The word stung, and she swallowed against the bitter lump in her throat.
“I can never give you that,” he whispered. “Sure, we could be together, but for how long? To what end? How stable is life with a man who might have to move, change his identity, uproot his life at any moment?”
The pain in her heart threatened to collapse her chest.
“I won’t do that to you,” he said. “You deserve a better man. A man…without a past.”
“Just tell me one thing, then,” she managed to say. “What if you were free? What if you got that pardon?” What if I didn’t care about your past?
His lips touched her forehead, his breath warm on her skin. “I would marry you and make you the happiest doctor of art history in America.” He trailed a finger along her cheek and let it rest on her lips. “But we shouldn’t talk about it. Because it isn’t going to happen. All we have is this time, now.”
Confusion and frustration and hope rose inside her, and he quelled it all with a demanding and intimate kiss. But he couldn’t quiet the echo of his words. Those, she would have forever.
I would marry you….
She didn’t care about his past. She didn’t even care if he changed names and homes and languages like other people changed jobs. It didn’t matter, because for the first time in her life, she was truly in love.
She pressed her body against him as his hands found her breasts and their kisses intensified. She slid off his shorts, he lifted her cotton nightgown over her head. She eased him on his back, careful not to hurt his bandaged arm. Then she smiled and climbed on top of him.
Driven by the now familiar ribbon that twirled her body into a knot of desire, she flattened her palms against his chest and raised herself above him. With a shake of her head, her hair tumbled down and fell around his face. He grabbed a handful and ran his fingers through it, his other hand exploring her body.
“Rapunzel.” He half laughed, half moaned.
She reached between her legs and closed her hands over him, drawing him into her. When he entered her, she gasped and rocked into his hips, taking her pleasure and erasing her pain. Arching toward him, her hair tickled her backside. He grasped her waist and hips and drove into her. Slowly at first, then faster and harder. He whispered words of love in English, then French. She leaned over him, and he twisted her hair into knots as tight as the ones inside her until she felt him explode in her; then everything spun and twirled and unraveled all at once.
When Janine finally fell onto his powerful chest, exhausted and satisfied, she closed her eyes and listened to the thumping of his heart, beating in an odd three-step rhythm.
I-love-you. I-love-you. I-love-you.
Nick had his reasons for letting this love affair end, and they were real and right to him. He wasn’t willing to share his life—his strange, guarded, enigmatic life—with her. She had to respect that.
And then she knew: even though she loved him, it was time to leave. There was nothing but heartache to be gained by staying any longer with a man she loved but couldn’t have. Wasn’t that what she intended when she decided to take charge of her destiny?
She would leave tomorrow, a richer, better woman who had finally tasted love. And twenty-thousand-dollar wine.
She didn’t expect to ever have either one again.
Chapter
Twenty-eight
T he midday sunshine broke through a stubborn cloud as Nick and Claire meandered through the vines. He plucked an unripened grape, squeezing it between his fingers.
“I like wine, but I don’t know beans about grapes,” he admitted to Claire.
She laughed and took the fruit from his fingers. “Maman could tell you what variety this is with her eyes closed.”
“Gamay.” He elbowed her gently. “Even I know that.”
She narrowed her chocolate gaze, and for a second he thought she’d stick her tongue out at him, as if time and bad choices had never separated them.
“Yeah, but she could tell you when it would peak for harvest,” Claire said. “And if it would make a decent blend.”
The seed of an idea took hold as he dropped the grape and roped his arm around Claire’s neck. “Mom looks good,” he said. “Is she happy?”
His sister looked up at him with a sparkle in her eyes. “She is now, Nick.”
He smiled. “You look good, too.” He ruffled her already windblown hair. “Still a little bossy, but good.” The sound of her laughter echoed across the hillside, filling him with as much happiness as he could remember since…last night. He glanced toward the house. They’d only been exploring the vineyard for an hour or so, but already he missed Janine, who’d declined to join them on a postlunch walk. He wanted to go back to the house, but he wanted to spend more time with his sister, too. Not a bad moment in life, he thought. Torn between two beautiful women he…cared about.
He tightened his grip on Claire. “No husband and babies yet, huh? Let’s see, I’m thirty-nine, so you’re damn near thirty-five. What’s taking so long?”
She wiggled out of his grasp. “I’m married to my business.”
“An auction house? Is that right?”
“Mmm.” She nodded and plucked a grape of her own. “I bailed out of Sotheby’s a while ago and started Claire’s. It’s not Christie’s yet, but it’s going gangbusters. I’m thinking about branching out of New York.” She gave him a curious look. “You know, I’d been following the story on those French vases—the Pompadour Plums. I can’t believe they brought you to me. I’d sure like to get those up on the block.”
He snorted. “I’d sure like to find them. If only to make Janine happy.”
“It’s pretty obvious you’d like to do that.”
With a grin, he pulled her back into his side. “I hate it when I’m transparent.”
“Only to me.”
The house was in plain view now, and he squinted into the sunshine at the figure in the driveway. Janine. She was putting something in their car. His chest constricted, and he quickened his step until they reached her.
“What are you doing?” he asked, glancing at Lisette’s decrepit luggage in the backseat.
“I was hoping you’d drive me to Dijon,” she said, with a decidedly cavalier shrug. “I can catch a flight to Paris this afternoon.”
He stared at her, unable to speak, unable to process what she’d just announced.
“It’s not a long drive,” she added. “Gabrielle said she’d come along, so you don’t have to give up time with her.”
He shook his head, still trying to handle flight to Paris. “Why are you leaving?”
“I’m going to get a drink,” Claire said, no doubt sensing the storm brewing.
Janine took a deep breath. “You have so little time left until…until you have to go.”
“Precisely my point.”
“It’s not fair that I cut in on your time with your mother and sister. They’ve missed you for five years and I…I…”
“You what?”
She laughed nervously. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“No. I’m not.” How could it be easy to walk away from what precious hours they had? Maybe only one more night until Tristan blew into town waving a new driver’s license and birth certificate.
“Luc—Sorry. Listen, I have to go. I can maybe help clean up things at Versailles or, worst case, get back to UCLA and see if I still have a job. I have to get on with my life.”
“What about your Plums?” What about us? He bit back the inane question. There clearly was no us.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah. Well. Let me know if they ever find them.”
He caught her hand midgesture. “I can’t do that and you know it. I’ll never be able to contact you. I’ll never see you again,” he ground out.
She freed her hand and opened the car door. “Precisely my point,” she said softly.
The rumble of a car coming up the gravel drive jerked his attention. A blue sedan rolled toward them, kick
ing up a cloud of dirt. It parked about twenty yards away, and in a second, Tristan slid out of the driver’s seat.
Time’s up.
“Did you find the Plums?” Janine asked anxiously as he approached.
Nick was tempted to remind her that three seconds ago she’d waved them off, but Tristan shook his head. Nick raced through his options, trying to decide how to break the news that the whole cover was blown. At least with some people who really mattered.
“Hey, Tris,” he said, rounding the car to shake his hand. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”
At that moment, the front door opened and Tristan looked up. To anyone else, he had no reaction. But Nick saw it. He knew that imperceptible spark in Tristan’s eyes. He’d seen it every time Claire stormed the kitchen in tight jeans and T-shirt while Tristan was trying to be Mr. Cool CIA agent.
Without missing a beat, Claire waltzed out to the driveway and stopped next to Janine. “I’m going with you and Nick to the airport,” she announced, not looking at either man.
Tristan pointed a finger at Nick. “You’re not going to any airport.”
“Can I?” Janine asked. “Am I free to go?”
Tristan nodded, and Nick almost gave in to the frustration that burned inside him.
No. You are not free to go.
But why would she stay here with a man wanted in thirteen states who had a criminal history as long as her legs? Taking a deep breath, he reached in his pocket and fished out the keys. He tossed them over the car to his sister, who caught them in midair.
“It’s a straight shot into town,” he said to Claire. “There are signs all over the place for the airport.”
Claire came around to the driver’s side, a foot from Tristan without even a flicker of eye contact.
“He’d better be here when I get back,” she warned under her breath. Without waiting for a response, she dove behind the wheel and slammed her door shut. Over the roof of the car, Nick gave Janine one long, last look.
He snapped the mental picture of her cornflower blue eyes gazing at him, the wind lifting a strand of hair, with the sun-washed French château as her backdrop. He’d remember that vision for a long time.
“So long, Rapunzel.”
She touched her fingers to her lips and tipped him a kiss in response.
With a wistful half smile, she slipped into the passenger seat. Claire was spewing gravel before Janine had the chance to close her door.
Two hours later, Tristan accepted the wine offered to him. “Thanks, Mrs. J.”
“You can call me Gabrielle now,” she said with a gentle smile, and then put her hand on her son’s shoulder.
Tristan laughed and watched her disappear through the patio doors. Her look had told him she’d forgiven him. She somehow understood what it had cost to rearrange her wayward son’s life. Claire clearly hadn’t yet reached the understanding phase.
Nick held his glass up in a mock toast. “To old times.”
Tristan rolled his eyes and picked up the red wine that would be far better described as black. “I probably shouldn’t drink on duty,” he said, holding his glass to Nick’s. But after seeing Claire—and Gabrielle Jarrett for that matter—he needed it. It wasn’t a show of weakness.
Weaknesses turn to strength when stared in the face.
“Is that why you’re staring at me?”
Tristan jerked, not realizing he’d spoken out loud. “What can I say, Nicky? You evidently are my professional weakness.”
“For which I am eternally grateful.” Nick took a long drink and settled back in the chair. “I guess ‘temporary’ is the operative word in the scenario you just described to me.”
Tristan nodded and sipped, the berry and vanilla of the wine pulling pleasantly at his tongue. “It could last a few weeks, maybe a month or so. He just doesn’t know what the hell to do with you now. The Benazir arrest carried a lot of weight, but a blanket pardon would take more than that.”
Nick scowled, irritating Tristan. That wasn’t the look he expected from a man who’d just been given a reprieve, however temporary. Then he remembered the look on his face when he said good-bye to Rapunzel.
“Why’d she leave?” Tristan asked.
“Beats the hell out of me. I think you scared her away.”
“I’m sure you did that all by yourself.” Tristan had no doubt he’d watched a woman in love run off to Dijon. “You’re not exactly what I would call a safe bet.”
Nick spun the wine cork on the table. Of course he’d start doing hand tricks; it was his favorite way to detour a subject.
“If she had just waited a few minutes, then she would have heard that I’ve got some time.” He rolled the cork through his fingers, then it disappeared. “She could have stayed here at the château with me.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what she’d want to do. Hang out indefinitely while the government decides the fate of one of their favorite criminals.”
Nick flipped the cork in the air and let it hit the table, his look as black as the wine in his glass. “I’ve paid my dues, Tris. I’ve thwarted a dozen major heists in France over the past five years. I’ve made your job a hell of a lot easier as a liaison with local authorities. And I handed over a mastermind who had managed to prance out of prison when no one was looking.”
“I know your résumé,” Tristan said quietly. “The decision’s not mine.”
The sound of a car door slamming carried over the vineyard. “Claire’s back,” Nick said, scooping the cork in his hand and punting it with one finger right at Tristan’s chest. “Drink up. Weaknesses are best stared at in the face.”
Tristan speared him with a dirty look.
Nick laughed. “Or something like that.”
“You shouldn’t read in the dark, darling.” Gabrielle reached over the desk and switched on a lamp, shedding a yellow pool over the papers and spreadsheets in front of Nick.
He smiled his thanks and didn’t remind his mother that he preferred to read in dim light. She’d been babying him for a month and clearly enjoyed it. After she sat, she leaned forward and scrutinized his face.
“You don’t look happy. The owner of the Rhône vineyard declined to make an offer, didn’t he?”
He nodded. Although his mother was quite capable in the wine-making area and he’d assumed the administrative responsibilities, they were still searching for a buyer.
“Did Tristan have news when he called?” she asked, evidently not accepting “business” as the sole reason for his scowl.
“Not enough.” The utter loss of the Plums was at the root of all Nick’s angst. If he could produce them, then maybe he’d have an excuse to go to California….
“What did he say?”
“Benazir still refuses to confess to stealing the Plums, and they remain firmly out of sight. They haven’t shown up on the black market, and all of the usual intelligence sources are coming up with nothing. They’ve simply vanished.” He suspected they were swept into a trash can somewhere, a million slivers of soft paste porcelain. Otherwise, someone somewhere would have seen them by now.
“What about those people at Versailles?” she asked. “They haven’t offered a single clue?”
“Marchionette has been formally removed as the minister of culture, and several of his lackeys in key positions have resigned.”
Gabrielle nodded thoughtfully. She’d kept up with the case every day; he’d heard her telling Claire details when she called from New York, even though Claire had been talking to Tristan often enough to know the progress on the case. And the progress on his next “assignment”—which was zero. The director had yet to place him anywhere, as anyone.
Living here in limbo was as bad as living in hell. Except the wine was better.
“And what about Janine?” His mother’s face was almost expression-free, but the glimmer in her eye gave away her thoughts.
Janine tortured his dreams and invaded his days. “Evidently, the head of Versailles Security—a woman
Marchionette himself put into place—has admitted to placing an unauthorized camera in the chapel, so she knew where I’d hidden the Plums. She’s being charged as an accessory to the crime, and with harassing Janine to deflect the attention of the authorities. So, Tristan said Janine may have to return to France to testify.” But he’d be long gone by then.
Gabrielle traced a finger along the carved edge of Bérnard’s ancient oak desk. “Have you spoken to her?”
“No.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.” It wasn’t a lie. He knew she was in L.A., teaching a summer course, but he didn’t know if she was walking down the street, on the beach, sleeping, dreaming, crying, hoping, or simply moving on with her life. The all-too-familiar ache settled in his heart as he imagined her doing all those things.
He saw the look in his mother’s eyes again. She couldn’t stand to have anyone else lose love the way she had, and she’d spent a good deal of the past few weeks reminding him of that. He’d have to head her off quickly. “I have a proposal for you,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows in question.
“I suggest we take the vineyard off the market.”
His mother just stared.
“I’d like to keep it…in the family, Mom. What would you say to staying here and running the vineyard yourself?”
“Me?” She let out a giggle of delight and surprise.
“I’ll help you from…from wherever I am. It’s easy with e-mail and computers. I could find a foreman. A couple of candidates from other vineyards have sent letters and résumés.”
“Do you think I could handle it?” Her eyes sparkled.
“Claire and I have been talking about it, and we know you could,” he said, leaning toward her. “You belong here, Mom. And Claire will visit and, maybe, so could I. What do you think?”
She held up her hand to her mouth, her eyes swimming in tears. “Oh, Nicky, I love the idea. I’ve wanted to be here all my life.”
He stood and came around the desk, kneeling on one knee to embrace her. “I know you have. I think you could be very happy here. What do you have in Boston anymore?”
French Twist Page 26
