by Carolyn Zane
In the full-length mirror across the room she studied the strange apparition that was her reflection. Was she trying to attract Sebastian or scare him to death? The gold lamé dress she wore could surely be detected by radar and, like the ones on Ona Parnell’s feet, the pointy, super high-heeled boots could put an eye out. Her new hair, makeup and nail styles also had a space-age quality, all spiky and metallic and—she was assured by her sisters—sexy.
Marie-Claire worried her glittery lower lip with her teeth. She’d made the mistake of telling her sisters she wanted to look a little naughty. Decadent.
Wicked.
In the nicest possible sense of the word, of course. Well, they’d taken the ball and run, and now, Marie-Claire turned and glanced over her shoulder to inspect her backside, she feared Cruella De Vil would look like a nun in comparison. Never mind. Her gaze traveled back to her bed. Surely something from this pile of spare auto parts that passed for the world of fashion’s finest would make Sebastian sit up and realize that she was no sister of his.
Anxiously, she fingered the sleeve of a faux zebra coat.
But what if he didn’t?
Suddenly depressed, Marie-Claire sagged to the edge of her mattress. She absolutely hated everything she’d bought, and couldn’t imagine anyone in their right mind going out in public in any of this stuff. She wanted her old life back. A tear slowly rolled down her cheek. She wanted her Papa back. Her legitimacy back. Her boyfriend back.
With a bang, her bedroom door burst open. Wearing their own purchases from today’s Parisian fashion extravaganza, Lise and Ariane swept into her room, full of life and ready to party. She swiped at her tears with her pinky fingers and forced herself to smile. Ariane looked fetching in her micro-mini and peacock feather vest and Lise was all the modern mommy in a tummy-hugging tube gown that had her taking tiny, shuffling steps.
Yes. It took guts to pull off a bold fashion statement, Marie-Claire decided. More guts than she had. Though, she had to admit that her sisters did look chic in a garish, avantgarde sort of way.
“Marie-Claire! You look fabulous!” they gushed when they saw her hunched at the edge of her bed.
“Doesn’t she look fabulous?”
“Fabulous.”
Marie-Claire harrumphed. “I look like a satellite dish with cleavage.”
“No! You’re perfect! Isn’t she perfect, Lise?”
“Perfect.”
“You don’t think the hat is too much?”
Lise gave her head an emphatic shake. “No! All that’s coming back into vogue, you know.”
“No.” Heaven forbid. Marie-Claire fingered her crazy headdress. Her neck was killing her and the night had only just begun.
“I have a date all sewn up for you,” Ariane announced as she made herself at home at Marie-Claire’s vanity and began applying a coat of silver lipstick. “He’s not perfect, but on such short notice, it was the best I could do.”
“What’s wrong with him?
“Well, he’s a little young.”
“How young?”
“He’s not jailbait, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
Marie-Claire dropped her face into her hands and moaned. “What have you done? Who is this…date?”
“Why worry yourself unnecessarily about who he is? Let it be a surprise. In the meantime, spritz your hair with that glitter spray you paid a fortune for today. We’ve got a party to attend.”
Chapter Nine
The Crystal Ballroom had become an undulating mass of humanity. From where she stood with her sisters at the top of the stairs, Marie-Claire could see a popular British rock band up high on the main stage, their throbbing bass beat underscoring the din of conversation and laughter. Colored spotlights hit the giant Austrian-crystal chandeliers, scattering tiny rainbow prisms like fireflies over the band and revelers.
The party, open to the public at a minimal cost, was designed as a continental nose-thumbing at Rhineland. To show solidarity and independence, as it were, among the people of St. Michel. That being the case, security guards were roaming in abundance. Everywhere, the St. Michel flag was proudly displayed, and the festive décor reflected the country’s colors of gold, white and royal purple.
This would be a night to remember.
Hand to banister, Marie-Claire clutched the highly polished wood and attempted to slow her breathing and gather her nerve. Sebastian was somewhere in this room. Like the princess who knew there was a pea under her stack of mattresses, she could feel him in the crowd. Trying to appear blasé, she allowed her gaze to drift like a feather on a light breeze.
“Celeste is here,” Lise said, lifting her voice to be heard above the ruckus and, leaning toward Marie-Claire, pointed out their stepmother.
“Mmm.”
“Gauging from her outfit, it would seem she is tired of mourning already.” Ariane snorted. “She is dressed more ridiculously than we are. What on earth is she trying to prove?”
“And who is that she’s flirting with?” Lise squinted over Ariane’s shoulder.
“He is paparazzi.”
“Oh, great.” Sighing heavily, Marie-Claire covered her face with her hands and groaned. “Could my life get any weirder?”
“Is that Luc Dumont?” Ariane leaned back and pointed to another corner of the room. All three heads swung to see.
“Where?”
“Over there…see the woman in that garish, multicolored, retro caftan? Behind her.”
Marie-Claire looked in the direction Ariane’s finger pointed. “The woman in the garish caftan is Claudette LeMarc.”
Sure enough, the ebullient Claudette snagged a drink from a passing tray and seemed unaware that she was the object of such intense scrutiny as she tapped her feet and snapped her fingers to the beat of the music. She was obviously having a ball, surrounded by socialite girlfriends, equally snooty. And equally inebriated.
“And, yes,” Marie-Claire said and frowned, “the guy behind her is Luc. I wonder what he’s doing here? I thought Simone let him go?”
“From the way he is staring, I think maybe he has a hankering for Claudette.” Ariane and Lise giggled.
Marie-Claire relaxed enough to allow herself a smile until she noticed who was standing not five paces from Claudette.
Sebastian.
As if she were dangling from a cliff, her vital functions seemed to suspend with the emotions—supposedly forbidden—that coursed through her. Desire, fright and excitement all warred within for dominance.
He seemed to feel her gaze the second she spotted him. Their eyes met in a collision so jarring, the controlled mayhem faded away and they became the only two people in the room. Head tilted back, Sebastian’s thickly lashed eyes were at half mast, slowly perusing her from head to toe and finally settling on her face. His expression betrayed his less-than-brotherly interest. Her bashful gaze dipped and rose again only to have her smile flash-freeze and her rapidly pumping heart crash into her stomach, a leaden, lifeless lump.
Veronike.
How had she failed to notice Veronike Schroeder plastered to his side like a blond body cast? Jealousy sliced through Marie-Claire as she watched Veronike whisper something to Sebastian and then laugh her throaty, husky, steamy-hot, wide-mouthed, disgusting laugh.
“She laughs like a braying donkey.” Ariane sniffed, and threw a sisterly arm around Marie-Claire’s waist. Lise squeezed her shoulder. “And in that plunging neckline, she looks like a dairy cow.”
Marie-Claire shot them tremulous smiles of gratitude, even as her heart was dissolving. She blinked back the tears.
“Belly-breathe, Marie-Claire,” Ariane advised. “You’re looking a little pale.”
“Don’t let Veronike get your goat, honey. She’s not worth getting upset over.”
Like the managers of a prize fighter, Lise and Ariane rubbed her arms and patted her back and spoke words meant to encourage. Glassy-eyed, Marie-Claire soaked it all in and knew that she had to listen or run. And Marie-Claire never
ran.
Her sisters were right. She wasn’t going to let some braying bovine get the better of her. She was a de Bergeron! Anger sluiced through her, roiling in her gut, routing out the fear.
“Now, laugh, Marie-Claire. Show them what you’re made of.”
Obediently, Marie-Claire opened her mouth wide and, shoulders bobbing, hooted.
“Is she laughing or crying?” Lise wondered.
“Can’t tell.” Ariane peered into Marie-Claire’s face. “Are you all right, Marie-Claire?”
“Fine,” Marie-Claire gritted and swiped at the tears that swam in her eyes. So. It seemed that whatever remorse Sebastian had felt over losing her was short-lived. Well. She clamped her mouth shut. If he could recover from undying love overnight, she guessed she could, too. Sebastian LeMarc would soon see that she did not need him to have a good time. She did not need him to go on living. Breathing.
Standing.
Marie-Claire clutched at Ariane’s arm with both hands and, inhaling deeply through her nose, squared her shoulders. She, too, had a date. Somewhere.
“Ariane?” she chirped. “My date?”
“Oh. Ahhh, yes. Your…date.”
She followed Ariane’s guilty gaze down the long stair to…Eduardo Van Groober.
Marie-Claire’s momentary burst of confidence took a direct hit.
“Eduardo?” she asked dully.
“Should I have warned you?”
“You should have shot me.”
“Smile,” Ariane said, “everyone is looking.”
Indeed, everyone was looking. Paparazzi flashes strobed and Marie-Claire was momentarily blinded.
Fumbling, bumbling, stumbling, Eduardo took the stairs three at a time, a mangled corsage in one hand, and a pearl-headed corsage pin in the other. “Oh, Marie-Claire. You look, you look, you’re…très chic!” When he reached her, he was breathing hard and reeling with zeal. “I brought you a corsage. Here, I can…pin…somewhere…just…”
Unprepared for his effusive welcome, Marie-Claire—still blinded and teetering on Ona-style shoes—was thrown off balance when the tip of Eduardo’s three-inch pin found the soft flesh above her breast. Surprised by the stabbing pain, Marie-Claire’s ankles collapsed and she rode the sides of her feet down several steps before she managed to grasp the railing.
Ariane and Eduardo rushed after her, while at the same time a concerned Lise hippity-hopped about in her tube dress, trying to catch an avalanche of faux grapes and bananas before they escaped.
Fortunately, it worked.
Unfortunately, a heel had snapped off one of her fancy butt-kickin’ shoes.
Fortunately, she never planned on wearing this garish outfit again.
Unfortunately, her rather skimpy gold lamé dress had ridden up her thighs and her hat was now on backwards.
Fortunately, Marie-Claire no longer cared if she lived or died.
Sebastian’s heart lurched into his throat as he watched Marie-Claire stumble and then right herself. He took a step forward, but a surge of men beat him to the punch and he could see that she already had plenty of eager assistance. Frustrated beyond belief, he ran a hand over his jaw and around to the stiff muscles at the back of his neck.
Tonight, Marie-Claire was more beautiful than ever before. Her leggy figure was enveloped in some kind of formfitting, shiny gold dress that accentuated her perfect curves and had every man in the room drooling. Her long, shapely legs appeared even longer in those wild, metallic boots and her hair and makeup were amazing. Trendy. Space-age. Beautiful. She looked like something straight off a Paris catwalk, and Veronike, though she pretended disdain, knew it.
Beads of sweat broke out on his brow and his Adam’s apple worked against his bow tie. Searing jealousy, not only of Eduardo, but of every man in the damned room who was fawning over Marie-Claire and helping her right her hat and dress and…fruit, clawed at his heart.
Out of the benevolent bedlam that swirled around him, came a deeply melancholy moment.
How the hell had it come to this? Mere weeks ago, they were the happy couple. And now, here he stood, holding up the limp and clinging Veronike, and Marie-Claire was dating the Van Groober boy.
Certainly, Eduardo was more her own age, but really, was she interested in him? It sure looked like it, by the way she was fawning over the corsage he’d just pinned to her breast.
“The children seem to be enjoying themselves,” Veronike murmured, gesturing to the stairs. “It looks as if little Marie-Claire has finally got herself a boyfriend. He’s cute. He seems to make her very happy.”
Sebastian had to admit it looked as if she was right. Head thrown back, Marie-Claire was laughing gaily at something witty Eduardo had just said.
“Marie-Claire, I’m so sorry. You’re…you’re bleeding there.”
Sucking her breath between her teeth, Marie-Claire’s head fell back and she winced at the ceiling. She tried to swallow her groans of pain and reassure him, but the pin had plunged deep into the muscle, and it hurt like the dickens. She wondered when she’d had her last tetanus booster. She forced herself to emit some strangled laughter in order to spare his feelings. “It’ll be all right, Eduardo.”
“Oh, good.” Relief flooded his face, causing his freckles to blend back into his usually ruddy complexion. “Would you care to dance?”
“Uh, well, Eduardo, actually, I’d like to make it down the stairs in one piece first, and then we’ll see, all right?”
“Right! Allow me.” He held out his arm and miraculously, they descended the stair without further mishap. “One time, I was working with my dad out in the palace garden, when I was a little kid and I stepped on this nail—”
“Isn’t that nice?” On autopilot, Marie-Claire smiled and nodded, mentally measuring the distance between her and Sebastian.
“—and I had to go to the hospital and have surgery, because it tore up a bunch of ligaments—”
“That’s great!” He was not five meters away. And, he was watching her. Marie-Claire felt her stomach turn to liquid.
“—thought I’d never walk again, but I did! But the only sport I could play was golf—”
Marie-Claire stared past Sebastian as if he wasn’t there, even though she mentally documented and categorized every breath he took.
“—because I was so clumsy and so she was really scared after I broke my leg in our school’s production of Les Mis—”
“That must have been fun.” Marie-Claire managed to trump up some more happy-go-lucky laughter and feared that her face would crack with the continual effort. And, though she stared at Eduardo as if his conversation was riveting, she never lost track of Sebastian’s whereabouts.
Even across the room, she could feel the raw sexuality Sebastian exuded. Every woman could, it seemed. Even Grandmama Simone, who was currently pestering him for a dance. The gentle way he took the elderly woman into his arms had Marie-Claire smiling in spite of herself. The fact that he was dancing with a queen seemed not to faze him, the way it would have other men in the room. The old girl suddenly looked sixty years younger in his arms.
When the song had ended, Sebastian returned Simone to the sidelines and thanked her for the dance. The entire time they had moved about the floor, he could tell he was being scrutinized. Dissected. It seemed to him Simone thought that if by staring hard enough, she could see the shadow of her Philippe in his expression. She seemed blue and it occurred to Sebastian that on a night not at all unlike this, Simone had lost her only son.
With a squeeze of her knobby hands, he kissed the powdery-soft, paper-thin flesh of her cheek and whispered, “Adieu.”
Her smile was half-hearted as she whispered back, “Adieu,” with a ring of finality that had him wondering what exactly she knew in her heart.
Alone at last, Sebastian turned his attentions to spotting Marie-Claire. He found her with Eduardo who was asserting his manhood by seizing Marie-Claire and pressing her to his scrawny chest. In a clench that nearly lifted her feet from the
floor, he steered her through the crowd, his ill-defined style all jerks and stops like a dog with a rag doll. A lesser woman would have cried whiplash and begged off. Yet, Marie-Claire managed to extricate herself from his clutches and make him look like a halfway decent partner.
Ignoring Eduardo, no doubt out of self-preservation more than anything, Marie-Claire’s eyes fell closed and her hips swayed. Sebastian felt his chest tighten. She was a wonderful dancer, seeming to feel the music and letting it flow through her body.
With a groan, Sebastian flexed his hands and fought his never-ending reactions to her. Would it be like this for the rest of his life? If she were indeed his sister, every moment they spent in the same room together would be sheer hell. There was no way on God’s green earth that he was going to be able to live like this, wanting something just out of his grasp but never having satisfaction.
If Claudette was telling the truth, there was only one way this thing could go. One of them would have to leave St. Michel.
Forever.
Exhausted from what seemed like an eon of being dragged around the dance floor by the sweaty Eduardo, Marie-Claire beseeched him to find her a cup of punch. Thirsty himself, Eduardo trotted in search of beverages, while Marie-Claire found a vacant chair off in a corner alone. Wearily, she sat, feeling the ache of every bone in her body. Making Sebastian notice what a wonderful time she was having without him was hideous work. Especially in a pair of boots that sported only one heel.
While she waited for Eduardo to bring her a cup of punch, she scanned the room for Sebastian and, unfortunately, found him, dancing once again with Veronike. Morbid fascination held Marie-Claire in its grip and she watched Veronike provocatively thrust her pelvis in time to the music. Like a cat in heat, she strutted in tight circles around Sebastian, rubbing her voluptuous body up against his and smiling a half-awake Marilyn Monroe-type smile. Marie-Claire could practically hear her purr.
In comparison to the flashy, experienced Veronike, Marie-Claire felt like a clunker limping along on a flat tire.
Luc Dumont moved to stand next to Marie-Claire and indicated Veronike with a nod of his head. “I never did learn how to dance.”