Trey

by Christie Ridgway

  “How about the homemade chicken soup I brought?”

  He stilled. That scent in the apartment. Homemade chicken soup. His ego couldn’t hold out against his sudden hunger. “You made soup?”

  “Madame Bonville who lives a floor above me made soup. I begged a bowl or two for you.”

  Trey frowned. “Should I pay—”

  “Of course not!” Mia grinned. “She was happy to share after I described you in such piteous terms. Don’t be surprised when she’s shocked to find you not quite the frail and limp specimen that I described.”

  Only one word stuck to Trey’s brain. “Limp?”

  The woman’s face flushed to pink. “Oh…um…”

  Speaking of pity, he took some on her. “Maybe I should have that soup now.” He made to rise to his feet, but she quickly jumped to hers.

  “No, no,” she said. “Let me bring it to you.”

  Trey couldn’t calculate how long it had been since he’d visited the facilities and he couldn’t face this woman another few minutes without a shower and a change of clothes. “I think I need to make the acquaintance of hot water before I meet up with that hot soup.”

  “Of course, of course.” She gestured in the direction of a hallway. “You remember your things are that way?”

  He’d find them, he thought, grimly getting to his feet and forcing them forward, along with his aching muscles and throbbing head. “I shouldn’t be long.” Then he glanced over his shoulder. “Or you can leave, of course.”

  Her next grin was as bright and enticing as the rest of her. “Not when I promised to tell Madame your reaction to her recipe using my best superlatives. It gives me a chance to practice my French.”

  Humanity returned with the application of soap, razor, comb, and toothpaste. Trey lingered in the steamy bathroom because though he felt more human he didn’t feel completely revitalized. Upon facing Mia again, he wanted to present himself as cool, controlled, take-charge Graham Wallace Blackthorne III, a man not laid low by mysterious family upheaval or a pesky transcontinental virus.

  Not that he actually was sick.

  After running his hand over his smooth jawline, he judged himself steady enough to face her again. He tucked the towel around his hips and thought about the contents of his suitcase. Everything would be a wrinkled mess, but knowing his housekeeper who’d done the packing, he’d brought jeans and running shoes. A creased but clean button-down would have to do.

  With his hand on the knob, he pushed open the door to the bedroom.

  Holding his phone, Mia stood at the entry on the other side of the bed, framed by the white-painted threshold leading into the hall. Her eyes rounded and she froze, though her gaze dropped, taking in every almost-naked inch of him. “I, uh…” she gave a little wave of the cell, as her face flashed pink again, “…was just going to leave this in here for you.”

  Damn, his mother needed to get this place to stock better towels. They’d seemed perfectly adequate a moment ago, but now… His hand went to the knot he’d tied. Don’t fail me now.

  He reminded himself he was a cool, controlled, take-charge kind of man. So he told the area south of that knot to mind how Mia had described him to the soup-maker. Limp. Stay limp.

  Mia answered the knock on her door the next morning, surprised to find a pale but otherwise alert-looking Trey Blackthorne, an empty, size large soup bowl in hand. Her gaze shifted to it, grateful to have something to focus on besides his face. Her initial quick glance told her that he was fully dressed, in jeans and a simple shirt that fit him like bespoke, its cuffs rolled to reveal dark hair-dusted forearms.

  The man even had sexy forearms, she thought, which should be unsurprising after she’d seen his wide shoulder and muscled torso, covered in nothing but scattered water drops from the shower.

  She hadn’t handled that well, seeing him half-naked, and had stammered something about leaving the soup on the counter, tossed him his phone, then made quick tracks for the apartment exit. Ever since, she’d been berating herself for her gauche response to an almost-nude man in a towel. But such a man, that voice said in her head, teasing.

  Mia ignored it. “Hello.” Her attention remained on the soup bowl.

  It was thrust in her direction. “Good morning. Thank you very much for the soup.”

  She grasped the ceramic. “You didn’t need to—”

  “Blackthornes always repay a debt.”

  Okay. The visit was obligatory. “All right. You’re welcome, then.” She cleared her throat and prepared to swing the door shut upon his leave-taking. “Have a nice day.”

  He stayed the action with a question. “May I come in?”

  What could she do but invite him inside? “Um, sure.”

  Five strides over the threshold and he stood in the center of her small space, taking in the living area—dull-colored couch brightened with colorful throws and an adjacent small cushioned chair along with a “kitchen” that was no more than microwave, sink, tiny refrigerator, and a square of butcher block counter space. One half-opened door gave a glimpse of another room big enough for hardly more than a double bed. A second opening off the main area led to a tiny bathroom.

  Meager light came in through grated windows at the street level, but through them she could see the bright blossoms of a red geranium overflowing a planter on the sidewalk. And, after all, this was Paris.

  So why have you barely explored beyond the café on the corner?

  “It’s not the penthouse,” Mia said to her guest. “It was likely originally designed for storage before being turned into a small furnished apartment. But the Caines were kind enough to allow me to stay here free for a few weeks.”

  “You know them?”

  She nodded. “Through the museum.”

  “Oh?” He raised a dark brow that made her want to admit to every flaw and weakness.

  Instead, she gestured toward the couch. “Would you care to sit? I can make coffee.”

  He glanced at the kitchen area. “Really? I couldn’t figure out the contraption upstairs.”

  She recalled there was a fancy expresso—the word Parisians used—machine on the counter and a French press in a cupboard. “I could show you how to make a simple cup,” she offered, before thinking better of it. Without waiting for his reply, she turned her back to prepare the beverage she’d promised. She had a French press too, and it was a matter of minutes before the fragrant scent of freshly ground beans laced the air.

  He said he’d take it black, and she brought him a full mug, then picked up her own and perched on the edge of the chair across from his spot on the couch.

  “I should thank you again,” he said, glancing at her over the rim.

  “Not a problem. You look almost fully recovered.”

  “I wasn’t sick.”

  “Good to know.” She managed not to roll her eyes. “Anyone might be tired out by the long flight.”

  “Yes. Sleep and that shower was all I needed.”

  Shower. At the mention, she felt her cheeks burn again. Gah. She looked away.

  “I didn’t know you were there,” he said. “If I had, I would have come out of the bathroom in more than a towel or at least given you some warning. Sorry about that.”

  “Not your fault,” she said quickly. “I intended only to leave your phone where you’d find it.” How embarrassing, that he felt it necessary to apologize, when he’d been covered by more than half the Frenchmen she’d seen sunbathing along the Seine on her circuitous taxi ride from the airport to the apartment four weeks ago.

  “Okay.” He took another swallow of coffee, his dark eyes on her face.

  “I’ve actually looked upon dozens of males in less, you know,” she heard herself confess, and it only got worse from there. “Plenty, plenty of them naked. Lots and lots and lots of nude guys.”

  She fell back against the chair’s cushion, her coffee almost sloshing over the top of her mug. “Oh, God. That sounds completely wrong, doesn’t it?”

 
; His lips twitched. “Perhaps an exaggeration? Lots and lots and lots does sound quite…experienced of you.”

  He was laughing at her, and while part of her felt a second small burst of mortification, another part of her liked the warm light in his eyes and the quick upturn of his lips. “While ‘lots and lots and lots’ may not be a precise mathematical term,” she told him, keeping her expression serious, “it’s actually not far off.”

  Hah! Let the too-attractive man chew on that.

  “Oh?” Those thick brows rose, and he looked gratifyingly perplexed.

  “Yes. Being around unclothed bodies is part of my training,” she said, fighting her own smile as she wondered what conclusion he might make of that.

  “Hmm,” his eyes narrowed, his gaze turned assessing. “Quite the mystery. Give me a second to think on it.”

  She sipped at her coffee, enjoying the little game.

  “An expert in—no, a regular spectator of—the opposite sex in an unclothed state,” he mused aloud, then leaned forward to set his mug on the small-trunk-turned-coffee-table before him.

  Mia saw the moment he noticed the thick, cardboard-covered sketchbook she’d left there earlier, its edges softened from handling. “You know the Caines through the museum. You’re here in Paris.” His gaze lifted to pin hers. “An artist? Yes, you must be an artist.”

  She made a face, disappointed. “You caught on too quickly. But yes, I have a degree in art and have spent a lot of time drawing nude models of all shapes and sizes, including men.”

  He grinned, relaxing against the sofa back. “I love being right,” he said, tone smug.

  There was that arrogant attitude she expected in a Blackthorne, particularly from the oldest son. It brought to mind Reed Stephens, the man she’d been seeing exclusively three years ago, who’d broken half the dates they’d made because he had important meetings or important clients who demanded so much of his important time. Her understanding had gone on much too long, according to her best friend Nicolette, who posited it made Reed feel just that much more powerful to last-minute cancel on his girlfriend whenever he wanted to boost his ego.

  Finally, Mia had broken it off to Reed’s great surprise and his emphatic statement that she’d “never get anyone better than him.”

  If he wasn’t a leeser, he was most certainly a loser.

  “Why are you frowning?” Trey asked.

  She ignored his question just like she—mostly—ignored the voice that continued to pipe up randomly since her arrival in France. “I should clarify,” she said, “that I’m not actually pursuing art as a career.”

  He glanced at the sketchbook. “No?”

  “I teach the subject at a private middle school in Boston,” she said. “That pays the bills. But I draw for my own amusement. And relaxation.”

  “Can I see—?” he asked, reaching for the thick set of pages.

  “No.” She made a grab and secured the book against her chest. “That…it’s… you know, personal.” Clearing her throat, she tried sounding more casual. “I’m sure you understand.”

  It saved her from explaining why she’d already made several charcoal studies of him—his face, his chest, just his dark eyes, ready to ferret out things she wanted to hold private.

  “Okay.” He shrugged. “I don’t know much about the artistic bend of mind.” Standing, he withdrew a small box from his pocket, about the size of a deck of cards. But he didn’t do anything with it except hold it in his palm and stroke it slowly with the edge of his thumb, an absent gesture.

  Then, as if the caffeine had kicked in and turned him restless, he returned the box to his pocket and began prowling the space, peering out the narrow windows, running his finger along the spines of the paperback thrillers left in a narrow bookcase by some former German-reading resident, then stooping to examine the small hand-blown vase she’d found abandoned in a cupboard. It held a single peach rose bought at the local market, now blossomed to the point the flower resembled the puffy skirt of a prom gown.

  Straightening, he glanced over at her.

  “What?” She rubbed at her face. After drawing, sometimes she ended up with charcoal smudges on her nose, chin, or forehead.

  “Your skin,” he said. “It’s like the petals of that rose.”

  “Oh. Uh…” Thank you. The proper response is thank you. “Thanks.” A warmth kindled in her belly and she felt as flustered as a silly high school freshman being noticed by the handsome and charismatic senior boy.

  With a little grunt, he made another lap of her living space, this time taking a longer perusal out her windows. With his back to her, he spoke again. “Do you happen to know what’s going on with my mother?”

  “Um…” Mia hadn’t sworn a blood oath, but she wasn’t sure about sharing any part of the conversations she’d had with the friendly, but sometimes sad and sometimes pensive, older woman. “We only met a few weeks ago. The Caines recommended I knock on her door and introduce myself upon arrival, since we both have ties to the museum—I regularly take my students there for lessons and inspiration.”

  “Mom wouldn’t trust the keys to her apartment to just anyone. I assume you’ve talked and spent time together.”

  “We both enjoy the café at the end of the block,” she admitted.

  He turned to face her, his expression unreadable now. “Well, in case she didn’t tell you, my dad threw her a big sixtieth birthday party last May at our place in King Harbor, Maine.”

  It wasn’t a “place,” it was a seaside estate, everybody knew that. The Blackthornes made their first fortune in whisky generations ago but now had other successful ventures. Race cars, she thought. And hand-built luxury boats. Hardly a holiday could go by without local news covering some spectacular party thrown at the King Harbor mansion and grounds, every inch suitably decorated to welcome and wow celebrities, statesmen, and ultra-successful business people.

  “I’m sure the event was lovely,” Mia murmured.

  “It was a disaster,” he countered flatly. “If you live in New England, I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it. Gossip flies fast.”

  “I’m not aware.” Because in the last eight months, she hadn’t been exposed to her usual amount of media. Nothing much had pierced the heavy veil that had dropped over her last January, the heavy veil she’d yet to push off.

  You’re going to do that in Paris. Starting now.

  “What exactly happened?” Mia asked Trey.

  “That’s just it, we don’t know.” He forked a hand though his short hair, which did nothing to disorder the locks. “Mom made a scene, accused Dad of caring about the business more than anything, including her and their marriage of thirty-seven years, then the next thing we know she’s storming off with her suitcases, with the word ‘secret’ echoing in everyone’s ears.”

  “What secret?”

  “I suppose that means she didn’t share with you, either.” Trey started moving about again, his agitation obvious. “Dad put our security team to work and they traced her to Paris right away, but she refuses to take calls or say much in texts to me and my brothers and cousins. My father refuses to get on a plane and get to the bottom of what is going on with them and he claims ignorance of this alleged mystery.”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t want to say what it is,” Mia ventured.

  Trey threw her a look. “There is no secret,” he said.

  But his vehemence made Mia wonder if he actually believed that. “Your mom only told me she’s here to pursue her interest in drawing and painting. She’s found a group and a teacher. They’re taking short trips about Europe as part of their study.”

  “No one’s ever heard of this interest,” he muttered. “Painting? She’s known for her good taste in decorating and planning successful fund-raisers, but the only times I saw her draw anything it was with crayons or sidewalk chalk.”

  The image made Mia smile. When Claire talked of her four sons, and the three nephews that she and her husband had raised after their pare
nts died in a plane crash, her devotion to them was palpable. She would have been the kind of parent that Mia had wished for her entire life—highly involved and willing to play. “I bet she made incredible Halloween costumes and threw fabulous birthday parties when you were young.”

  Trey stopped pacing, the expression on his face considering. “She did. Not one costume came from a store and our birthdays were not of the famous magician guest star or even the pony-rides variety. No five-star chefs, either. Once, she buried plastic dinosaur eggs and bones and we had an archeological dig. Another time we were all pirates for a day and she created a treasure map that she cut into pieces. We had to put it together and then work as a team to discover the buried treasure.”

  “Maybe she misses those opportunities to be creative,” Mia offered.

  “Maybe.” Trey frowned. “It doesn’t explain why she has to throw out the threat of some secret.” On the move again, he headed for the bookcase once more. Instead of looking at the books, his attention focused on the promise-blue box she’d placed atop it.

  Mia’s heart jumped to her throat. The 6 x 6 square item was something she’d crafted herself, years ago, from paper pulp and a mold and deckle she’d made with two old photo frames. She’d found them, the wedding portraits inside each slashed to tatters, abandoned in her mother’s garage along with other detritus of her parents’ unhappy union and nasty divorce.

  “This is pretty,” Trey said, and his hand moved as if about to pick it up.

  Mia jumped to her feet. “We need to go.”

  He looked over. “What?”

  “You need to take me out of here.” She needed to get him out, too, before he asked a question she’d find herself powerless against answering. Escape from the apartment seemed the most expedient method.

  “Why?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Blackthornes repay their debts, right?” She ignored her own instincts that said it was unwise to continue their acquaintance and grabbed his hand on her way toward the door. “I’m hungry. Let’s head out for a meal.”