French Twist

by Roxanne St Claire

  It surely didn’t get any better than this.

  Slowly, she rotated her body to face him and gaze at another of nature’s fine works. Oh, yes—it did get even better.

  He opened his eyes, the color of a triple espresso and just as inviting in the morning. Without saying a word, he kissed her on the mouth. “Janine,” he whispered against her lips. “No regrets, right?”

  She scooted into the full length of his body. “Oh, yes.”

  “No.” He inched back, frowning. “No, you shouldn’t.”

  “Well, I do. I have a deep and painful regret.”

  He lifted his head, his expression concerned. “What is it?”

  “I regret that you don’t call me Szha-neen anymore.”

  With a quick laugh, he kissed the tip of her nose, then her mouth, then her neck. “Szha-neen. Always and forever you will be Szha-neen.”

  Always and forever.

  Her stomach flipped at the words, and then his relentless erection was grinding against her, making it impossible to separate her physical response from the emotional one.

  And wasn’t that always the case with him?

  He slid his hand under the covers and did that—that trick again, and Janine closed her eyes and missed the rest of the sunrise. Only after they lay spent and waiting for their ragged breath to steady did she remember always and forever.

  Did he think there could be anything like that between them? Wasn’t he about to take on a new identity and disappear? A day, maybe two? That’s what Tristan had said.

  The loud double ring of the phone jarred her from her thoughts, and she stifled a moan of disappointment when he separated from her to answer it.

  For a moment he said nothing, then she saw the blood drain from his face. “I see,” he finally said. “Then I guess there’s no rush for you to get to Burgundy.”

  It must be Tristan, because Nick still spoke in his American English. She wanted to snuggle deeper into the warm nest they’d made, but something about his face and body language told her that the morning cuddles had ended. She slipped out of the bed and went into the bathroom, staying long enough for him to finish the call.

  When she no longer heard his clipped responses, she cinched the white robe and returned to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Lisette is dead,” he said quietly, closing his eyes at Janine’s tiny gasp. “It looks like an accident—”

  “Not again!” Janine exclaimed.

  He shook his head. “No, no. This wasn’t Benazir. Tristan said the housekeeper found her on the cellar floor, her wrist slashed from a broken wine bottle. It looks like she fell. She was alive when Arlaine got to her, but didn’t make it.”

  Janine curled her fingers around the bathrobe tie. “Oh, God.”

  He turned to her. “Evidently she held on long enough to give some final instructions to Arlaine.”

  “What is it? What did she do?”

  “She left the entire vineyard and everything in it to me.” His rich brown eyes had gone dull and flat.

  “To you?” Janine stepped closer. “Out of guilt, no doubt.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever. Now I have to figure out how to sell it.”

  “You can’t. Bérnard wouldn’t want you to,” she said positively.

  He reached out to her with his good arm, pulling her closer. “I’m in no position to own or run a vineyard, Janine. I’ll be disappearing long before the next harvest.” He folded her against his chest. “But this means I have to go to Burgundy. I wanted to take you sailing on the lake. And I want to find the Plums.”

  She inched away, her throat constricting at his words. “Do you have to go right away?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I do. I’m sorry. I’ll be in constant touch with Tristan and make sure he does every—”

  “Could I come with you?”

  His eyes lit up, and he gave her the most beautiful smile she’d ever seen. “I’d love that.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-seven

  T he ivy had grown so thick, it was nearly impossible to see the ancient stone walls of the château. The trees were taller, and the old yellow shutters had been painted a subdued shade of gray.

  But everything else about Château Soisson was exactly as when Gabrielle had left forty years earlier. Except that Bérnard would no longer come bounding around from the back courtyard and stop in his tracks, as he always did at the sight of her.

  She stole a glance toward the side yard, just in case. But all that greeted her was the ancient beech tree that threatened to burst into a verdant explosion of spring leaves. She’d climbed that tree a hundred times.

  “Come on, Maman.” Claire took her arm and urged her toward the house. “No time to wander down memory lane.”

  Claire had been wild with determination since the call had come from France in the middle of the night. If her daughter hadn’t been visiting for the week and answered the phone herself, Gabrielle might never have come. She would have thought she’d dreamed it.

  For how else could she explain a woman who claimed to work for the Soissons, of all incomprehensible things, calling to say that Nick was alive. Alive. Bérnard was not, she thought with a heavy heart, but a greater gift had been given to her. Her son. Her son. A soft prayer sound escaped her lips, and Claire squeezed harder.

  “I know, Maman. Come on.”

  The mahogany front door swung open before they reached the end of the walk. In the shadows stood a weary-looking woman in a plain brown dress.

  “Arlaine?” Claire asked, picking up speed and bringing Gabrielle along with her. “Are you the woman who called us? I’m Claire Jarrett. This is my mother, Gabrielle.”

  Arlaine nodded and indicated for them to come in. “I called you,” she said, as they stepped into the entryway.

  Gabrielle clutched Claire’s arm tighter as memories transported her back in time. So little had changed. Furniture and paint, yes. But the house felt the same. She could almost imagine that she smelled Madame Soisson’s andouillettes simmering with onions, and could taste the first bittersweet sip of the free-run juice. The unwanted wine, Bérnard had called it, but at sixteen, it had been fine for them.

  She paused to get her bearings, taking in the polished wood floor covered with simple handmade rugs. The curved steps with the wooden railing where Bérnard had first kissed her. The gray limestone fireplace where they warmed themselves in the winter. Home. Or what should have been home.

  They followed Arlaine through the hall into the kitchen. It had been modernized, but the coziness of a French vineyard kitchen was never lost. Gabrielle dropped into a chair at the center table. Her chair, to the left of Bérnard. She’d eaten a thousand meals in that room.

  “Where is he?” Claire asked, in polite French but without preamble.

  “I don’t know,” Arlaine answered. “He was here and he left. I told you everything that Madame Soisson told me before she…died.”

  Madame Soisson. That would be Lisette Vichey. Gabrielle had the faintest memory of the plain, chubby girl who had mooned over Bérnard during their school years at Lycée. She’d heard he’d married her, not long after Gabrielle had run away to America.

  “Madame, we have come a long way, leaving home the instant you called.” Claire had adopted her take-charge voice, as powerful in a country kitchen as she was in a boardroom. “It’s imperative that you tell us everything and give us every opportunity to determine if this man—this Luc Tremont—really is my brother.”

  “I only know what Madame said to me before she died.” Arlaine reached into the pocket of her drab dress. She pulled something out, glanced at it, then put a photograph on the table in front of Gabrielle. “She told me to give you this.”

  Claire gasped as she seized the picture. “When was this taken?”

  “At the holidays,” Arlaine said. “There was a small party for the vineyard workers, and Luc was here.”

 
“Oh, my God,” Claire whispered, slumping into the chair next to Gabrielle and staring at the picture. “Maman. It’s him.”

  Gabrielle opened her bag and pulled out the leather case that held her reading glasses. She slipped them on and blinked to focus as she took the photo from Claire’s shaking hands.

  All the blood rushed from her head, leaving her dizzy and breathless. The empty hole that had existed for so long inside of her suddenly filled with an indescribable sense of hope.

  It was Nicky. Her beautiful, dangerous, precious boy. And beside him, holding a glass of wine and wearing a smile that had only gotten warmer in forty years, was the man who should have been her husband. Grinning at Nick with all the pride of a father.

  For some reason, that made her the happiest of all. These two men she’d loved and lost had found each other. She looked up at Claire, whose face was wet with tears.

  “Nick’s alive, Maman,” Claire mumbled, wiping her cheeks. “He’s alive.”

  “How do we find him?” Gabrielle asked Arlaine. “Where does he live?”

  “All I know is that his name is Luc Tremont. He lives in Paris and visits here a few times a year. He could be in some sort of trouble, because an American law officer was here looking for him.”

  “In trouble?” Claire took her mother’s hand, but Gabrielle just patted it.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll help him, whatever it is.” Nothing, nothing could be as bad as what they’d lived through the past five years.

  Arlaine was digging around in her pocket again. “Two men were here, before Madame went to the basement and had her…accident.” She pulled out a small card and handed it to Claire. “He told me to call him if Luc arrived.”

  “Oh, my God.” Claire’s face went white, then melted into utter disgust.

  “What is it, honey?”

  Claire let the card flutter to the table. “Tristan Stewart.”

  Nick reluctantly turned left on the old road to Beaune, a grimace accompanying the easy spin of the wheel.

  “You’re dreading this, aren’t you?” Janine asked.

  “Not really.” He stole a look at her, watching her toy with the braid she’d let him make in her hair. “I just don’t want this day to end. And I really don’t want it to end with a trip to the morgue and a mountain of responsibility I can’t even be around to handle.”

  “It has been a great day,” she agreed. “Regardless of how it ends, it’s been a great day.”

  They shared a smile. He could have made the trip from Evian to Beaune in a few hours as he’d done in the dead of night. This time he’d roamed country roads, and they’d indulged in a picnic in the hills above the Pouilly-Fuissé vineyards. Afterward, they’d slipped into a tour of the Château de Pierreclos, where he’d impressed Janine with his knowledge of the poetry of Lamartine, one of the castle’s most famous residents. She’d countered his recital of the poem “Jocelyn” by dragging him into a museum to see a display of faience porcelain.

  All day, they laughed and talked and shared memories. He told her about Gabrielle and Claire; she got choked up remembering Albert. There were no lies. No accents. No tripping around half-truths. She just had a hard time remembering not to call him Luc.

  Their time together was as intoxicating as the country air, redolent with the smell of new flowers and centuries-old earth. Even more intoxicating was her presence, her easy laugh, her affectionate kisses. He ached to make love to her again. To share every intimacy with all defenses and barriers gone. They might not have a future, but they had this. One day, maybe two. Tristan’s clock was ticking.

  As night fell, he knew he couldn’t drag out the journey any longer. As they pulled into the gravel drive, the first thing he noticed were the lights. Every room in the farmhouse was bright, and the lights spilled from the dormered windows onto the driveway, where two cars were parked.

  “Who’s here?” Janine asked, peering up to the third floor.

  “Let’s find out.” He was relatively sure the station wagon was Arlaine’s; the other looked like a rental. As he turned off the ignition, a strange sense of anticipation filled his heart. Probably because this was his, now.

  He stepped into the pool of light, pausing to admire the classic lines of the old château. For a second, he thought of his mother. How she had longed to live here. How she had regretted her choices. He wished he could tell her that his strange and bizarre life had led him back to her very roots.

  The door opened, and he looked up, expecting Arlaine. But instead, a narrow-framed girl with a mass of thick, dark curls stood in the doorway. Beside her, he could see the silhouette of another woman with shorter hair. They stood arm in arm.

  An eerie, mind-bending sense of something familiar licked at his senses. His breath caught in his throat as the two figures stepped out of the backlighting and onto the long patio. He froze, staring at the apparition of two women who couldn’t, who shouldn’t be standing there. His mind was playing tricks in the twilight.

  “Nick! Oh, my God, it’s you!” Shock and reality registered like a full body blow when Claire burst forward and flung herself into his arms. She smelled like Claire, she squealed like Claire. Could it be?

  She clung too tightly for him to see her. Over her shoulder, the older woman approached, striding with that proud, French lift of her chin, her deep, dark eyes gleaming with joy. All he could do was stare.

  “I never once stopped dreaming of this moment,” she whispered with her sweet lilting accent. “Not once.”

  The lump in his throat burned like a heated coal, stinging his eyes and twisting his heart. With a low, long groan, he embraced them both. Over his mother’s head, he caught Janine’s bewildered expression.

  One day, maybe two.

  How could he stand to lose everything again?

  When the bed dipped with Nick’s weight, Janine pretended she’d been asleep. “What time is it?” she asked groggily.

  He slid into the warm spot along her back and curled a possessive arm around her stomach. “Almost dawn. Go back to sleep.”

  She hadn’t slept a moment. Even though she’d excused herself hours ago from the bittersweet family reunion, she’d simply lain in bed and stared into the darkness, listening to the laughter and hushed conversation that drifted upstairs.

  She felt like she’d spent hours as an observer, watching others enjoy a roller-coaster ride. She could only imagine what dips and thrills they were experiencing. Especially Luc—Nick. The highs of reuniting with lost family; the agonizing low of having to tell them the cause of his disappearance.

  The women in his life knew nothing but forgiveness. His mother had cried a lot but clearly didn’t care what her son had done in the past, now that he’d been returned to her. And Claire was relentless in her belief that Nick Jarrett could somehow be given a complete government pardon and be free to return to his world and his family.

  After a few hours, Janine had retired to the guest room. She’d spent the time trying to examine and understand her complicated feelings for him. Could this be love? This spiraling, dangerous, heady feeling balanced by a completely unfamiliar need to connect in every emotional and physical way?

  She shifted slightly against the hard planes of his chest. “Luc?”

  “Nick.” He tucked her bottom against him, and she felt the instant electrical jolt of their bodies touching.

  “I keep forgetting,” she whispered. “Nick?”

  “Mmm?” His hand traveled the indentation of her waist and rested on her hip, his fingertip dipping perilously low on her stomach.

  “Do you think Claire is right? Do you think you could get a pardon from the government?”

  His enchanted fingers stilled. “Claire is a fireball who hates to be told no. It would take a miracle in the eyes of the FBI director.”

  “Could Tristan help?”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  “Your sister sure has a visceral reaction to the mention of his name.”


  “I don’t blame her. He told her that he’d killed me.”

  She flipped around to face him. “Why would he tell her that?”

  “Because she loved him. It stopped her from launching a full-scale investigation, dragging in the media and unknowingly blowing my cover. It was the only way she’d quietly accept that I was gone. Of course, it cost their relationship.”

  She thought of the spark in the pretty girl’s eyes when anyone mentioned the FBI agent. “She’s still in love with him.”

  “Without a doubt.” His hand started its journey over her stomach again, leaving a trail of fire on her skin.

  “If he’s still in love with her, maybe…”

  He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Tristan would face the fires of hell for her, but Claire has no influence over his boss. In the mind of the FBI director, I ought to be rotting in a jail somewhere. I’m lucky to be free. And if I’m really lucky, I’ll get to eat fast food instead of brie in my next life, and sing the right song at a sporting event. That’s all.”

  The same niggling thought that had plagued her for hours floated to the surface. If he was going to live in the U.S., then could they be together? “Won’t you—can’t you have…someone special in your life, no matter who you are?”

  He didn’t say anything for a long time, and the pit in Janine’s stomach grew deeper and darker. “I’ve never tried,” he finally whispered. “But you should have someone special in your life, and I’m not it.”

  The finality of his words broke her heart. “Don’t I have a say on that?” she asked, hating the way her voice caught.

  “Janine.” He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her.

  “Szha-neen,” she corrected, with a shaky smile.

  He smiled and spun a piece of her hair in his fingertips. “You want security. You want a man who will be there for you. You want a family, a home, a curved staircase, and a grand piano. You want legitimacy.”