Chapter 20 #3
‘You’re squeezing that leather folder so hard it’ll crack,’ Nari said. ‘Relax. The paperwork is solid.’
I smoothed the navy wool of my skirt over my knees.
She continued. ‘You’re married to an Australian rock star with a spotless tax record. They’ll hand you the visa with a ribbon on top.’
Doubt twisted my stomach into hard knots.
Marriage on paper was one thing. Standing in front of a federal officer and pretending our situationship was normal was another.
‘I appreciate you coming with me,’ I said.
‘Of course, honey, we got you.’
Once more, the closeness of the Six Sinners family impressed me.
The cab pulled up to the security gates of the American Embassy on Avenue Gabriel.
Concrete barriers blocked the drive, and guards stood in navy short-sleeved uniforms under the summer sun.
Nari paid the driver while I stepped onto the pavement.
Inside, the waiting room smelled of air conditioning, sweat, and stale filter coffee. We sat on plastic chairs under fluorescent tubes that crackled overhead.
Twenty minutes later, a young consular officer with a receding hairline called my name. I stepped up to the glass booth alone.
He flipped through the blue folder Jude’s high-priced lawyers had assembled.
Tax forms, lease agreements, affidavits from Sheriff Kian Martinez, photos of Jude and me, as well as bank statements from my husband.
‘Sofia Antonelli?’
The officer checked my passport, comparing it to his data on his computer monitor.
‘Yes.’
My voice held steady, though my heart pounded.
He stamped three pages in rapid succession. Red ink hit the white paper with dull thuds.
‘We’ll let you know when the visa is processed.’
That was it.
Weeks of living in limbo handled in four minutes by a tired bureaucrat.
I walked back out to the lobby where Nari waited.
My hands shook as I shoved the papers into my tote bag.
‘Done?’ Nari asked, standing up.
‘Submitted,’ I said. ‘He didn’t even ask how we met.’
‘Told you. Nothing to worry about.’
We caught a cab back to the hotel.
Upstairs in our suite, Jude’s bedroom door stayed shut.
He was still out cold, sleeping off the international transit, a punishing bump-in and a grueling first-night show.
Nari squeezed my shoulder before heading down to her own room.
‘Get some rest and let’s wait for good news.’
I kicked off my heels and ordered room service from the tablet on the desk: two club sandwiches, French fries, coffee and coffee.
When the food arrived, I ate at the small round table on the terrace outside, bare legs on the stone railing.
The bread was crisp, the filling seasoned with fresh tarragon, my drink hot and sublime.
A door creaked open behind me. Jude sauntered into the living area wearing black cotton pajama bottoms, his bare chest a display of ink and rippling muscles.
So freakin’ sexy.
He rubbed his stubbled jaw, his eyes sleep-heavy as he headed outside and dragged a chair next to mine.
He reached over, snatching a fry from my plate.
‘Hey, you’ve got your tray,’ I groused.
He threw me a sloppy grin before tracking to the inside table and retrieving the food I ordered for him.
He returned and settled in to eat.
‘How’d it go at the embassy, babe?’
‘Submitted,’ I said. ‘No deportation. No federal holding cells yet.’
Jude leaned in, pressing his lips to my temple.
His skin was warm, giving off his evocative musk, cedarwood soap and bed sheets.
‘Never had a doubt,’ he muttered.
He glanced out toward the sunny outline of the Champs-élysées, then back at me, legs up, feet bare, skirt riding high, silk shirt loose, hair down.
His eyes smoldered.
‘Paris suits you. Wish I could linger with you.’
He finished his coffee, then stood to get ready.
‘Can’t believe my afternoon schedule calls for three press junkets, a radio spot, and a five-course dinner with our European label executives.’
‘You poor thing.’
He chuckled.
‘You sure you don’t want to come tonight?’ Jude asked. ‘Free champagne.’
‘I’d rather eat glass,’ I said. ‘Go deal with the suits.’
He smirked, bending down to kiss my cheek.
‘Fair enough.’
Later, he left in a striped suit jacket and jeans, as always devastatingly handsome.
Once the door clicked shut behind him, silence settled over the suite. Real, deep silence. No mob threats, no demands, no noise.
I changed into an oversized top and shorts, curled up on the velvet sofa with a paperback novel, and ordered another pot of tea.
Jet lag tugged at my eyelids, but I stayed awake, turning pages while the summer sun flooded the room.
My idea of heaven.
The following afternoon, Jude’s attorney, Brian Waring, called.
Jude held the phone between us on the velvet sofa of our suite, allowing me to hear the lawyer’s voice.
‘We secured the expedited green card approval, Jude,’ Brian murmured through the speaker. ‘The consulate officer signed off on the permanent residency visa an hour ago. Sofia is all set.’
A wave of relief hit me hard, surging over me.
Moisture pricked the corners of my eyes in gratitude for Jude, Kian, and the hardworking lawyers who fought for me.
Before the call even ended, Jude pulled me flush to his chest, locking his muscled arms around my shoulders.
He held me, trapping my face in the crook of his neck as silent tears finally spilled over my lashes, soaking into his black shirt.
He just tightened his grip, stroking my back as I let go of the months of terror and fleeing from the mob.
After a few minutes, he eased back just enough to reach into his pocket, pulling out a clean handkerchief.
He slipped it into my palm, using his thumb to wipe a stray tear from my cheek.
‘We did it, Sofia,’ he growled. ‘You’re home and hosed.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Safe and sound,’ Jude rasped.
He stood up, lifting the room service telephone off the marble side table, and made a call.
‘Send up a bottle of your best champagne,’ Jude murmured. ‘The most expensive you have in the cellar. Dom Pérignon, or whatever vintage suits a celebration. Also include a ridiculous dessert, we’re having a mini party.’
Twenty minutes later, a tall, lean man in the hotel’s pristine uniform rolled a silver cart into our suite.
In the center sat the most beautiful confection I’d ever laid eyes on: two giant pink patisserie conches sandwiching a rich, velvety rose-petal crema.
‘It’s called Le Grand Ispahan, with the freshest of fruits and the macaron shells,’ the server announced. ‘Please, enjoy.’
He bowed and left us as we gaped at the treat on the platter.
A dense wall of glossy, plump, fresh raspberries ringed it, accented with a single glistening lychee dome in the middle.
A real, edible, gold-leafed sugar bloom topped the succulent dessert.
Next to it, resting in an ornate silver bucket overflowing with crushed ice, stood an imposing, yellow bottle of Veuve Clicquot Brut champagne.
Jude popped the cork and poured the sparkling liquid into two crystal flutes, handing me one.
‘To your freedom, babe,’ he said, clinking his glass with mine. ‘To the most awesome future possible for you and me.’