Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Adrien
“Will that be all, Adrien?”
The table is set the way I want the night to feel—close.
Low candles, crystal that catches the city’s light, the plates near enough that reaching for her hand will never look like a reach.
The lamb Maria tucked into the oven perfumes the room with rosemary and promise, ready for me to retrieve.
The dining room was too performative. The Sanctuary’s restaurant, too public. I want her here.
Not only am I hoping she stays the night, but I’m also hoping that by inviting her to a place I typically don’t invite women, she’ll open up to me, perhaps be more open to inviting me into her space.
Why?
Because I want to know her. Is sex part of it? Without doubt. But it’s not all of it. I have questions I want answered. Doubts I want resolved.
“Adrien?” Maria lowers her coat, and I wave her on her way.
“It’s perfect, Maria.” I scan the setting one more time. “At least…if a man invited you over and he had this set up… Should I get her flowers?”
Maria’s grin spreads far too wide, and as she holds her coat against her chest, the odd sensation strikes that she might reach out and pull me into a hug.
“Whoever this lucky woman is, she’s going to love it. And flowers…” She lifts her shoulders and her lips pinch. “She’s coming to your place. But if you want, I can go to the florist—”
“Get out of here. I’m good. What time is your train?”
Maria has been working for me for almost two years, but she worked for the prior tenant for almost fifteen.
I inherited Maria when I purchased the condo.
We’ve been slowly getting to know each other, and while I haven’t yet met her family, I’m aware she commutes through Penn Station.
“This time of day, they leave regularly. You’re good?
” she asks, but she’s already stepping back in the direction of the door.
I surprised her when I arrived home this afternoon and asked her to stop cleaning the library and to instead spend her time preparing dinner for a guest.
Could I have ordered in? Yes, but take-away doesn’t feel as intimate as home-cooked.
Could I have cooked? Yes, but the likelihood that the result wouldn’t be palatable is too high.
Plus, I’m not sure where Maria keeps the fine china and crystal, but it sets a warmer tone than the black everyday china I use.
My phone vibrates and I pull it out of my trouser pocket, and when I look up from reading my sister’s name, it’s in time to see Maria waving as she steps through the kitchen into the hallway that leads to the foyer.
I smile and nod, and answer the phone with, “Margot.”
“Finally,” she says. “Have you been avoiding me?”
“No. I’ve been busy.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Tommy told me you had something going on and you’d tell me when you’re ready.”
The bastard. “Those things have made me busy.”
“Is your sex club about to get bad press?”
Direct and to the point and also making it clear her concern is for the family business and not me. “It’s not a sex club.”
I love my sister, but damn if she can’t be just as infuriating as our parents.
“If there’s some exposé coming, it’ll hit d’Avricourt Luxe. Your business may not be affiliated, but the distinction will not be clear in the papers. Dad will—”
“Margot. There’s no exposé. I had an employee who was… Well, he’s a traitor. I’m taking care of it. That’s all.”
“Oh. Do you have someone in human resources? I can send—”
“I’m good. Alicia Morgan is helping me handle it all, actually.”
“Ah. So that’s what she wanted with you. But it’s all under control now?”
“Yes.” I pointedly breathe heavily into the phone, letting my sister know she’s fraying my nerves. But, the truth is, while I want her out of my business, she’s right to ask. “If anything comes of this, I’ll give you a heads up.”
“With Alicia on it, you should be fine.”
“That’s what I hear.” Alicia is the older sister of one of Margot’s besties, and I swear she’s adored her for as long as I can remember. But, even without Margot’s connection, I would’ve heard of Alicia Morgan. She’s known as a fixer, and we share clientele.
“How are you doing?” I move into the living area and sink onto the couch, sitting where I will be certain to hear if the doorman buzzes.
“I’m fine.”
“And our parents?”
“Have you not spoken with them?”
There’s judgment in her tone, but I let my silence serve as answer.
“They’re good. In Greece at the moment. Staying with friends.”
“Dad’s really stepped away then?” I never thought he’d actually retire.
He sure as hell didn’t show any sign of willingly walking away when he wanted me to take over.
Of course, I never wanted to run the family business.
But it’s annoying that now that he finally allowed Margot at the helm he’s truly stepped away.
“His vacations get longer. I’m a little worried about Mom and I think he is too.”
“What’s wrong with Mom?”
“Some odd symptoms here and there. The doctors say it’s stress.”
“Hence the regular visits to islands?”
“It’s my theory.”
“What symptoms—” I’m interrupted by the loud buzz. I set the intercom to the max level so I’d be sure to hear.
“What’s that?”
“Someone’s here. I need to run. But Mom—”
“She’s fine. Don’t let it worry you. You go. I need to run too.”
“Isn’t it late there?”
“Yes, and I’m still in the office. I’m starving. I want to get out before the cafes close.”
“Go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve heard that one before.”
“Bye, Margot.”
The line clicks, and I look at the phone, finding it odd she didn’t say goodbye. But then the buzzer sounds once more, and since I’m right in front of it, it’s particularly loud.
I press the button. “Yes.”
“Mr. d’Avricourt, there’s a Ms. Anderson here to see you.”
“Please send her up.” I lower the volume to its lowest setting on the speaker, then move to open the door and wait, watching the numbers on the display above the elevator.
The doors slide open, and there she is.
Her long blonde hair falls in relaxed waves, and she’s in a mid-length champagne skirt and heeled boots with a champagne blouse. The soft slide of her boots over marble carries through the entryway, each step measured but confident.
She’s changed since I saw her earlier, and knowing she changed for dinner, refreshed her makeup, even going so far as to apply a floral fragrance, gives me hope for the night.
I also wonder…does she remember I told her I love her in skirts?
Earlier, she was in a sweater with jeans and sneakers.
And she, as always, looked lovely, but this…
She steps past me, through the doorway.
“You look beautiful.”
She lifts a bottle of wine and passes it to me. “Thank you for having me for dinner.”
The door closes behind me with a click that echoes down the hallway.
“Thank you for coming.” She steps to the side, waiting for me to lead the way, because she’s never been here before.
“The Sanctuary might have made more sense,” she says, those blue eyes glimmering with something…amusement, intrigue? Interest?
“I wanted you here, in my space,” I say, being as honest with her as I am with anyone. “Shall we? Would you like a glass of wine?”
“A glass of wine would be lovely.”
“You’re very formal tonight,” I say, meaning it as a tease.
“Well…I agreed to dinner, but it doesn’t change the fact one weekend doesn’t mean we know each other well, and—”
“Be prepared for questions. I want to change that.” She’s behind me, following me into the kitchen.
“And you’re also a client.”
I set the wine she brought on the counter and the glass clinks on the marble. “Come now. Let’s not pretend the unofficial group you’re working with cares about corporate guidelines.”
I open the drawers until I locate the wine opener.
“Nothing more happened since yesterday, by the way. He’s not in the server room. He seems to be overseeing the dinner service, but if we were there, we could keep a closer eye on him.”
“Perhaps tomorrow night I’ll take you to dinner in The Blue Room.” Her right eye squints, and I answer before she can ask. “It’s the name of one of the restaurants within The Sanctuary.”
“The Blue Room,” she repeats, accepting the glass of wine I pour. “Let me guess—blue velvet banquettes and mood lighting?”
“Actually, it’s named for the Picasso blue period piece on the wall. The décor is more understated.” I gesture toward the kitchen table. “But tonight, I prefer this.”
She settles into the chair I hold out for her, and I catch another hint of that floral scent—jasmine, maybe gardenia. Something that reminds me of Monaco nights. Of course, everything about her reminds me of those nights.
“This is lovely,” she says, taking in the candles, the view, the careful table arrangement. “You didn’t have to go to this trouble.”
“It wasn’t trouble. Maria did most of the work.” I pour wine into my own glass, then move to retrieve dinner from the oven. “Lamb with rosemary, roasted vegetables, and something she called ‘proper potatoes’—though I’m not sure what makes them more proper than regular potatoes.”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Proper potatoes are usually roasted with duck fat and herbs. Very British.”
“How do you know that?”
“My mother. She lived in London for two years when she was with the State Department. She came back with strong opinions about proper cooking methods.”
“That’s interesting. Maria’s not British.”
“Is she your cook?”
“Yes. House manager. Cooks a couple of meals a week. I eat out mostly.”
I serve the plates, pleased when she takes an appreciative bite. “Tell me about your parents. The truth this time.”
“Military family. Dad’s a retired Marine colonel, Mom was a translator before she became a full-time military wife.” She swirls her wine, considering. “We moved every few years. I went to high school in three different countries.”
“That explains the adaptability.”