The Cherbourg Jewels (The Cherbourg Saga)

by Jenni Wiltz

  She bit her lip to hold back the tears. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d reached out to try and catch it. Could I have held onto it? If I had fought harder for him, could it have ended differently? Maybe I should have left him and run to call 911. Maybe I should never have followed him out the workshop. I can’t help but feel that I did this to him, that it was all a huge mistake.”

  Finally, she looked up at him and met his gaze. What he saw there took his breath away. Despite the obvious pain, her eyes were luminous and open, hiding nothing. “Sébastien,” she said, “what if it was really all my fault?”

  Good God, he thought. No child should have to deal with anything like this.

  He reached out to touch her face, wiping away the smear of black makeup beneath her eyes with his thumb. Next to her skin’s smooth paleness, his thumb looked dark and rough. “It isn’t your fault,” he told her. “How could it be? You didn’t have anything to do with that robbery.”

  “But what about the rest of it? The ambulance I never called?”

  “Ella, it happened. You couldn’t have changed it, no matter what you did.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know that.”

  “I think you do,” he said. “I think you use all the other possibilities to torture yourself. You have to let yourself move on, Ella. Is this really how your father would have wanted you to live your life?”

  “No,” she whispered, lower lip quivering. “He’d want me to be strong…and free.”

  “Then that’s what you should be. Come here,” he said, pulling her into the circle of his arms.

  He pressed her against his chest and held her head against him. She fit perfectly, nestled against him as if she’d been created to be there. He inhaled the scent of her hair, a light coconut fragrance left over from her shampoo. The soft curves he felt beneath the pajamas made it hard to think about anything but covering her body with his. But he made the effort to control himself. She was in pain and what she needed wasn’t physical—at least not like that. She needed to feel safe. And, he realized, that was the one thing he could give her.

  “Let it go,” he said, stroking her hair. “Cry as hard as you can. Scream if you want to. There’s no one to hear.”

  “But I’ve cried for years,” she said, the words muffled against his chest. “It never does any good.”

  “Crying isn’t meant to solve the problem, Ella. It’s meant to clear your head so you can solve it.”

  “I can’t solve it, Sébastien. He’s dead!” She balled her fists and pounded them into his chest, just once.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Let it out.” She felt small and brittle in his arms, as if she would break if he squeezed her too hard. He stroked her hair and kept soothing her, the same way his aunts and uncles had soothed his cousins when they were children. His own parents had never done anything of the sort, but at least he knew what the process was supposed to look like.

  He repeated the motion, hoping it would do her some good. The feel of her hair beneath his fingers soothed him, too. He began to think less about Amanda and his family. The embarrassment, fear and resentment he’d felt all through the past year began to fall away from him and his mind felt clearer than it had in months. Whether it was the shared confession or the intense need he felt to solve her problems instead of obsess over his own, Ella had brought him a temporary peace.

  Suddenly, he remembered the words to an old French song he remembered his nanny singing to him as a child. Something about a fountain and a boy who’d loved a girl for a very long time.

  As he began to whisper the words, he could feel her tension break. Her muscles relaxed and he could feel the anger begin to flow away from her. Finally, she began to let go and sob heavily against his chest. He felt her body convulse with each sob and just kept singing the song, over and over until her sobs subsided.

  It took a great deal of willpower for him not to crush her in his arms; he wanted to wrap them around her so tightly the nightmares couldn’t find her again. He closed his eyes and focused on the words and the warmth of her body against his.

  Eventually, she rested calmly and quietly in his arms. He let her rest for a few minutes, making sure the storm had passed. Then he whispered her name, just once. She didn’t respond.

  He bent his head down to see if her eyes were open, but they were shut. Her breathing was slow and even. He smiled as he realized she’d fallen asleep in his arms. Apparently the song had worked a little too well.

  All the better, he thought. As much as his lips ached for another taste of hers, it wasn’t meant to be. She was exhausted by grief and he was still struggling to reconcile the two sides of her he’d experienced: the cold, calculating woman who’d used him to gain access to his vault and the soft, vulnerable woman who’d fallen asleep in his arms.

  He wanted to believe the girl in his arms was the real Ella, but Amanda had taught him that the truth wasn’t the same as what he wanted to believe. It was far better for them both if they slept and cleared their heads. Surely the tension between them would ease without the lure of danger like that they’d experienced today.

  He picked her up in his arms, careful to jostle her as little as possible. He carried her up the stairs and back to Honorée’s room. The covers were still flung wide where she’d left them. He laid her gently on the satin sheets and pulled them up over her shoulders, hoping the warmth would help keep her asleep.

  When she was tucked in and sleeping peacefully, he bent over her, intending to kiss her gently on the cheek. But he drew himself back. What if even that small amount of contact sent his blood back into the firestorm he felt earlier? It couldn’t be allowed.

  Carrying her upstairs was one thing. She’d cried her heart out on his shoulder and he would have been an insensitive jerk to awaken her or leave her in the kitchen. But if his lips woke her up…if he felt that same jolt of liquid electricity in his veins…if he couldn’t resist the temptation since she was already lying in a bed.

  No, he ordered himself. Stay away from her, for both your sakes.

  He turned around and left the room as quickly as he could, closing the door behind him.

  Chapter Ten

  Ella awoke slowly, dimly aware of the cocoon of warmth enveloping her. She rolled over and realized how easy it was to move. Usually, she awoke tangled in her flannel pajamas and cotton sheets, kicking to free herself and get out of bed. But this was different.

  She opened her eyes and blinked. She was lying in an enormous bed covered in cream satin sheets, wearing silk pajamas. Then she remembered again what had happened the previous day. She felt her cheeks burn as her brain ran through a quick mental inventory: the vault, the robbery, the car, the kiss, the crying.

  Oh God, she thought. The crying. I made an absolute fool of myself.

  Still, no matter how much of a blubbering idiot she’d been last night, she felt better. The crushing misery she’d felt last night wasn’t there anymore. She still felt a little tired and confused, but the weight that pushed her down into despair was gone. Maybe Sébastien was right, she thought. Maybe I did just need to let myself have a good cry.

  She turned her head to look at the bedside clock. It was 8:45 a.m. Usually she got up about two hours earlier, in time for a morning Pilates workout before beginning the day’s work. Not today. It was time to shower and get dressed. Sébastien’s press conference was happening at 11 a.m., she remembered, and she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  Ella threw back the covers, wondering how she would get a hold of Frau Müller or Sébastien to ask for some clothes. Then, once she sat up, she caught her breath.

  At the foot of the bed there was a long, padded bench. Laid out on the bench was a gorgeous turquoise silk shift dress, very Jackie O. She could see the label. It was one of the most expensive French fashion houses. She crawled over the bed to take a closer look.

  Lying next to the dress was a stack of underthings and a pair of strappy sandals, with a note resting o
n top of the stack. She picked it up and began to read.

  Miss Wilcox—

  Sébastien asked me to find you something suitable to wear for the press conference this morning. This was his mother’s, made for her when the Cherbourgs traveled with the Kennedys to Paris in 1961. She never wore it past the last fitting session and I always felt that was a shame. I took the liberty of sending one of the maids out this morning for a few additional necessities. Please take the liberty of using anything in Miss Honorée’s bathroom or dressing room. When you’re ready, Sébastien would like you to meet him downstairs in the conservatory for breakfast.

  --Gertrude

  Ella fingered the azure silk lightly. It felt thin and soft as a cloud. She scooped it up, along with the pile of underthings, and carried all of it into the attached bathroom and dressing room. There, spread out on a mirrored dressing table, lay a collection of designer cosmetics and fragrances that cost hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars.

  “So this is how the other half lives,” she said, placing the dress on a padded hanger.

  She unwrapped the gauze from her hands and showered in a fog of steam and designer body wash. Then she blow-dried her hair with a dryer she knew cost about a thousand dollars. She tucked her hair up into a simple chignon and secured it with a few bejeweled bobby pins left lying on the dressing table top. It took her just five minutes to select and apply a minimum of makeup: concealer, eyeliner, blush, and mascara, all in pretty but neutral colors. For a finishing touch, she spritzed on a tiny bit of one of the expensive perfumes.

  When she’d hung up her towel and folded the pajamas into a neat little pile, she slipped her feet into the croc-embossed leather sandals and fastened the buckles. Then she headed downstairs, anxious to talk to Sébastien and find out if his security team had found any evidence of the thief on the Cherbourg property.

  Her heels clacked on the marble stairs and she winced. It would be impossible to snoop around in these shoes, but they were so beautiful that she didn’t want to take them off just yet. In the shower, it had crossed her mind that she should try to sneak back down to the vault. After all, she hadn’t finished evaluating the entire collection. As long as pieces were missing, it wasn’t like she could complete the job she’d been hired to do, but still—what if she found more pieces that matched the photos of her father’s stones? There might still be evidence there she could take to the police.

  Ella felt a pang of guilt at the thought. Sébastien wasn’t the one who had hurt her or her father, yet he was the one who would be inconvenienced by a police investigation. It didn’t seem fair, but then again, growing up without a father hadn’t been fair to her. If Sébastien’s father or grandfather had purchased stolen stones, the police had every right to confiscate them and return them to their rightful owner—which would technically be her, since everything her father had owned had passed to her in his will.

  That thought was enough to give her pause. Uh-oh, she thought. If any of this comes to light, he’ll think I’m doing it on purpose just to get at his money. But it wasn’t about the money, not at all. Could she make him understand that, if and when the time came?

  With her hand on the wrought-iron staircase railing, she stopped. Whenever they got around to it, there would be a lot more to explain than her reasons for being there. What, exactly, had happened between them yesterday?

  She remembered the kiss clearly and the surge of heat that had built up in her belly at the thought of what might follow it. But for the rest of the day, he’d either ignored it or acted more like her big brother. She knew she’d cried herself to sleep in his arms and she was grateful to him for letting her get it out of her system. But there hadn’t been a word about feelings deeper than sympathy.

  Was she making more of the kiss than she should?

  No, she thought. I know what I felt, and it wasn’t anything I’ve felt before.

  She thought back to Joey, her longest relationship up to that point. She’d met him at a museum fundraiser. He was an independent filmmaker, a boisterous Italian whose parents and grandparents owned a restaurant in North Beach. His lively brown eyes and ready smile had convinced her to go on a date with him. He’d taken her to a trendy Mexican restaurant in the Mission, followed by drinks and dancing on the top floor of the Hyatt downtown. The conversation had been light and easy, sprinkled with enough laughs so that she felt comfortable agreeing to a second date and then a third and fourth.

  Over time, they settled into a routine that was as comfortable as their dates. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, they went out to eat and he slept over at her place. On weekends, they’d have brunch at their favorite crepe restaurant and then catch a movie, visit Golden Gate Park or scout out new locations for his films.

  Although she tried very hard to convince herself she was in love with him, Ella always felt there was an invisible pane of glass between them, separating their thoughts and emotions. They could share a bottle of wine and laugh at the same jokes, but when she kissed him or looked deeply into his eyes, she was never sure of what she found there. It never made her body burn the way a single touch of Sébastien’s lips had.

  With the benefit of hindsight, she realized that should have been a warning sign. Joey had never seemed very interested in her hobbies, interests or even her work, but he’d always paid close attention to her schedule so they could coordinate their time together. She’d gone with him to several film shoots and he’d followed her to a couple of gemology conventions, but never into a client’s home or workplace.

  Then, as they were considering moving in together, he’d been arrested for burglary. The cops had found him robbing a wealthy socialite who lived in Russian Hill—a woman whose famous ruby and diamond necklace she’d appraised just two weeks ago.

  Once she and the cops put two and two together, they matched up a string of break-ins and robberies to jobs she’d worked. The only link between them was Joey. At the police station, he confessed that he and several of his brothers had been using her client information to set up robberies for about a year. It had taken that long for Joey to win her trust and get access to her computer files, where she stored her inventories and photographs.

  In the cold, dreary police station, she’d confronted him and asked him point-blank whether it had all been real or just a set-up. With his trademark smile, he’d chucked her under the chin. “Cheer up, baby,” he’d said. “I ain’t never had a better score and that’s the truth.” Then the cops led him away in shackles, his laughter echoing against the walls of the empty holding cell.

  Never again, she swore. How could she ever be sure a man wasn’t using her? She’d fallen hook, line, and sinker for Joey’s trail of lies. She’d had to go home and pack up his things, dropping the sealed box on the doorstep of his parents’ restaurant. It was just like packing up her father’s things, before the child protective services agents dropped her with her aunt and uncle.

  The lesson she’d learned was that whether it was their own fault or not, men left her. It might be through tragic violence, as with her father. Or it might be through their own greed and duplicity, as with Joey. Whatever the reason, the only way to avoid it was to avoid entanglements of any kind.

  And she had. Diving into her work, she’d gained the museum’s full trust and become their preferred freelance gem historian. Although she spent every night alone with books and the television, she went to sleep at night knowing everything would be exactly the same in the morning. No threats, no surprises, no disappointments. And with every job, she kept an eye out for jewels or stones that could have come from her father’s collection—which was what had brought her here.

  You have a job to do, she told herself. So stop mooning over the past and get to it.

  She continued down the staircase and poked her head into a series of rooms, each more beautiful than the last, until she found the conservatory. A miniature atrium, the room contained a high glass ceiling that looked out on the sky above and a cluster of wrought-iron
furniture. Delicate planters lined the walls, with tiny fruit trees and miniature rose bushes. A wrought-iron sideboard held a pastry tray and a coffee set, bookended on either side with Roman-style columns holding enormous urns of flowers.

  Sébastien sat at the table, holding a newspaper. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit and black patent leather dress shoes. His hair was sculpted and gelled, just like on the morning they’d first met. Was that only yesterday morning? Ella thought, unable to believe how much had happened since then.

  When he heard the click of her shoes, he lowered the newspaper to greet her. By the look on his face, she guessed she looked quite a bit better than she had last night. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he blinked quickly to clear his head.

  Ella tried hard to hold back a smile. “Thanks for telling Frau Müller to find me some clothes. This is much better than my dirty, sweaty clothes from yesterday.”

  “You look amazing,” he said, eyes traveling from the prim just-above-the-knee hem to the cinched waist. “A string of pearls and you’d be a president’s wife.”

  Ella smoothed the dress’s skirt proudly. “Frau Müller’s note said your mother had this made in Paris in 1961. She never wore it.”

  “Her loss,” Sébastien said, tossing the paper onto an empty chair.

  There was a bitterness in his tone that she didn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole. It wasn’t any of her business how he felt about his mother’s shopping habits. But there was one thing she did want to bring up before the events of the day overwhelmed them both. “Sébastien, thank you for listening to me last night. I woke up this morning and I felt lighter that I have in years. You were right. I just needed to let some of it out.”

  “No kid should have to see what you saw.”

  “I’ll never be completely rid of it,” she said. “But thanks to you, I do feel like I’m a bit more in control today. What’s going to happen next?”