A Second Chance at Paris

by Cole McCade

  The host looked uncomfortable. “But isn’t it true that most authors have no control over foreign rights and translations, and Mr. Blackwell likely had nothing to do with localization of his books? We can only hold him accountable for what he wrote in English. The rest is on the publishers and translators.”

  “For most authors, that would be true,” Madigan said triumphantly. “But I happen to know from an inside source that Mr. Blackwell exclusively handles all foreign rights. He was quite proud, in fact, of fighting to win that right from the publisher.”

  Inside source. Ion snorted; disgust soured in the back of his throat. He doubted the publicly available information on his registered LLC and her own assumptions counted as an inside source.

  “Before this interview,” the host said, “I spoke with a contact at Mr. Blackwell’s publisher. The run of books was pulled and stripped. It could have been an honest mistake.”

  “Only if ‘honest mistake’ means they’re covering because someone called them out.” Evelyn Madigan turned her gaze to the camera, as if looking right at him. Challenging him. “If he has nothing to be ashamed of, why won’t Mr. Blackwell appear to refute these allegations?”

  His upper lip curled. He flicked the TV off and leaned back, simmering. He could end this with one candid interview, but his pride rebelled. He’d never liked to put his life on camera. The books were for the public; his private life belonged to him. He was happy to meet his readers at book signings and publisher events, but he drew the line at reporters hovering over him like vultures. He wasn’t the story. Violet was.

  The right thing to do was be patient, bide his time, and keep fixing the problem behind the scenes. Let it blow over. Acting out of anger led to mistakes. He preferred to plan, wait for the right moment, arrange his chess pieces until he could make his finishing move.

  He would find a way to turn the Madigan situation to his advantage. He just had to wait.

  With a sigh, he sent Drake another text. So that’s why your eye’s been twitching. She’s good at making up the story that suits her and running with it.

  His phone buzzed a moment later. While you’re over there on cloud nine and more interested in getting tail.

  I’d appreciate it if you didn’t refer to her that way.

  A long pause before the next text came through. You’re that serious about this girl?

  I’d like to be. The situation’s… He hesitated, then stole Celeste’s word. …complicated.

  It’s never not complicated with you, Blackwell.

  Jealous?

  Please. I got over you by senior year. All that flowery crap cured me pretty damn fast.

  Ion laughed under his breath. Yet you became my loyal agent.

  Loyal to the paycheck. Speaking of which, let me know when you’re ready to condescend to get back to work.

  Almost done with book seven.

  Then I’m almost done with wanting to kill you.

  You say such loving things. Remind me why I pay you?

  Because I’m the only reason you are where you are. That, and I still have blackmail material. You. Tuba. All over Facebook.

  He smiled. Touché, he sent, then tucked his phone away and settled in to wait.

  At almost seven on the dot, his phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Celeste.

  Okay. <3 You can come up.

  He grinned and headed for the elevator. He could almost see the shy, excited smile behind that little texted heart, and couldn’t wait to find out what she’d been up to. Upstairs, he pushed the door open without knocking. “How much did you destr—”

  The words crumbled in his mouth the moment he saw her.

  A gauzy evening gown in black-to-midnight ombre flowed down her tall, slim body like a waterfall, clinging and sheer until, past her knees, it flared into a morning glory’s bell. Threads of silver darted through the dark fabric, like shooting stars over an endless sky fading into a deep horizon. The pale moons of her shoulders rose from the gathered, strapless sweetheart neckline, leaving that tempting, slender throat bare. She’d left her hair loose in tumbling sweeps, spilling over her shoulders and mixed with delicate skeins of spun silver.

  She watched him shyly, eyes nearly luminescent against a subtle sheen of smoky, storm-gray shadow, lips pulling into that uncertain, sweet smile that made him want to kiss her until they couldn’t breathe. The subtle gloss of shimmer highlighting their pink curves tempted him all the more. When she turned, the dress swirled around her, liquid and light. Strappy silver heels pattered soft as rainfall against the floor while the thin silver spirals dangling from her ears tinkled; the delicate silver bangles layered against one wrist chimed like crystalline bells.

  “Is it enough?” she asked breathlessly. “I wasn’t sure about ‘one step below black tie.’”

  It took several tries to speak, his mouth dry. His heart beat so wildly he feared it would crack open and spill over, and everything locked tightly inside would pour past his lips in a painful rush. “More than enough,” he managed after several careful breaths. He stepped closer and curled his hands against her hips gingerly, her warmth soaking into his palms. Right now she looked like, if he handled her too roughly, she’d burst into stardust and be gone forever. Just a dream, one he could shatter so easily. “You’re beautiful, Celeste.”

  She tilted her face up to him, the pink in her cheeks glowing. “More pretty words.”

  “That doesn’t make them less true.” His gaze trailed over her face, captivated by every tiny detail. “Ethereal.”

  She laughed, sweet and embarrassed, hands resting to his chest. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Can’t help it. I can’t look anywhere else.” He lingered on her bare throat, then remembered the box in his pocket. “But now I think what I picked out for you is definitely appropriate.”

  Her mouth drew into a curious little moue. “You got me something? You didn’t have to.”

  “I know. But you were stubborn about the dress.” At her guilty look, he chuckled and fished out the slim jewelry box, drawing back enough to flip it open. “You can at least accept this. I’m not returning it, even if you say no.”

  Her eyes widened; she drew in a sharp breath. A delicate necklace lay against a bed of dark blue velvet: two nested silver chains fine as spider’s silk, the shorter one supporting a finely-crafted diamond-studded silver cutout star, the longer with two asymmetrical stars tucked together. When he’d seen it, he’d known it was perfect—and warmth flushed through him at the look in her eyes when she reached out to touch it so lightly, as if she couldn’t believe it was really there.

  “Ion,” she breathed. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

  “Here.” He lifted the necklace out, then nudged her to turn. Carefully, he slipped it around her neck and fastened it against her nape. He couldn’t help grazing his fingers to her skin, savoring its warmth under his fingertips. “Perfect,” he murmured against her ear.

  The necklace lay in the hollow of her throat. She fingered it with a slow, soft smile. “I love it.”

  “I’m glad.”

  She turned to face him, her eyes bright as a clear twilight sky, and twined her fingers in his. “I have something for you, too.”

  He let her lead him toward the bed. She disentangled her hand from his and pushed him gently.

  “Lay down and close your eyes.”

  He eyed her, but sat down. “Little pointless to dress up if we’re going to end up straight in bed.”

  “Not for that, you lech.” She laughed, nearly vibrating with anticipation. “Humor me. Come on. Just do it.”

  “I’m doing it, I’m doing it.”

  Feeling rather silly, he lay against the pillows, folded his hands, and closed his eyes. A moment later came the snick of the light switch, then the indentation of her sliding into the bed, her warmth against him. Her hand covered his.

  “Okay,” she murmured. “You can look now.”

  He opened his eyes. Soft points of lig
ht filled his vision—tiny dots scattered across the ceiling, blue-white against slate. A galaxy, painted in miniscule glow-in-the-dark decals. There had to be hundreds, all painstakingly placed in patterns and clusters.

  He could pick out every constellation she’d taught him to find through night after night of stargazing, name one star after another, even the small red dot of Venus. He lingered, wondering with a quiet awe how she’d even managed this, until the gentle squeeze of her hand brought him back to his senses.

  “I have the same map on my ceiling back home,” she said, quiet in the dark between them. “The same constellations at the same time of year.” She laced their fingers together and turned her head to look at him with a tiny, almost secretive smile, as if this piece of magic was for them alone. “So wherever we are, we’re always looking up at the same sky.”

  He tore his gaze from the ceiling to watch her, almost nose to nose, his heart a wild thing, untamed in its breathless rush. She’d done this for him.

  So that even when she left, they wouldn’t be wholly apart.

  This was why he couldn’t stand to let her go. Why in so little time she’d found her way so deep inside him. When she was near his soul felt naked, and he couldn’t imagine the quiet monotony of his life once she was gone. He’d been content with his life before her—but now he knew he’d never be the same, and her absence would cut keenly on every breath.

  She worried at her lip, eyes wide and liquid in the dark. “Say something,” she whispered.

  “I don’t know what to say.” He brushed her hair from her face and traced the crest of her cheekbone. “It’s breathtaking, Cel. You’re breathtaking.”

  “That might be a little overboard.”

  “You wanted me to say something.” When she started to speak, he touched his fingers to her lips. “Don’t. Don’t deflect this time. Please. Let it be what it is. Let me be grateful for this. For you.”

  Her eyes flicked over his face before she nodded, that sweet smile returning. “I can do that.”

  They lay for some time, looking up at the stars. But those stars would be there later—forever, if he had a choice—and he wanted to give her another reason to smile; wanted to see that look of wonder light her eyes. He lifted their hands and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

  “Come with me,” he said. “Let me show you something I hope will be just as beautiful.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “If I told you that,” he said as he stole another kiss, “it would ruin the surprise.” He slid out of bed and tugged her hand. “Let’s go, beautiful. Paris awaits.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CELESTE HAD DONE A LOT of strange things in her life, but among the strangest had to be riding the Paris rail in full evening wear.

  No one even glanced at them as she tucked against Ion with her skirt pulled up to keep from dragging on the train floor, yet she felt oddly, deliciously self-conscious. As if the very oddity of this only highlighted that this night—their last night—would be special, with her dressed up like this was a life other than her own. And him so perfectly handsome, trim and courtly with a touch of Gypsy wildness, in his charcoal waistcoat and black slacks.

  Her heart jerked and fluttered like a balloon on the wind. It had started when he’d looked at her and said It’s breathtaking, Cel. You’re breathtaking, with those deep indigo eyes warm with appreciation—and had never stopped.

  No matter where they went tonight, she would be happy. As long as she got to have these last few moments before the reality of life intruded, and she would never see him again.

  The train ride lasted barely twenty minutes before they stepped off into the street. “Hurry,” Ion said and, laughing like a boy, led her at a sprint down the sidewalk, her dress gathered in one hand and tangling around her legs. Perfectly cultivated trees rose to either side of paved walkways that ended in a majestic, palatial villa, shining in the spotlights illuminating it against the night sky. Celeste watched with wide eyes as it loomed closer with every step.

  “The Versailles?” she asked. “Are we going on a tour?”

  “Not quite.”

  With his smile lit heart-stoppingly bright, he led her down the walk to the tiled cobbles leading through the entrance gate. The palace rose around them; Celeste forgot to breathe as she took it all in, spellbound by the majestic, soaring structures and ornate designs. She hardly noticed when Ion stopped to speak to someone and hand over their passes—and didn’t realize where he was leading her until he drew her along the path to the gardens.

  She tore her gaze from the lush, sprawling foliage. “It’s so empty. Are we supposed to be here?”

  “I bought out all the passes for the night.” His smile beckoned, fingers warm and tight on hers. “This is just for us.”

  He guided her on a winding path through verdant greenery that stretched on forever, trimmed into beautiful designs and gilt by soft lights. The scent of growing things rose bright and cool and damp all around them, mingling with the crispness of the night. She would have been content with just this—having the gardens of the Versailles all to themselves—but he led her to a long lawn framed by statues and ending in a pool overlooking a glimmering, dark canal. A reclining figure of Neptune presided over one end of the pool, gleaming in the evening light, watching bronze dragons twist through the glassy green water.

  Wordless, watching her, Ion drew her along the walk. Set back from the pool, a cloth-covered table had been set up on the stone cobbles, nestled in a corner and framed by tall, vividly green hedges laced with glimmering stardust motes of string lights. Covered dishes adorned the table; an attendant in a crisp tailcoat waited, shoulders a straight and militant line. Celeste drifted to a halt, taking in everything before looking at Ion.

  “Ion,” she breathed. “What is this?”

  “I thought dinner deserved a do-over, now that we can actually taste it.” He drew out a chair with a brief, courtly bow. “Please, sit. Dinner is only the beginning.”

  Celeste settled into the chair, looking up at the attendant, who made this seem so very formal and serious. The man stared straight ahead, motionless as one of the statues. She leaned across the table and whispered, “Is he going to stand there the whole time?”

  With a chuckle, Ion caught the attendant’s eye and rattled off something in fluid French. The man bowed with a stiff “Oui, merci” and walked away.

  Ion turned his amused smile on her. “Better?”

  “Much.” Celeste laughed into her hands, peeking over her fingertips. “I can’t believe you did this.”

  “You’re worth it.” He lifted the covers from the dishes. “More than worth it.”

  Rich, nuanced aromas rose as Ion served the food—homard en croûte and coquielles St.-Jacques and boullion de champignons comme un cappuccino, contrasted by the odd savory sweetness of clafoutis aux olives noires confites: lobster pot pie, gratineed scallops, and mushroom soup frothed to look like a rich creamy cappuccino, with a dessert of black olives candied in syrup and cooked into a soft cake. The tartly sweet fizz of champagne brought out every subtle flavor, and added to the brightness swirling inside her as Ion plied her with bite after bite. He could have seduced her with food alone, if he hadn’t already bewitched her by being himself.

  They talked as if she wasn’t leaving tomorrow. As if that ticking clock wasn’t counting down the hours until her flight. He told her more about the reporter baiting him with her malicious stories, then diverted her from her anger with tales of the trouble he and his sisters would get into as children and partners in crime. She had more than enough stories of her own; she and Ophelia had had many narrow escapes, and hadn’t understood the meaning of shouldn’t when they found a challenge.

  She loved knowing him like this. In high school, she’d thought she’d known everything about him. But it had all been surface—things learned from watching, listening to classroom gossip, barely skimming the shallowest depths of the deep sea running beneath his skin. She�
�d had no idea what laid beneath that surface.

  And it was painfully unfair that she only had the chance to find out now.

  After dessert Ion checked his watch, then set his champagne down. “Looks like we’ve finished right on time.”

  Celeste popped her last raspberry coated in absinthe pudding—petits pots á l’absinthe—into her mouth. “For what?”

  “You’ll see.” He offered his arm. “If you’ll allow me to escort you, Miss London.”

  “You are seriously such a dork.” But she laid her hand against his arm and rose.

  She’d follow anywhere he wanted to go.

  They strolled the walkways alongside the pool, quiet under the moonlight. Celeste leaned against Ion’s arm, content to be silent, to just be, and watch the lights glimmer on the water. He paused near the edge of the pool and drew her back a few steps.

  “Careful,” he said. “You’ll get wet.”

  “Wet?” She laughed. “I know I’m a little clumsy, but I’m not going to fall i—”

  Water jets erupted from the pool, shooting high overhead and shattering the mirror-like stillness into arcing streamers that wove into complex patterns like lace, turning on and off in synchronicity with a sweet trill of orchestral music. She gasped as brilliant colored lights blazed around each streamer, turning the spray into a rainbow of mist. Tilting her head back into the droplets breezing against her face, Celeste smiled, letting her lashes drift down.

  “Don’t close your eyes,” Ion murmured with a gentle nudge. “Look.”

  As her eyes slipped open, a high spiraling whistle split the night. The sky over the palace burst into bright firestar blossoms of every color. Fireworks showered sparks over the Versailles, lighting everything in flicker-flash shades of red and gold and violet and blue. Celeste’s heart leaped; she spread her arms with a laugh, wishing she could gather it all up and hold it close. This whole night, this whole experience—just wrap it up tight and hold it to her chest and keep it for her own.