by Joanne Rock
One that wasn’t focused on her plans to keep César hidden from the media for a little while longer.
“Tatiana?” Kimberly seemed to be enlarging one of the images as she stared at it. “Can you take a look at this?”
“Sure.” She sat down on the closest chair. Already dressed for the wedding, she rearranged her skirts around her. Her lemon-colored princess-cut gown was strapless and highlighted with tiny yellow sequins in a subtle sunburst pattern. It looked as if a sun glowed from the area of her waist. “Did you find a cute player you want to dance with?”
“I thought I recognized this woman, actually.” She pointed to a figure under one of the rookie Hurricane players’ arms. “Not all of the guests’ names were on my list since many of the wedding attendees were bringing a plus-one that might not be a wife.”
Her gaze settled on the person in question. A female a bit blurred from having the photo stretched as large as possible. But Tatiana had captured her as she exited the limo and strode toward the Tides’ main building. She must have missed seeing the woman at the time of the photo, her eye focusing on someone or something else in the excitement of the new arrivals.
Yet she recognized her former client very well. Blair Jones was the woman she’d helped sue Marcus Caruthers for sexual harassment. And now, here was Blair, attending a Reynaud wedding with another football player when the Reynaud brothers had every reason to resent and dislike her. Worry and suspicion joined forces, making Tatiana fear what her presence meant.
“Blair Jones.” Tatiana confirmed the woman’s identity aloud. “You probably recognized her from her sexual harassment case against—”
“Marcus.” Kimberly frowned, touching the edge of the phone lightly. “I had a crush on him when I was a teen. I got his autograph his rookie year when his team came to town to play the Mustangs. I never believed for a second he was guilty.”
Tatiana wondered if she knew about her connection to Blair, but decided to leave well enough alone for now. She wanted to confront Blair before the ceremony and find out what the woman’s intentions were. Her lawyer instincts told her she wasn’t going to like the answer.
“You’re not the only one,” Tatiana remarked lightly, tucking her phone into her sequined yellow purse. “Would you excuse me while I go find Jean-Pierre before the wedding starts?”
Striding up the long aisle of carpet that had been rolled out on the sand, Tatiana did plan to seek out Jean-Pierre. She needed to warn him that Blair had somehow wrangled her way into the private family event. But first, she would try to find the woman herself, because every inch of her feminine intuition screamed that something was amiss. She didn’t want her son—or her tentative relationship with Jean-Pierre—to be caught in the cross fire of whatever scandal was stirring around that woman.
* * *
“I’ve brought you a little something, boys.” Leon Reynaud stood on the threshold of the Tides Ranch library that Gervais had opted to use as a gathering place for his groomsmen.
Jean-Pierre bounced a tennis ball on a huge piece of cypress wood fashioned into a desk at the back corner of the room. He’d been distracted with thoughts of Tatiana all morning, thinking about what Dempsey had said to him back in New Orleans.
So why is Gervais beating you to the altar?
It bothered Jean-Pierre that he hadn’t managed to change that state of affairs. That he’d had a son born out of wedlock while Gervais was moving heaven and earth to ensure he put a ring on Erika’s finger before his twins arrived. Now, with their vows just minutes away, he knew there would be no trip to any clerk’s office with Tatiana before then. With that heavy weight of failure on his shoulders, he was only too glad to quit bouncing the tennis ball to see what Leon had to say.
“You’re looking mighty sharp, Gramps,” he called over his brothers’ heads.
Dempsey and Gervais were taking turns remarking on how badly Henri’s bow-tie-tying skills sucked, which was more a game of who could come up with better insults than anything, since Henri wore Tom Ford as well as anyone in the room. In matching silk tuxes, the Reynaud men cleaned up quite nicely.
“Same to you, son,” Leon called, waving an impatient hand at the others to quiet them. “And the tie just needs a woman’s touch, Henri,” their grandfather muttered to the beleaguered Hurricanes starting quarterback. “If you got laid more, your tie would look just fine.”
Gramps waggled shaggy white eyebrows and the four of them howled with laughter. Henri’s laugh was loudest of all, since he tended to disappear in coat closets at the drop of a hat with his wife lately. He didn’t seem to be suffering in that department.
But even better than Leon’s perfectly timed insult was the fact that he looked so clear-eyed today. The old man was on his game despite the Alzheimer’s and that pleased Jean-Pierre to no end. Their grandfather hadn’t given them the most traditional upbringing once he’d stepped in to take charge with the unruly foursome, but he understood boys. He’d always been able to break the tension with a laugh. And despite his shortcomings, that showed a level of caring that would help Jean-Pierre be a better father.
When the room had quieted enough to hear him again, Leon set a wooden box on the desk beside Jean-Pierre. He opened it to reveal the dark Scotch whiskey inside.
“I’m not staying, you know. I’ve got a nursemaid hovering by the door even now, ready to box my ears if I enjoy the free bar at this shindig.” He pointed a crooked finger at the archway where a placid, middle-aged woman checked her hair in a mirror. “But I wanted you all to enjoy a toast on me.”
They crowded around the bottle—a sixty-two-year-old reserve blend—just as they had when Gramps brought a fifties-era Harley-Davidson bike to the ranch to give them a lesson in engine rebuilding. The motorcycle had been in crates when he bought the relic, but by the end of the summer they’d taken turns seeing how fast it would go on the private ranch roads.
No doubt it was the wedding making Jean-Pierre sentimental today as he thought about the past. And about how much he wished Tatiana would make things permanent between them so they could be a real family. Because even though that summer rebuilding the bike had been fun, he wanted a different kind of family for César.
“Thank you, Grand-père.” Gervais clapped the older man on the shoulder. “I hope you’ll stay for the toast even if you won’t have a drink.”
“No, I’m feeling my age and want to step out while I’m still fresh.” He shook his head while Dempsey found glasses in a bar cabinet and Henri opened the bottle. “This is a day for the young. Enjoy it, boys. I’m proud of you all.”
Jean-Pierre was heartbroken to see Leon’s eyes mist over. But then their grandfather stalked out of the room toward his nurse, taking her arm like an old-time suitor on a first date.
Gervais wasted no time pouring the Scotch, the dark amber liquid fragrant in a room grown more somber.
“To Leon.” Gervais lifted his glass.
They all nodded agreement, their glasses raised. But they had a family tradition of toasting around the horn, so they all added one.
“To the groom,” Jean-Pierre offered.
“To fatherhood,” Dempsey added, shooting a meaningful look at both Jean-Pierre and Gervais.
“To family,” Henri added, bringing his glass in for the clink.
Jean-Pierre downed his fast, never having been a hardcore whiskey drinker. But this was smooth and rich, without the burn of a cheaper blend.
Outside the library, he could see the wedding guests filling in the seats down by the beach. He hadn’t seen Tatiana since early that morning and he wanted to find her soon to be sure he sat near her after his brief part in the ceremony.
He wondered if she’d been looking for him since he’d lost track of the passing hours in the library.
“Gentlemen?” The minister stepped into the room, a friend of Gerv
ais’s from Louisiana. “We’ll need to take our places outside. It’s time.”
As they filed out, Dempsey hung back to walk with him.
“Today is the day. You know that, right?” Dempsey tugged his elbow to slow him down.
“It seems like a good evening for a sunset wedding,” he agreed pleasantly.
“It’s a good night for a proposal,” Dempsey asserted with the authority of a lifetime matchmaker. Too bad he was just a nosy football coach who actually had no idea when the right time to propose might be.
“We’ll see.” Jean-Pierre had been thinking about it, in fact. There was a boathouse on the Tides Ranch that reminded him of the one where he’d taken Tatiana to fool around back when they’d been dating.
That had significance, right? He wanted to show her he was trying. That he cared about how she felt and what she thought. Yet he also knew time was of the essence. He wanted to be married when they introduced César to the press and the longer they waited to the tie the knot, the greater the risk of discovery. And once the press knew about the baby, wouldn’t she be less likely to say yes? As it stood now, Jean-Pierre suspected that she felt at least some social pressure to marry.
But once the news was out and she weathered that storm, what if she decided she didn’t need to wed?
“You have a ring, right?” Dempsey asked.
“Since when are you the local ambassador of marriage?” He’d actually had a ring at the ready all week, but he wanted to find the right moment. As he exited the side stairs of the main ranch house, Jean-Pierre searched the wedding guests for a sign of Tatiana.
He’d seen the yellow gown she planned to wear hanging in a clear plastic garment bag, but had left before she’d dressed. When he’d seen her last, she’d been backed up against the white tile wall of the shower stall, her cheeks suffused with red from what they’d shared under the hot rush of water.
“I’m looking out for you, and you know it. You’re rolling the dice with your reputation and hers, too. By not tackling this head-on, you’re juicing up the press to get more and more inventive with headlines.” His older brother straightened his tie as he hit the carpet. “Do you see Adelaide?”
Despite Dempsey’s hard-edged veneer, he loved his former personal assistant with a passion he never bothered to disguise. He wasn’t the kind to drag her into coat closets, but his eyes followed where she went.
“Dude.” Jean-Pierre grabbed his brother’s arm before he could leave. “How did you know it was the right time to ask Adelaide to marry you? That she’d say yes?”
“You think I knew she’d say yes?” Dempsey shook his head, as disappointed as if Jean-Pierre was a rookie who didn’t understand a play. “Brother, you have to go all in even when you don’t have any idea. Put yourself on the line. Or I promise you, she’ll never say yes.”
Without a single word of encouragement, his brother spun on his heel and melted into the crowd to find Adelaide, leaving Jean-Pierre just as clueless as before.
So it wasn’t exactly ideal timing that Tatiana found him then, her dark curls spilling over one bare shoulder in a side-swept hairstyle that exposed the smooth skin of her neck. As always, she looked good enough to eat.
But he didn’t have any idea how to tell her he wanted more from her than that. That he wanted to be a husband to her. A father to their son. He knew that without question.
“Blair Jones is here,” she blurted suddenly, her words a hushed hiss of sound. Her expression, he realized, was venomous.
“Your client? The same Blair who lied about Marcus under oath?” He’d told her as much from the very beginning of the case, but Tatiana had explained to him—repeatedly—the rules of her job as Blair’s attorney.
Now, however, she didn’t appear as calmly accepting about Blair Jones as she had last winter.
“The same.” Tatiana wrapped her hand around his forearm and turned him away from the crowd milling around the beach seating. A small chamber orchestra played, alternating zydeco music with classical selections from Erika’s homeland. “And would you believe, she just admitted to me in private that she did exactly that? Lied under oath about Marcus?”
Jean-Pierre thought he might have spotted steam wafting up from her ears. Her cheeks were definitely red again, but not in the good way they’d been this morning in the shower. She was livid, he realized.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” he admitted. “I thought as much all along.”
Up front by the flower-covered archway, his brothers waved him over.
“Well, I’m reporting her to the judge,” she growled, her eyes snapping emerald fire. The sea breeze lifted a few curls to blow them across her cheek. “I’ve been used by a greedy liar who doesn’t care whose reputation she ruins.” She bit her lip and arched up to speak more quietly close to his cheek. “But I’m also terrified she’ll find out about César and run to the press for a lucrative payday.”
Alarms blared in Jean-Pierre’s head as he held up a finger to signal to his brothers that he’d be with them in a moment. After all the toasts about family, he didn’t want to let them down today.
“Do you have any reason to believe she knows about our son?” They’d been so careful he didn’t think that was possible. But then again, this woman—a menace to the football community for reasons he couldn’t begin to guess—was now circulating among their closest friends and family.
Who knew what she might hear this weekend?
“No.” Tatiana shook her head, biting her lip, rubbing her arms in a nervous shiver. “But I’m scared. And I have a bad feeling about her. I’m sure she was unhappy with me when I told her I was going to report her for perjury. Attorney-client privilege doesn’t apply in this instance since I am no longer her lawyer and I wasn’t acting as her lawyer when she spoke to me.”
“You told her that?” His insides sank with foreboding.
“I was angry.” Her eyes glistened. “I unknowingly helped her ruin an innocent man’s reputation.”
Jean-Pierre hauled her into a hug as the chamber orchestra finished their song. There were no words to make this better. The guilt in her eyes spoke volumes. It hadn’t been her fault she’d believed her client and done her job. He saw that now and wished he could have been more levelheaded then. He held her tighter, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“The wedding is about to begin.” He kissed her cheek. “We’ll figure it out. Save me a seat and we’ll talk afterward.”
He didn’t like walking away from her when she was so upset. But he had a duty to perform.
His sixth sense niggled in the back of his mind even as he reached the floral archway to wait with Gervais for his bride. Already he knew it was going to be a bad day for a marriage proposal of his own. He just hoped his proposal was the only thing ruined on a day that should be the happiest of his brother’s life.
Twelve
The wedding reception was truly magical.
After the sunset beachside vows, guests were ushered into a hacienda pavilion built in the style of traditional Spanish colonial architecture. The tile floors and sun-bleached stone walls supported high arches looking out over the water. A dark tile roof protected them from the sun, while the ever-present solar panels collected the energy to keep the generators running. The chamber musicians had given up their spot to a popular country band and already the foreign princesses were dancing with dashing husbands in various hues of military dress and ornamentation. A few of the younger football players joined them, two-stepping circles around the more formal waltzes of their royal counterparts.
Greenery bedecked every archway and long ropes of ivy decorated the exposed beams overhead. The effect was like having a party in a secret garden. Erika had told Tatiana earlier that they’d purchased the flowers and greens back when they hoped to have the event on Lake Pontchartrain, but if the princess
minded exchanging her vows on a beach and having her reception in a hacienda instead, no one would have ever guessed. She danced with Gervais long before any formal introduction of the couple, and Tatiana couldn’t help but admire a bride who didn’t stand on ceremony.
If a woman only had one wedding in her life, she deserved to have fun during every moment of it. That was one of many reasons Tatiana was on the lookout for her former client while Jean-Pierre consulted with Henri and Dempsey in a far corner of the pavilion. She didn’t want more scandal to dim Erika’s enjoyment of her day.
“I recognize this young woman all grown up.” The male voice close to Tatiana’s elbow surprised her. “Care to dance?”
She turned to find Leon Reynaud, the man who had fired her father. Leon had been formidable well into his seventies, but his age had caught up to him a bit. His shoulders had thinned and he’d lost some of the impressive height that had been a genetic gift to his football-playing grandsons. Wispy white hair and overgrown white eyebrows didn’t detract from the elegance of his appearance, however. She took in the crisp black tuxedo and starched French cuffs turned back from gnarled fingers as he offered his arm.
“I’d love to, sir, but I’m waiting to speak to your grandson. And are you sure you remember me?” She would be surprised if he knew her. He’d never paid her much attention when she’d visited their home in the past since he’d usually been closeted with her father in business meetings the whole time.
“You’re the daughter of the infamous Jack Doucet, if I don’t miss my guess. I fired him.” He said it with a jovial air, loud enough to turn heads of people nearby. Perhaps he didn’t realize how devastating it had been for her father and her whole family at the time—and for years afterward.
They didn’t have the resources that the Reynauds did, and losing a lucrative job over a petty grievance between friends had shaken the Doucet family to its foundation.
This week, especially, she’d found herself wondering what might have become of her relationship with Jean-Pierre if they hadn’t been separated so acrimoniously back then.
