“Oh, about… nine or so.”
“Nine,” she repeated flatly. When he offered nothing else, she asked, exasperated, “So her husband is upstairs alone?”
He shook his head. “No, actually, he left just after she did.”
She missed him? No longer wishing to hide her annoyance, she threw her hands wide, knocking the glass display case with her parasol. “Well, don’t make me wait, where did they go?”
He gaped at her in feigned shock, then placed one palm wide on his expensive linen shirt. “Madame Comtesse, surely you realize it is not my place to ask.”
Claudette felt her face flush with renewed anger. She could think of no greater satisfaction than to strangle the information out of him. Little ant. But before she dared begin a tirade of vile comments, the door behind her swung wide as two large ladies entered, clearly a mother and daughter, talking and laughing between them, disrupting her delicate interrogation.
Normand applied a charming expression to his face and quickly turned his attention to them. “Madame et Mademoiselle Tanquay. How wonderful to see you this bright morning. I will be with you shortly.”
She didn’t have time for this. “Normand—”
“Madame Comtesse,” he interrupted, rotating back to her, “may I speak with you for a moment in the salon?”
Claudette’s mouth opened a fraction in surprise, then she caught herself and smiled satisfactorily, realizing that he finally might actually have some useful information to share. “Of course,” she replied, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders, then turning her back on him to lead the way.
He followed closely behind her, and as soon as they entered the semiprivate sitting room, she turned on him again, her bearing composed, her expression hard with impatience. “What do you have for me, Normand?” she demanded curtly.
He took his time, rubbing his jaw with his palm as he glanced over his shoulder, peeking around the partially drawn red drapes to check on his customers, now engrossed in the little sachets of various scents on the shelf behind the display case as they sniffed and chattered.
Claudette waited, her irritation growing, knowing his reluctance to engage her was purposeful as he made her anticipate the information—for which he would no doubt expect a reward. She truly despised him.
At last, he gave her his full attention. “I know something…” he drawled, his voice lowered.
“Of course you do,” she snapped. “You couldn’t possibly think I’d step back into this ugly red salon for champagne and seasonal scent sampling with you.”
That snide remark didn’t daunt him at all. Smiling pleasantly, he said, “I’ll need to be compensated, naturally.”
Normand the ant. So predictable. “What is it?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and took a step closer to her. “I particularly like that diamond bracelet you’re wearing.”
She followed his gaze to her left wrist where, in all its glory, dangled twenty karats of exquisite stones, purchased for her by her first husband some fifteen years ago. It was by far her best piece of jewelry, worn to only the finest occasions, as last night’s ball was supposed to be. His suggestion, his apparent belief that she’d even consider giving it to him, appalled her beyond description.
“You can’t be serious,” she seethed in astonishment. “You have clearly lost your mind, Normand, if you think I’d stand here and give you diamonds—these diamonds—for little bits of old news.”
He sighed with exaggeration, shaking his head as he glanced down to the tips of his shiny black shoes, rubbing one back and forth across the carpet.
“I think, madame, that I might reconsider if I were you. The… uh… information that I alone possess is quite probably worth it.” He looked back into her eyes. “At least to you.”
For the first time since she’d known the man, he actually gave her pause. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him so arrogant, so sure that he held her under his command, at least for the moment.
“What is your point, Normand?” she asked very carefully, making it clear by her gravely soft voice and rigid stance that she wasn’t to be toyed with any longer.
He tossed a look over his shoulder again, stalling. Then he leaned toward her and murmured, “I believe I’d like the bracelet first.”
She absolutely could not believe his audacity. Tipping her head to the side, she sneered. “Tell me where they are, where they went, and I’ll consider it.”
He snickered and scratched his side whiskers. “Oh, Madame Comtesse, I know so much more than that.”
Again he’d startled her, and she blinked quickly, looking him up and down, her features contorted in disbelieving disgust.
“The bracelet?” he said again, holding his hand out, palm up.
She wanted to kill him—but not before she found out what details he actually held; his self-satisfied grin alone expressed the urgency about what he knew, which in itself told her much. He never would have demanded anything of such great personal value to her without good reason. Normand might be a sorry little bastard, but he wasn’t stupid.
Tossing her parasol on the velveteen sofa behind her, she practically ripped the diamonds from her wrist. “You know I’ll get it back,” she warned with a scathing glare. “I’ll have you arrested for theft.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” he countered at once, amiably. “I’ll have it picked apart and sold in pieces before noon. I have… acquaintances, shall we say, who do that. For a small fee, of course.”
She hated him. She really did. Nostrils flaring, her face tight with rage, she threw the bracelet at him hard, hitting him in the chest, where he caught it easily with one hand.
“Tell me,” she demanded through clenched teeth, squeezing her hands into fists at her sides.
He waited, purposely defying her as he raised the jewels up for inspection, each diamond reflecting rays of sunlight from a nearby window as he twisted it around with his thumb and forefinger.
“Normand, I swear to you—”
He snapped his palm over the bracelet and grinned. “Perhaps you’d like to sit.”
She leaned into him. “Tell me now, you little toad, or so help me I’ll stab you in the throat with my parasol and leave you here to bleed to death on this ugly red carpet.”
That threat didn’t even make him blink. He continued to smile at her as he said matter-of-factly, “I’d be willing to bet this lovely piece of jewelry that they’re both on their way to Grasse.”
She gasped, gaping at him. “That’s it?”
“Noooo…”
Claudette was ready to explode, her temper made worse because he knew it.
“Now think, Madame Comtesse,” he continued very quietly, his eyes narrowing as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his morning suit. “Why do you think they’d travel to Grasse?”
Something troubling started gnawing at her, deep in her gut, making her waver, a notion as yet undefined. “Why do you think they’re going there, Normand?” she returned, her voice deadly tight.
He inhaled deeply and bopped up on his toes again. “I think they’re on their way to confront the man they believe is Olivia’s husband who is now in the process of attempting to swindle Brigitte Marcotte of Govance.”
Claudette just stared at him, then shook her head in tiny movements, thoroughly confused. And then, like a clap of nearby thunder, the truth sliced through her and she jumped back from him, wide-eyed and stunned beyond all thought, caught up in a storm of pure disbelief.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered as the room started to spin before her.
With an agreeable air, Normand asked, “Would you like to sit now?”
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Her legs gave way beneath her and she tripped on the hem of her skirt as she backed up a step, falling onto the sofa, her derrière plopping down on her expensive parasol without notice.
It took several long, painful seconds for her to come to terms with such a staggering and potentiall
y perilous development. She just stared at the carpeting, shaking as she began to perspire from head to foot, began to understand what had taken place without her knowledge, without her insight, began to understand what would soon be happening in Grasse, as she sat here blindly ignorant, piecing together the horrible truth.
Samson was here. Sam had come to France, secretly, at Olivia’s bidding, or maybe even with her. She had gone in search of her wayward husband, not in Grasse as assumed, but in England, alone, and had come home with Sam instead.
Samson and Olivia.
Holy Mother of God.
Her gaze slowly drifted up to Normand, who stood exactly as he had before, bopping up and down on his toes, a smug little grin on his despicable mouth.
“You knew,” she whispered.
He shrugged. “I guessed.”
Never had she felt such a mixture of base emotions pass through her in a moment’s time—confusion, frustration, fear, and pure rage. Mostly rage, directed at herself for being so completely dense to the facts staring her straight in the face for the last several days.
She should have guessed the ruse as Normand had, and faster. She should have known. All the telltale signs were there—Sam’s excellent dancing, his shorter hair, when Edmund was so vain about keeping it a certain length, his aloofness toward her even as she flirted, then her witnessing the shared intimate moment between him and her niece on the balcony. God, and she’d invited him to her room! No wonder he fled. She no doubt looked a fool to everybody, and Samson had certainly enjoyed her idiocy most of all.
“When?” she managed to croak out. “How did you know?”
“Monsieur? Le parfum, s’il vous plaît?”
Normand whirled around at the interruption, as startled by the two ladies behind him as she was.
An irrational fury seized her. “He’s engaged,” she articulated, her deep, anger-filled voice penetrating the walls.
Both women gawked at her. Then Normand stepped in to resurrect the encounter. “Give me just a moment, ladies, please? Choose any scent or item you like and for your patience I will honor you both by subtracting half of the sale price.”
They didn’t exactly thank him for his generosity, but they didn’t flee, either. Claudette ignored them as they hesitated for a few seconds, then turned and walked back toward the display cases, whispering between them.
Normand looked down at her again, his expression flat with annoyance, eyes narrowed.
She ignored that, too. “How did you guess?” she asked again, her sensibilities starting to return.
He sighed. “First, because he called her Livi—”
“Edmund despises names of endearment,” she cut in, clutching her rumpled skirt with both hands.
“Yes. I know,” Normand maintained, his tone cool. “That drew my suspicions immediately. But there was also something a bit more… subtle between them.”
“What?” she pressed, brows furrowed.
He grinned slyly, enjoying the moment for all it was worth. “There was the way he stared at her.”
“Stared at her?”
Gleefully, he leaned toward her and divulged, “I’d say he’s enthralled by her. As Olivia is by him.”
She felt heat suffuse her face, sweat bead on her upper lip, her heart begin to race.
This cannot be happening.
For the first time in her life Claudette thought she might actually faint. The red salon seemed to whirl around her in a crimson eddy, nauseating her, making her feel dizzy in the stuffy heat, in her suddenly squeezing stays and heavy, drooping gown.
She closed her eyes, inhaling as deeply as she could, then again, attempting to focus, to gain control of her senses and thoughts, to come to terms with everything this unexpected revelation could mean for her, and even for Edmund. For both of them as a couple. Everything had changed, and she needed to concentrate, to make some wise decisions now that Sam was involved and Olivia no doubt knew much of their scheme, if not all of it. Everything had changed, and she couldn’t possibly consider her options here, with the little ant leering at her.
With great aplomb she raised her lashes to gaze at Normand once more. He still watched her, though more with careful curiosity than with his former impertinence. She smiled at him wryly, her confidence returning. Then she slowly stood to meet the level of his bold gaze with her own, smoothing her skirts, and then her hair off her forehead, still beaded with perspiration.
“Well,” she said blandly, “I suppose I’ll need to prepare for a trip to Grasse.”
He smirked, bouncing up again on his toes. “I’m sure Monsieur Carlisle will be pleased to see you.”
She raised a brow. “I’m sure that he will.”
“And I have patrons who need my attention,” he carried on. “Then I’ll see someone about selling the diamonds.”
He’d said that out of pure spite, reminding her again what it cost her to be given details putting her one step ahead of them all. Frankly, it was a small price to pay for the edge—Samson and dear, sweet, little Olivia weren’t aware of what she knew.
Claudette reached behind her and grabbed her parasol. Then in two steps she was upon him. “Enjoy the money you make from my bracelet, Normand. I’m sure you’ll spend it wisely.”
He nodded once. “I’m sure that I will, Madame Comtesse. I wish you a safe and fruitful journey.”
With great joy, she rammed her parasol onto the top of his shoe, pressing down hard on his toes. “You’re a bastard, Normand.”
And then she moved past him, ignoring his sharp intake of breath and reddening face as she strode with head held high through Nivan and out the front door.
Chapter 14
The last thing Sam wanted to do was travel to Grasse. Jesus, the Mediterranean coast in June? It was hot enough already, and the sweltering heat of southern France would likely kill him. But that’s where his brother had taken up residence, and he wasn’t about to allow Olivia to travel there by herself, which, by default, made his feelings in the matter moot.
He had been waiting for Olivia, listening for her that early morning following their night of unexpected passion, knowing she might attempt to leave without him and head for Grasse alone. And when she tried to do exactly that, he was ready, following her out the door of Nivan and grasping her arm before she reached her waiting carriage.
Naturally, she’d been furious with him for discovering her intent to leave Paris in pursuit of Edmund herself, but he also realized the fault that made her want to run out on him lay entirely at his feet. He shouldn’t have kissed her, coaxed her to climax without her intention, without any consideration of the consequences, especially her feelings. And to take her against her kitchen wall, no less. God, what was he thinking? She’d bewitched him, enveloped him in some mysterious… power. A power she alone possessed, for in all of his good-for-nothing life of past relationships, he didn’t think any woman had made him feel the conflicting and unconventional things he felt for Olivia—the untempered lust, the aggravation, the need to tame and seduce and protect. Not even Claudette.
He simply couldn’t get her out of his mind, hadn’t been able to do so for even a minute since the night of their first meeting in England, a moment that now seemed a lifetime ago. But in every way he could imagine, she entranced and surprised him—her intelligence and unusually keen sense for business; her sweet, engaging laugh; her single-minded determination; and yes, even her innocence. And to make matters between them even more difficult, she truly had to be the most physically goddamned beautiful woman he’d ever seen or personally known. More than anything, though, she confused him to the point of irrationality, and not only was irrationality under any circumstance unlike him, his irrational actions concerning Olivia bothered him more than all the other factors combined.
He’d wanted her so badly the night of the ball, and in response to his urgent and inexplicable need to touch her, she had become desperate for him, even though she denied it. He knew the fairer sex and their responses t
oo well, and he didn’t think he’d been with a woman before who had been so ready and wet, had come so fast from his simple stroking. She’d nearly driven him over the edge, and certainly she could feel his response to her climax afterward, when he moved up against her so she could know what she did to him physically.
But was she a virgin? He still had to wonder. She’d reacted to his touch, but that didn’t necessarily mean she possessed any real experience. Yet just because she hadn’t lain with Edmund didn’t mean she hadn’t been bedded before, either. She was French, after all, nearly twenty-five years old, and every Frenchwoman he’d ever known had been rather promiscuous. But then maybe he was jaded by his past, which sometimes came back to overwhelm him, and haunt him, as it did by bringing Claudette into his life again after all these years.
Now at last they were nearly to Grasse, the final leg of their journey through Provence to the town of their destination, alone in their hired coach, for which he’d had to pay a pretty penny to ensure a private ride. Their trip thus far had been slow going, as it had rained lightly but steadily since they’d left the city and entered the countryside, only to return to full sunshine yesterday when they traveled through the Gorges Du Loup and passed through field after field of aroma-rich lavender.
He sensed they’d both begun to feel a building anxiousness this morning after a breakfast of tea and brioche, realizing they were almost there. That wasn’t to say Olivia was speaking to him, for in fact she refused to utter a word unless she found it positively necessary to do so. He’d allowed her separate quarters when they stopped for the evening, but only after threatening to hunt her down if she left without his knowledge in the middle of the night. He’d been fairly confident in her compliance, as they were traveling to the same place for a singular purpose, and in many respects she needed him, which probably made her all the angrier.
He watched her now as she sat across from him on the padded coach seat, her ivory fan clutched in her hands as they rested on her lap, her eyes closed from the bouncing and steady movement of the ride. Today she’d coiled her plaited hair on top of her head and donned a typical day gown in bright aqua silk, her first opportunity to wear something other than the dark blue traveling gown that she’d insisted was quite comfortable even when buttoned to the neck. Not that it hadn’t flattered her figure even then, as Sam decided he could appreciate every one of her attributes no matter what she wore. But of course today was different since they would very soon be confronting the man who had ruined her financially, the man who looked just like him but differed in every other way, and she evidently wanted to look her best and most confident. Her aqua gown, cut squarely and low across her bosom, enhanced her figure, her flushed cheeks and vivid blue eyes, and had to keep her cooler now that the summer heat had returned on the final day of their trip.
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