Trey squeezed her hand. “I’m here, Mia.”
But the point of all this was that Nicolette wasn’t here! Tell him, her friend’s ghostly voice whispered in Mia’s head. Tell Trey.
“I have my best friend’s ashes.” The words burst from her. She chanced a glance at him.
“Okay.” He didn’t blink. “Your best friend’s actual ashes?”
“Yes. Nicolette. She…she died last January.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Mia tried to pull away again, but he didn’t allow it. “We’ve been best friends since forever. She was closer than a sister to me…at least I think that—I don’t have an actual sister. I don’t have any siblings.”
“What happened to her?”
“It was a stroke. She’d not been sick, she’d not had any symptoms that she shared with anyone, anyway.”
“My grandfather died of a stroke. They call it the silent killer.”
Mia bent her head. Silent killer. But at the news of her best friend’s passing, she’d screamed at the unfairness of it all. Nicolette Arsenau, wild and fun, centered and sweet, both Mia’s rock as well as her kite. “Nic’s parents practically raised me too, and they asked me to take her ashes to the city she always talked about visiting. That we were supposed to visit together.”
“Paris.”
Nodding, Mia kept her gaze on her feet. Part two of the mission she’d keep to herself. “There’s a list of places she wanted to go here.”
He didn’t ask why she’d been stalling doing that very thing, though his mother had alluded to the fact. “Well, we’ve got three days to get through as much of it as we can.”
She looked up. “No, really. I couldn’t ask you—”
“You’re not asking. My mom set the terms of the deal. You heard her, and I’ve learned just how stubborn she can be. If I want the answers I’m seeking, then for the next seventy-two hours, Mia Thomas, I’m all yours.”
Chapter Four
Trey awoke, the cell phone on the bedside table to his right ringing. He blinked, trying to orient himself. Soft light slanted through a half-open doorway. It provided enough illumination for him to make out the face of the small antique clock sitting beside his cell. The hands said six o’clock, and it had to be morning. As the device rang again, his gaze lifted to the room’s walls, covered with framed paintings of all sizes and shapes.
Paris, he remembered. A guest room at the Caines’ apartment. Next he recalled his mother’s exit from the apartment yesterday afternoon, bound for another trip with her “class” of drawing students. Her promise to return. The bargain they’d struck.
Hell. What version of Trey Blackthorne had agreed to take time off for something as frivolous as sightseeing?
The phone demanded his attention so he scooped it up, the screen displaying his father’s name and number. On the US East Coast it was midnight. Trey stared at the phone for a beat, amazed his father had made a concession for the time difference.
He accepted the call and put the phone to his ear. “Dad? Thanks for waiting until dawn.” Though a glance toward the curtain-covered windows testified the sun had yet to rise.
“You didn’t check in yesterday.”
His dad’s disgruntled tone didn’t surprise Trey and also served to settle him into his own skin—a welcome effect, as he’d felt out of sorts upon landing in Paris. Ever since he’d crossed the threshold of Blackthorne Enterprises HQ, MBA in hand, he’d been in constant contact with his father, willfully immersing himself in every deal and every detail. For as long as he could remember, it was the future mapped out for him. While his brothers and cousins had been under pressure to find their places within the company, it was Trey who had grown up fully aware it would be him and him alone at the helm when his father retired.
He’d never questioned or complained about that responsibility.
“Is there something I should know?” he asked.
“There’s something I should know,” his father returned. “You’ve seen your mother? Tell me how she is.”
“Well enough,” Trey answered. “We had a brief chance to talk.”
“What did she say?” Graham demanded. “What exactly?”
“Not very much,” Trey admitted. For a second he considered lying and saying she was sick, a well-meaning untruth that would get his father on a plane and result in a greater good—but no. “She’s taking some art lessons and her student group was off to Provence so she was in and then out again.”
“Art lessons?”
Okay, so the notion was new to his dad too. “I tried telling her—”
“What did she tell you?” There was a palpable tension in Graham’s voice.
“Not much beyond the art thing,” he said, then grabbed the bull by the horns. “But I really think you should come to France yourself, Dad. Finally get things straight between you two.”
“Go into the Paris office today,” the older man said, ignoring the suggestion.
Trey sighed. “Dad—”
“Let them see your face.”
“Dad, really—”
“It’s good for a Blackthorne to check in regularly.”
Resigned, Trey sighed again as he pushed back the covers. “Is there anything in particular that you think needs my attention?”
“Meet with Guillaume and determine if he’s having any trouble with those new import regulations.”
“Guillaume is perfectly capable of handling his job, Dad,” he said, even while knowing it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy his father. “We don’t need to micromanage.”
A longstanding argument that never swayed Graham.
But before the older man could prove that once again, a different voice got on the line. “Hey, Trey.”
Brock must have swiped Dad’s phone from his hand. He was the youngest of the Blackthorne cousins, and he’d taken particularly to his aunt Claire, being only nine when he’d lost his own mother.
“Everything okay, cuz?” Trey asked the other man. “What are you and Dad doing at midnight?”
“We had a business dinner with the McKinney team that ran very late. Just thought you’d like to know it went well and the debacle over the photo is a dead issue,” his cousin said. “We’re back on track and full speed ahead—I expect the takeover from here will be seamless.”
“Right.” As Senior Vice President of Brand Management, Brock saw any change through the lens of how it affected the promise the name “Blackthorne” made to the customer. His youngest cousin placed an extremely high value on the business…and on the family. Trey didn’t fault him for either, of course. “You’ll want to hear about Mom.”
A hesitation betrayed just how much. “She seems okay?” Brock asked.
“Stubborn. Full of energy. Clearly sad about missing out when we talked about how the six of you have gotten serious about romance.”
“Did you remind her of her own romance and marriage?” Brock asked. “That no Blackthorne has divorced in over two hundred years?”
“Believe me, she’s not concerned about the family image right now.” Trey scrubbed a hand over his head. “That’s not what you’re concerned with when it comes to Mom either.”
Brock muttered something under his breath. “Fine. You’re right. Would you…would you tell her I’d like her to meet Jenna?”
Jenna Gillespie, the woman who came into his cousin’s life because she wanted to write a biography of the Blackthorne family. “I will. She won’t be back here for a couple more days, but I’ll be sure to pass that on.”
“Tell her that I promised Jenna I’d show her how to play bridge and that Aunt Claire is a much better teacher—so we need her back.”
“We do,” Trey agreed.
“It’s not the same without her home,” Brock said before ending the call.
Carrying his phone into the kitchen, Trey could only agree with that too. Things weren’t the same, and since she’d dropped that word “secret” he’d had this bad feeling they ne
ver would be.
He tried shaking off the sense of doom by staring down the coffee-making contraption in the kitchen. But it didn’t improve his mood or increase his interest in tackling the unfamiliar device. As he showered and dressed the idea of caffeine persisted however, and he considered knocking on Mia’s door and begging, but ignored the urge.
He couldn’t ignore thinking about the woman, though. Not to mention why she’d come to Paris. Obviously the loss of her best friend had been a serious blow and he could see she was overwhelmed by the unusual task of taking those ashes about Paris.
His mother had thought he could help with that, which sounded more ludicrous with each passing second. Give him a thorny business negotiation or a thorough read-between-the-lines of a financial statement and he had the experience. The temperament.
But Mia was treading though highly emotional territory and he had it on the authority of women who’d been in then out of his life that he hadn’t the heart for it. Knotting his tie, he met his gaze in the mirror and decided he’d send Mia a text and explain he’d been called to the Paris offices.
Once on their premises in the business district known as La Défense, the aide he was usually assigned met him in reception, the main wall painted with the distinctive Blackthorne barrel and thistle logo. Trey apologized for the early hour, which the other man accepted with good grace in his British-tinged, perfect English. To prove himself even more indispensable, Jules placed a cup of coffee in Trey’s hand.
With caffeine and a delectable croissant in his system, Trey met with Guillaume and a few others, confirming what he’d said to his father—his visit had been wholly unnecessary. Drinking another cup of excellent coffee, he sat in the third floor break room, his gaze roaming the enlarged photos mounted on the walls that symbolized the family empire—a black and white study of racked casks of whisky, a full-color action photo of one of the B40 racing sailboats, and what could only be called a glamour shot of a stock car with Blackthorne emblazoned on the side.
Looking upon those and with the familiar sounds of a workplace in his ears, he leaned back in the chair and mulled over yesterday’s meeting with his mother—and not for the first time, though he still couldn’t puzzle it out. She’d seemed happy to see him, yes, but there’d been an unmistakable anxiety that caused his own nerves to stand on alert. The night she’d left the King Harbor estate in May she’d been upset and indignant, but yesterday there’d been less evidence of temper and more evidence of…apprehension. There’d been a wariness in her eyes as she seemed to imply she owed an explanation to him.
As if Trey was somehow involved in this situation between her and her husband.
“Is something wrong?”
Startled, he glanced over as Jules took the chair beside his. The other man linked his hands on the table. “You’re not acting like yourself.”
Trey’s brows rose. “How’s that?”
“You’re sitting and doing nothing. You and your father never take the time to savor your coffee, let alone anything else.”
The man had a full grasp of the English language…as well as Graham’s nature and his own. “An American failing, I’m afraid,” Trey said lightly. “Work, work, work. Blackthorne Enterprises is what we can control so we give it our full attention.”
And the company was what he’d born and bred to lead. His brother Devlin might poke fun at him, but in a suit and tie Trey felt the most like himself. Office wear might actually be his true skin.
“Time for a change, perhaps? I think the expression is you need to sniff roses, yes?” Jules asked, smiling.
“Smell them,” Trey corrected with his own smile. “I guess we haven’t found the right incentive.”
The other man’s gaze shifted over Trey’s shoulder. “Perhaps it just walked in,” he murmured.
“Huh?” Glancing around, he saw one of the young men who’d sat behind the reception desk ushering a woman thought the glass, logo-etched door.
Both Jules and Trey stood. “Mia?” In boots, jeans, and a yellow long-sleeved T-shirt, with her chestnut hair streaming over her shoulders, she looked bright and casual and…well, lovely. Mouthwatering even, her lips curving though her expression appeared uncertain.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said.
The young worker from reception spoke in French so rapid that Trey looked to Jules. “He said he knew you were taking a break so thought he wouldn’t leave such a beautiful young lady alone in the waiting area.”
Mia showed a full smile at that, her cheeks turning slightly pink as she turned to the young man and thanked him, her French sounding expert enough to Trey.
The kid executed a gallant little bow that only someone from Paris could pull off and then backed out of the room.
Jules reached out his hand to Mia and introduced himself, then told Trey he’d leave the two of them alone. “She smells very nice indeed,” he murmured as he passed by. “Better than roses.”
When the other man exited the room, Mia bit her bottom lip. “I hope this is okay.”
“Didn’t you get my text?” Trey asked, slipping his phone from his pocket.
“Yes.” She blinked, and he noted the thickness of her curly dark lashes. “You said you’d be tied up for a while at the Blackthorne offices. It’s almost noon and I figured I’d come to you and wait around until you were free.”
He glanced down at the phone and almost groaned as he realized his text was just as vague as she’d made it sound. His intention had been to drop the news he couldn’t partner up for that sightseeing as they’d planned. Maybe when his thumbs had been going at it he’d been thinking of the kiss instead of being clear. In any case, he was thinking of that kiss now, of her sweet mouth and the way her warm body had molded to his.
Then there was the expression on her face when she’d told him why she’d come to Paris. Mia’s best friend had passed and the heart he’d been told he didn’t have had ached for her loss. Shoving his phone back in his pocket, he glanced out the long windows at the mostly unfamiliar city.
“I guess I’m ready,” he said.
Her smile broke over her face and beamed like sunshine over him. “I’m ready too.”
A case could be made for their exchange having an ominous undercurrent—readiness implied change and he certainly wasn’t eager for that—but he crossed to her anyway. Then she slid her hand in the crook of his elbow.
“Shall we?” she said, with another smile.
And like that…well, somehow he was unsteadied again. His feet too clumsy, his tie too tight, his fingers itching to find hers.
So he did that, covered them where they rested on his forearm, a reassuring and also somehow proprietary gesture.
Disturbingly unlike himself.
And yet, even more disturbing, he didn’t regret the touch, nor did he let go of her as they exited the office building and walked into the Paris afternoon.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, understanding dawned on Mia as she considered the surprise, then reluctance, and finally resignation on Trey’s face in the office upstairs. Now she belatedly realized he’d thought that morning’s text would put an end to their alliance—that he’d meant to renege on the bargain his mother had forced on him the day before.
Gah! Feeling foolish was her most unfavorite thing. She drew in the sun-warmed air and let her hand slip from his arm and drop to her side. He slanted her a quizzical glance. “You don’t want this,” she said flatly.
He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, disturbing its perfectly tailored lines. “It doesn’t mean I’m not going through with it.”
“Trey—”
“I did make that deal with Mom.”
Biting her lip, Mia adjusted the strap of the backpack hanging from one shoulder. Inside was her sketchbook and charcoal drawing pencils as well as the box containing Nic’s ashes. Part of her wanted to rush back to her basement and hide for another week or two or ten, but another part of her knew if she didn’t move now, she’d be mi
red forever in this inertia.
For herself, she wouldn’t mind. But Nic’s parents…she knew they truly wouldn’t begin letting go without the fulfillment of this promise.
As if sensing her struggle, Trey Blackthorne, the most handsome man in the city, in the whole world, she thought, took her hand again. “Where to first?”
Okay. She sucked in another breath but freed herself from his hold once more. This had to be done, for Victor and Anne Arsenau. For Nicolette herself. “I have a list.”
Can we make it a longer one? Nic’s voice asked, gleeful. Let’s draw this out.
“Let’s see it,” Trey said. “I’ll flag a taxi.”
She nearly gasped and then managed to stay his arm as it began to lift. “We’re not taking a taxi.”
“We’re not?”
“Nic wanted the total Paris experience,” she said. “That means we take the Métro.” The city’s subway system was extensive and known for the art nouveau style of the station entrances dating back to the early twentieth century.
She dipped into her pocket and came out with a worn sheet that she’d been carrying around since her decision to go to France.
Over her shoulder, Trey peered at it. “Is that written in code?” he asked.
“Sort of. Nic’s version of shorthand. But I know what it says.”
“We’ll sit down at the nearest café and develop a plan. It makes the most sense to arrange our itinerary geographically.”
“Um…” Mia glanced at him. The austere lines of his face and his expensive dark suit made him more than intimidating but she steeled her spine. Despite the fact that his suggestion was no more than common sense, she had to deny him. “We need to do this Nic’s way.”
His eyebrows rose. “Nic’s way? What way is that?”
“It requires an approach of fun and spontaneity.”
Trey Page 5
