Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Isla
“Thank you for returning my call. I apologize for dragging you from your bed.”
I frown as a woman with a beautiful, lilting French accent responds that it’s always a pleasure to hear from him.
“Our wife is in need of your services.”
Our wife?
I shoot a glance at Brennan who is grinning.
Just who is Dorian speaking to?
Then it hits me. He said our wife . Not my wife.
He doesn’t care if this woman knows that he’ll be sharing me.
She responds with congratulations in French.
“We’ll be landing”—he checks his very pricey Bonds watch—”in half an hour or less.”
I took just enough years of the foreign language to understand that she is looking forward to seeing him soon.
After hanging up, he deposits his phone inside his suit coat .
“What was that about?”
“We have an appointment for you to select some suitable underthings for our honeymoon.”
“You’re a lech, Mr. Vale.”
He picks up my hand. In an old-world gesture, he raises it to his lips. “And you, Mrs. Vale, are a delectable morsel.”
Blushing furiously, I pull away from his grip.
What is it about this man that so completely unravels me?
In less time than I could have imagined, we’re on the ground, and a black SUV is waiting for us. The driver shakes hands with my men, and Dorian introduces us.
And surprising me, he reaches to pet Calypso. “And who might you be?”
“Calypso,” I respond.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Calypso.” As he bends down, she looks at him with long, slow blinks.
Brennan helps me into the vehicle, and this time, Calypso immediately relaxes, no doubt thanks to the little nugget that Brennan pulls from his pocket and gives to her.
Grinning, I look at him. “When did you stash some treats?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I believe in being prepared.”
“Where are we going?” I ask Dorian while our luggage is taken care of.
“French Quarter.”
“Oh? Are we staying there?”
“No.”
I don’t get anything else out of him other than the curt answer.
While he grabs his phone to respond to a text, Brennan captures my gaze. “You’ll like what he has in mind.”
I’m not sure I believe him.
Moments later, we’re being whisked through the city’s chaos and into the charming, historic, and crowded streets that are filled with people and jazz music.
The driver pulls to a stop on Royal in front of what appears to be an ordinary tourist shop offering masks and trinkets and proclaiming they have the coldest bottled water in town.
I look from the store front to Dorian. “Is this it?”
“Things aren’t always what they seem, are they, Isla?”
A dig at the way I switched places with my sister?
Brennan exits and offers his hand. Then I look to Dorian. “Is it okay to bring Calypso with me?” I’m not sure I want to leave her behind.
“She’ll be fine with me,” our driver promises.
I frown. “Really?”
“My wife is a cat foster mom with the local animal shelter. We have four of our own. Miss Calypso will be fine. I promise.”
I fuss for a bit as Brennan helps me unclip the sling, and I tell him where all the treats and toys are. “You know where I’ll be if you need anything.”
“We’ll be fine. Won’t we, Cally?” With a smile in my direction, he takes my pet from me.
Even though I’m looking over my shoulder, keeping an eye on her as Dorian guides me to the sidewalk, she doesn’t even look in my direction.
I hear his soft voice as he places her in the front seat next to him and belts the carrier into place.
Brennan strides ahead of me, shouldering through the open door of the shop, and I follow, Dorian’s strong fingers pressing firmly against the base of my spine.
A blast of chilled air hits me, followed by the faint, sweet scent of pralines, then the sharp tang of chicory-laced coffee from the shelves on the wall.
I’ve been in New Orleans a few times, and this seems no different than the dozens of tourist traps that I’ve visited.
A refrigerator is stocked with water, soda, and energy drinks.
There are racks of vibrant dresses, and shelves filled with impractical heels and sandals.
Carnival masks glare down from the walls with frozen, eerie grins.
Framed photos of trumpet players and French Quarter landmarks hang from the walls. And near the register, there’s a predictable assortment of trinkets including bracelets, packaged candies, even inspirational cards.
Frowning, I look at Dorian. This is where he brought me for “suitable underthings”? I’d expected something much more exclusive.
“Trust me,” Dorian murmurs, his voice low and close, brushing against my ear like a secret. His hand lingers at the small of my back, and I stiffen, resisting the urge to pull away.
Trust him? After everything?
A young man greets us from behind the counter, his smile polite but sharp edged, like he’s sizing us up. “Can I help you?”
Brennan raps his knuckles on a glass case. “Dorian Vale and Brennan West. Mademoiselle’s expecting us.”
“You’re welcome to go on back.” He gestures to a threshold I hadn’t noticed—a cascade of silver circles dangling like a shimmering curtain, catching the light in a hypnotic dance.
Once more, Brennan leads the way and holds the strands aside for me.
My breath catching from sudden nerves, I step through into another world.
Mirrors line the walls—some tall and framed, others tilted at odd angles—reflecting fragments of me back in a dizzying kaleidoscope.
A three-tiered chandelier drips crystals overhead, scattering prisms across the wooden floor, where white hexagonal tiles form an owl with piercing green eyes that seem to follow me.
Of course, Athena’s owl.
Have the symbols always been all around me without me realizing it?
In the middle of the space, I freeze.
Back here, there are expensive display cases. Polished wood gleams, and glass sparkles.
Lingerie spills from open drawers in waves of red, black, and soft pastels. There are racks of expensive designer dresses, along with a display case showcasing all kinds of different collars and toys that I can barely name, let alone imagine using.
Above it all are gilt-framed portraits of a ballerina, tracing a life through decades. She’s young in some, older in others, her poses laced with subtle hints of restraint—blindfolds, tied ankles, a collar glinting at her throat. My cheeks burn. Who is this woman?
My pulse flutters. The place is unsettling, making me feel as if I’ve stepped into a world I didn’t ask for and don’t want.
“Ah! Dorian!” A voice, rich and lilting with a French accent, cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
I turn as a woman emerges from a side door like a vision from another era.
She’s petite, almost fragile looking, but there’s a strength in her posture that belies her size. Her silver hair cascades past her waist, secured at the nape with a jeweled clip.
Her dress is a long, flowing gown of deep sapphire, shot through with threads of silver that catch the light, the fabric clinging to her tiny waist before flaring out in delicate pleats.
Her dark eyes twinkle with something knowing, and her smile is warm, genuine, pulling me in despite myself.
And suddenly my brain makes a connection. The ballerina in the gilt frames, poised in blindfolds and delicate restraints, is her. The intensity, the graceful curve of her neck—it’s unmistakable.
As she sweeps her hand wide, taking in me and Brennan, the woman’s bracelets chime. “Dorian, mon cher, always a delight to see you play the devil’s hand.”
“Mademoiselle,” Dorian says, offering a slight bow before kissing her cheeks. “You’re as stunning as ever.”
“Rogue charmer.” Her tone is teasing and fond.
Her gaze slides to Brennan, and her smile softens with equal warmth. “And Brennan, mon doux, you bring such quiet strength to this storm.” Her bracelets jangle as she pats his arm. “Always a pleasure to see you balance his fire.”
After he nods, she directs her intense attention to me, making me feel pinned, exposed. “You must be the new bride.” Her eyes narrow slightly, and a shadow of interest passes through them before she angles her head toward Dorian. “Though not the one you planned for, oui ?”
I frown. Not the one he planned for?
My gaze darts to Dorian, but his face is a mask, giving nothing away. “Very intuitive, Mademoiselle.” He nods. “I’d like to introduce our wife, Isla.”
“Enchanté, ma chère.” She takes my hands, her grip surprisingly firm. “I’m Mademoiselle Giselle. Welcome to l e Coin Secret de Giselle.”
Silently I translate as Giselle’s Secret Corner.
The name couldn’t be better. If I’d wandered in, I would never have suspected what lay hidden behind the tourist facade.
“Thank you.” My voice is thinner and higher than I’d like.
If I hadn’t had so many years of etiquette training, I wouldn’t have been able to remember my manners at all.
Still, Mademoiselle’s energy is magnetic, overwhelming, and I’m not sure if I want to lean into it or run. She releases me, but her eyes linger, as if she’s peeling back layers I didn’t know I had .
Softer as if for my ears only, she adds, “Things unfold as they’re meant to, non?” Once more she smiles. “And the heart finds its way.”
My chest locks tight. Heart? No way. Not with him.
Clearing his throat, Dorian redirects the conversation. “We’re in need of your expertise.”
His hand brushes my arm, and I fight the urge to pull away.
“Are you?”
“Garments to suit our honeymoon. And dinner tonight at Vieille Rivière.”
“Ah.” Her eyes widen. Then she smiles knowingly. “I see.”
After gesturing to the displays with a wave that sets her bracelets chiming again, she tucks her arm inside mine. “Come with me, Isla.”
Once more swept away by something I don’t understand, I’m guided to a set of drawers near the mirrors, Brennan and Dorian trailing close behind.