, she had to find a way to make this work out for her child, and still leave herself heart-whole; and not at the mercy of Michalis Leonadis.
*
At eleven that morning, Julia hopped from the Metro and trekked the remaining few blocks in her sturdy boots, passing the flower carts parked on street corners, the boulangerie-pâtisseries with window displays of fresh-baked baguettes and pastries. Across the street, the outdoor cafés were filled with chattering patrons, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air.
“Mmm, yum,” she murmured, but unable to stop and indulge, wove her way around the pedestrians.
She swung her hefty-sized bag over her shoulder; glad she’d thrown on her blazer over her jeans and pullover. A misty sun struggled through the clouds, but the nip in the air won out. But in Greece the sun shone— the combustible attraction between her and Michalis on the beach at the Mermaid’s Grotto had almost incinerated her, and she would’ve succumbed if the rescue chopper hadn’t interrupted them. A whimper sounded from her mouth, and shivering, she shoved her hands in her pockets, shutting her mind to the seductive memories.
A second later, she turned the corner of Avenue Montaigne, the glitzy venue of luxury brands such as Dior, Chanel; side-stepping busy shoppers she breezed through the front doors of Chachee Couture, the tiniest shop amongst the giants. She chuckled; if she blinked, she’d have missed it.
“Bonjour.” She waved to the salesgirl behind the counter on her way back to the fitting room. Once there, she meandered around mannequins in various modes of dress and tossed her bag onto a velvet settee.
“Ahh, chéri—” Chachee peered at her from behind a mannequin, his words becoming blunt. “You’ve lost weight.”
“A few pounds.” She grinned. “To better show off your creations?”
He waggled his finger and pointed beneath his eyes then at her.
“I…uh…couldn’t sleep.”
He tapped his foot, and called instructions to the seamstress, then glided out, shooting her a knowing look over his shoulder. An hour later, after Julia had been fitted, he waltzed back to view the result.
“Ravishing, chéri.” He studied her beneath his pierced brows, angling his head this way and that. “Lose the sash.” Nodding, he twirled his hand in the air. “A romantic, sexy look is what we’re after.”
“So, is this a big show?” Julia stood still while the seamstress made the changes.
“A matter of perspective.” He turned his attention to the new designs on the art-board, his vague answer unsettling.
“Chachee?”
“Bien.” He swung away from handling the fabric samples draped over the rack and faced her. “An exclusive, chéri.”
She balked. “You know I don’t do private shows.”
He nodded, twisting the ruby ring on his forefinger. “I wish you’d reconsider this one.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, forget I mentioned it.”
“Something’s wrong,” she said. “What is it, Chach?”
“Rien…nothing.”
“Look me in the eye and say that.”
He did. “I’m strapped for cash for the fall collection, and this gig could turn it around, if—” Breaking off, he looked at her with his limpid brown eyes and gestured upward with his palms. “Sorry, chéri. I’m asking too much of you.”
“Guilt tripping me, Chachee?” Julia nodded but it was underlined with a smile.
“Bon!” He grabbed her by the waist and twirled her around before setting her on her feet, to the seamstress’ clicking tongue. “The guy wants to buy an original for his wife…a surprise.” Excitement lit up his face, and left Julia speechless. “A private showing would ensure it’s kept under wraps. No fashion press, no media sharks.”
“So, get another model,” she quipped.
“You’re the best I’ve got.”
“Since when?”
He chuckled, dismissing her query with a flick of his hand. “The ultra-rich are sooo eccentric,” he mused. “In exchange for strutting your stuff, he’ll dish out an obscene amount of cash.”
“A little odd…” Oh, heck, how could she say no? She owed him for helping her in the past, and he was calling her on it. Besides, the extra cash would help with legal fees. “Better be on the level, Chach.”
“A dresser, hairstylist and makeup artist will be with you.”
Shaking her head, she laughed. “Very well.”
“You won’t regret it.” He took her fingertips and waltzed her around before handing her over to the seamstress. “We’ll celebrate afterward.”
“About?”
“Er…the fall fashion line.” His grin turned into a laugh. “Life, love…everything.”
*
In the guest dressing room of the penthouse suite at the Hilton Arc de Triomphe Paris Hotel, Julia stood gazing out the wide expanse of window at La Ville Lumière…the City of Lights, Paris.
The Eiffel Tower glittered, and far below, cars looked like toys traveling along the Champs-Élysées, the most beautiful avenue in the world. Further, riverboats cruising the Seine sparkled with lanterns; during the day artists parked along its banks, painting their creations.
Julia wiggled into the sleek sapphire gown, and her dresser zipped her up, smoothing the chiffon flaring at her ankles. The off-the-shoulder neckline was both demure and sexy, allowing for only a glimpse of cleavage.
“A touch of mystery,” Chachee had told his girls, “is so much more alluring than letting it all hang out.”
And that of course had them bursting out laughing. A hint of a smile brushed her mouth at the thought. Wise Chachee.
“Belle,” the hairstylist gushed, clipping her hair to the side, and keeping it trailing down her back.
“You forgot to spray my locks.” Julia spun around, making a funny face at them in jest, and the gold threads jingled at her earlobes.
“Not for this showing,” the hairstylist said, beginning to pack her things.
“Au naturelle for tonight.” The make-up artist buffed her nose with the lightest of powder and nodded to the dresser.
“No stage lights to wash me out.” Julia chuckled, slipping her feet into slinky gold stilettos. “Makes sense.”
“You’re ready, mademoiselle.” The dresser walked across the room and opened the adjoining door. Julia shook her moist hands and took a step toward the open door. A pause, a breath, and she put her game-face on. Voila! The mannequin—every man’s fantasy
. She stepped across the threshold, heard the door click behind her and just for a second, a frisson of uncertainty zapped her. Wiggling her shoulders, she shook it off and strolled across the spacious living room and through the French doors to the wrap-around garden terrace overlooking the spectacular view of Paris.
Nobody was there.
She muffled a nervous giggle with her hand, and the diamond-studded gold bracelet jangled at her wrist. Shrugging, she placed her hand on her hip and sauntered across to the rail, making a perfected pose beneath the single lit lamp. She’d wait five minutes max and if the guy was a no-show, she’d get the heck outta there. In the meantime, she scanned the area beneath her mascara-laden lashes.
A table for two, a champagne bottle on ice, candles, and a mouthwatering aroma floated to her from somewhere in the suite. A portable electric fireplace blazed nearby. Mmm, it was a nice touch.
Her stomach gurgled. She’d only grabbed a glass of orange juice on her way out that morning, and she was famished. But she’d have to wait until she got home before eating, and hope her stomach didn’t go into sound-effects mode again.
“Hmm, what gives?” she murmured. Boy oh boy, when she got her hands on Chachee, she’d give him a tongue-lashing. “Where is the mystery man?”
“Right here, Julia.”
She spun around, and her mouth nearly hung open. “Mario.” The momentum made her teeter on her stilettos, and she hugged the post behind her for support. “What are you doing here?”
“Buying a gown for my wife.” He flashed her a broad grin. “Our one-year anniversary.”
“O-okay.” With a bemused smile on her lips, she pushed away from the lamppost, strutted across the patio and twirled around. “Will this do?”
“Yes. I’ll take the gown.”
“And I’ll take the model.” Another man stepped from the shadows. “For the night.”
“No.” She stumbled back a step and clutched the chrome back of a chair, her heart thudding. The lamplight cast shadows on his face, making him appear sinister, but she’d know him, his voice, and his presence anywhere.
“Yes,” he shot back, his tone smooth steel.
“Michalis.” His name a breath of sound from her mouth, then she infused wry humor in her words. “What brings you here?”