Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
First Moment in Paris
The last thing Elizabeth wanted to do was spend an evening with Carrie Bingley, but she was the client and calling the shots. And, if for no other reason, to thank her for the luxury accommodations and first-class flight.
The gold-accented, elegant lobby greeted her when she exited the elevator to meet the woman William loved, ready to face the fallout of their drunken dalliance on the beach.
Unconsciously, she smoothed her hand down the off-the-shoulder, fitted, black cocktail dress she purchased for the evening.
She would worry about her credit card next month, but it was worth the treat, as were the pricey Louboutin heels.
She’d even twisted her hair up into a loose braid updo and wore the classy dangling earrings Guy had given her on her twenty-eighth birthday.
It wasn’t like she was trying to impress the woman.
Who was she kidding?
She was.
Walking down the long corridor toward the bar, she buoyed herself, whispering. “You’re just going to talk shop and prepare for tomorrow. That’s all. She doesn’t know what happened. She’d never be so tacky as to confront you publicly.”
Bar Vend?me. Taking a deep breath, she waited, eyes scanning the ruby-red colored restaurant filled with guests, heart hammering in her ear over the susurration.
Turning to face the empty hallway, she tried not to fidget and ignored her mobile’s vibration in her purse. No doubt, it was Jane for the fourth time since her arrival in Paris.
Then he caught her eye. “Oh my God. It can’t be.”
There he was, dressed in a dark gray suit and a maroon tie.
William seemed to float toward her in long strides of sexy swagger filled with confidence and power.
Her heart and stomach fluttered. Controlled and relaxed, he was truly a beautiful man, and people noticed.
He sucked the air out of the hotel just by his commanding physical presence.
Ten feet from her, the corner of his mouth lifted, and she was sure she would die.
“Good evening, Elizabeth,” he said in that honeyed, deep voice that always undid her.
“Howdy.”
He slightly smiled.
Looking over his shoulder, she prayed his fiancée was behind him. “Is ... is Carrie on her way?” she stammered.
“It’ll be just you and me,” he said unenthusiastically, then sighed.
“For the entire trip?”
“I suspect so.”
“She’s not in Paris—at all?”
“Nope.”
“Not even for her bachelorette party?”
Tightening his lips, he shook his head. “I know of no such party.”
“Oh,” she replied, the tension between them heavy and thick.
“Hmm, you didn’t know I’d be here, did you?” William asked.
“This is weird. I expected Carrie. Last week she stopped by the gallery to confirm her attendance at the auction.”
“You’ll just have to suffer with me. She’s not coming.”
She searched his eyes, not for the drunk at the wedding or the lover on the beach, but for her William hidden within the stoic corporate tycoon. “I’m surprised you came, given ...”
“Given what? I’m a mature man now, Elizabeth. I’ve moved on, if that’s what you’re implying.”
His posture and body language confirmed it; the inimitably annoyed tone of his voice bordered on confrontational.
“As we both have,” she replied a little more sharply than what her heart would dictate.
Holding out an arm toward the restaurant entrance, he replied dryly, “Shall we eat?”
“Yes, I’m famished.”
William signaled the hostess, without even a customary bonjour, as though he were a regular at the bar, and she promptly escorted them to a private banquette table in the main dining room.
Surrounded by lush red velvet and ornate, rich décor, she felt like royalty.
Yet the seating was awkward; to sit opposite him would make conversation difficult, but sitting too close to him—her ex, her almost forever—was a test of will for her, but based on the deserved chill coming off him, she sat opposite him.
Around them, the gentle rhythm of romancing—or conspiring—conversations mixed with silverware clinking on dishware. Someone’s rolling laughter broke the enchanting ambiance.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of advance ordering you a dirty martini with three olives,” William said, signaling the waiter for their drinks.
“That was very thoughtful, although I don’t drink martinis anymore, but I guess ... there’s no harm. It’s probably a sin at the Ritz if I don’t.” And I’d hate to insult you!
“I shouldn’t have assumed. What do you drink now?”
“Pinot noir is a favorite.” She softly smiled, feeling self-conscious. What wine was the new billionaire craze these days? “Please don’t go to any trouble. It’ll be nice to have a martini for a change. What are you drinking?”
“Sparkling water.”
“No bourbon?”
“Not for a few years.” He furrowed his brow. “They could make you a specialty drink, if you prefer. You don’t have to appease me.”
“William, the martini is fine, really. Thank you.” Is he nervous?
Everything he touched fascinated her. Covertly watching his manicured fingers hold the glass, pick up the napkin, and adjust his tie, she recalled how his soft touch made her feel.
“Is everything okay?”
“Of course,” she said. “I thought Carrie was looking forward to Paris and the auction.”
“She was but had a scheduling conflict and gave me a last-minute ultimatum.”
“Ah, I see. Things to look forward to in marriage,” she joked.
“So they say. I’m assuming you are disappointed by my presence, not hers.”
“It’s fine. I’m sure I can tolerate you for a couple of days, so long as you don’t go punching anyone,” she teased.
“Is he here with you?”
“No. George is not involved with my gallery’s business.”
He finally chuckled, giving her more than an emotionless half-smile. “Then, you have my word. Look, I’m sorry my being here blindsided you, but she wants the painting.”
A waiter passed by the table and the intoxicating woodsy scent of herbs de Provence wafted around her, comforting her like a serving of Porc grille on a cold day.
“I completely understand. Um ... then maybe. This is admittedly awkward, but do you think we should address the elephant in the room so we can relax and go over the protocols before the auction tomorrow?”
“Which elephant?”
“The only elephant I know of that may impede our successful business relationship—my departure for school.”
Furrowing his brow, he looked disappointed. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You don’t want to clear the air between us, even if it comes with a sincere but likely inadequate apology and a pitiful explanation for breaking your heart?”
“No.” He flippantly shrugged. “The past is irrelevant, and I hate excuses.”
That hurt a little. There was nothing irrelevant to what they had. It had shaped her expectations of all that was true and pure in a forever-type of love and taught her more than she bargained for about trusting her sister. Because of William, she had wings to fly and did!
He continued. “We were different people back then—weak fools persuaded by others. What I’d like to talk about is La Tempera since you will be securing a sizeable asset in my financial portfolio.”
“Oh! Carrie didn’t tell you about the gallery?”
“She did, but I want to hear about your history with it. Leaving for Paris obviously landed you on your feet in the end. Are you happy?”
Wow, this was novel—someone other than Guy cared to ask about her happiness.
“It certainly helped. La Tempera is my sanctuary away from the noise. Since you asked ...” She grinned.
“Well, when I moved back to New York, I took a part-time job with Guy Bernard at Lumière Gallery. He’d just split from his romantic and swindling business partner and was looking for someone honest to answer phones and act as hostess at exhibitions.
When he learned I spoke French, he was over the moon.
” She chuckled. “Needless to say, we hit it off and once I finished a curating fellowship at MOMA, I was working full-time, and he was training me in the world of appraisals and showings and how to navigate Manhattan’s high-profile art scene. ”
“Wait, did you say you speak French?”
“Oui, je parle francais. I had to learn the language for school, and I just absorbed the rest by living here. My roommate didn’t speak a stitch of English! What a mess that was!”
“I don’t remember you studying for it.”
“I didn’t know I needed the language until I was accepted. That’s why I left New York in March versus staying until July in preparation for the fall semester.”
She sucked the olives off the stick, then sipped her cocktail, eyes drinking him in as he looked seemingly mesmerized by either the action or that she was bilingual.
She saw the same expression on the beach.
It’s why she couldn’t resist seducing him that night.
Perhaps fire and passion were hiding behind his cold exterior now, just as they had at the wedding.
It wouldn’t be the first time she had to deconstruct the rigid Fitzwilliam Darcy—a moot point anyway since he was getting married shortly.
“Say something else,” he prodded.
Undressing him with her eyes, she smirked, then said, “Tu es très beau ce soir.”
“What did you say?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“Tell me.”
“No way. You’ll have to do an internet search!” She laughed.
Her phone vibrated again, but she ignored it.
“Are you going to get that?”
“No. It’s my sister.”
“Ah. Jane.” He shook his head. “And then what happened at the gallery?”
“Fast forward a year, and Guy wanted to sell for a song. So, we made a deal. On paper, I’d buy the gallery, not the building, he’d stay on, and I’d pay him what I could, when I could, toward the purchase price.”
“That was very generous, although not business savvy on his part. Is the gallery doing well?”