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Captivated by Her Parisian Billionaire
by Andrea Bolter
CHAPTER ONE
THE EIFFEL TOWER. It had been a long time since Jules had woken up to the sight of one of the world’s most famous landmarks. When his eyes clicked open after the heavy slumber he hoped would cancel out his jet lag, he’d used the remote control on the nightstand to raise the blackout blinds and let in the light of the Paris morning. There the tower stood in view through his window, in all its wrought iron lattice glory.
Jules’s apartment was an example of the many Durand Properties, his billion-euro real-estate empire, he owned in the city with their mixture of historic architecture and every modern convenience. High ceilings, crown moldings and original chevron wood floors reminded him that this apartment in the Seventh Arrondissement, as Paris’s districts were referred to, was over a hundred years old.
His eyes fell shut again. While there was no question that his hometown was one of the most magnificent cities in the world, he was uneasy returning to Paris. Traveling across the globe, buying more and more properties everywhere he went had become his way of life. The last sleep he’d had on land was on the fifty-seventh floor of an ultra-luxury hotel in Singapore. Always on the move, Jules liked living in hotels, anonymous and temporary.
After rubbing his eyelids with the heels of his hands, he reopened them. There was the window again with its spectacular view. The tower, watching over the city as it always did. Yep, he really was back in Paris.
Mindlessly scratching his bare chest, he knew he should get out of bed. Tomorrow, he’d resume his habit of starting the day with an outdoor run. Today, he’d acclimate. A busy morning lay ahead with reestablishing himself at the Durand Properties headquarters and completing the job he’d returned to France to do. It was time to take the reins from his irresponsible mother and father, who had been on their own globe-trot for far too long. Although parenting his parents was hardly how he’d envisioned this chapter of his life, blood was blood and he’d do anything he had to.
As if reading his mind, the buzz of Jules’s phone beckoned and one glance at the screen’s caller identification let him know it was his mother. He swiped to answer.
“Where in the world is my tall handsome son?” Agathe Durand’s singsong led him to believe she was calling from a different time zone, as she was never chipper in the mornings. Her voice was high with that continental-traveler tone she used to fool people, to disguise the fact that she was perpetually discontent with her life.
“My apartment, Mother. You’re not in Paris?”
“Tel Aviv.”
“Tel Aviv. Dandy.” Spending Jules’s money, of course. “Dare I ask, is Father okay?”
“Yes, your exasperating pater is fine, although keeping me from properly enjoying Tel Aviv. The man wants to sit in cafés eating falafel all day instead of being out and taking in the sights.”
There she goes again, Jules thought. Blaming his father for her own unhappiness. As she did the entirety of Jules’s childhood. At their age, Jules hoped their domestic dramas were behind them, especially now that Hugo was confined to a wheelchair after a fall had broken his back. Yet, with his parents, there was no telling. The unpredictability of which drove ordered-and-organized Jules crazy.
“Never mind touring Tel Aviv. You’re supposed to be in Paris. That’s why I’m here.” Arranging to meet them in the same place was often a challenge and Jules had sat waiting in many a foreign train station or airport, eventually receiving the call that they’d missed their departure.
While his parents continued their decade-long knack of finding an antique piece of jewelry to buy and then sell at a high markup, or one of them getting work in some corner of the world at a tavern or on a farm, Jules had been largely footing their bills. Hugo’s physical condition now prohibited him from any hard labor. Agathe’s bon vivant facade was not what it used to be and she was no longer able to charm her way into dinner or a night’s lodgings.
As their only child, Jules felt a responsibility to them despite the dysfunction he’d grown up in. Money was something he had plenty of to give. So while peace and satisfaction were apparently out of the question for his parents, at least he could make sure they didn’t disappear somewhere into the abyss. Now their wanderings had become impractical and dangerous. He needed to ground them.
In short, the gig was up for these nomads Jules called parents. It was time they stayed in one place. Paris, where they’d raised Jules in a shoddy apartment on the outskirts of town, long lost to creditors, was where they were born and where they would die.
“Oh, Jules, we’ll be there eventually.”
A wince reminded him of similar phone calls from years gone by. Only it wasn’t both of his parents calling during any hour of the day or night far from home. It was his mother who, at least a dozen times during Jules’s childhood, would become bored or angry with her housewifely doldrums. So she’d pack a suitcase and disappear, abandoning Jules and his father. With theatrical vows that she needed to see the world and would never return, she’d only get as far as visiting relatives in other parts of France for a few days. Inevitably, she’d regain her senses or outstay her welcome, not having the wherewithal to get any farther. She’d return to her husband and son with promises that she’d never leave them again. Until she did.
In later years, she began dragging Hugo along with her, which gave her the courage to venture greater distances. A bitter and cold man who was never able to maintain steady employment, it made no difference to him where he laid his head at night.
But this move would be final. Once Jules got his parents back to Paris and into one of his apartments where they’d have a safe roof over their heads, he’d base himself here again and look after what their aging health would demand. As laughable as it was to use the term for people his parents’ age, it was time for Agathe and Hugo to grow up. In the process, Jules would call Paris home again as well, which he had been resisting but knew was overdue.
“If you had seen the way your mother behaved with our taxi driver last night, you’d be as horrified as I was,” the voice of Jules’s father came through the speaker. Obviously, Hugo had gained custody of the phone in Tel Aviv and was reporting to Jules lest his wife consider herself blameless for their latest row. “She absolutely threw herself at him. The young man was gracious, of course, but even he was embarrassed.”
“You’re just jealous,” Agathe called into the speaker. Why Jules’s parents had to fight during a call to him was anyone’s guess. There was plenty of other time left in the day for them to badger at each other and then let things subside like they always did, neither of them having the gumption to actually end their marriage. They were becoming more childish every time he spoke with them.
“While I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than listen to the two of you argue over the phone, I need to finish the apartment I have for you and run my business. You were supposed to meet me in Paris to make some decisions about the renovation. I’ll put you in one of my hotels while we finish the work. Get here.” He ended the call, annoyed. Hopefully, he was making the right decision in forcing them back. He couldn’t think of another solution.
After showering and donning his uniform of a Savile Row business suit, he found his daily breakfast of a green vegetable smoothie in the refrigerator, which he had instructed the housekeeper to prepare. He readied himself for his workday in what was to become his new routine. Durand Properties occupied an enormous building in Montparnasse
. It had been months since he’d set foot in his actual office, the staff spending more time with him on telescreens than in person.
Jules maintained a crack management team to collaborate with him on operations, leaving him free to do what he did best. Seek out real estate to purchase and rehabilitate, resell or lease. He was good at his job, he reasoned, as he’d amassed over two hundred properties on four continents.
He stood at his bedroom window and peered down at the street traffic while he sipped his green drink. People hurried this way and that, many headed to the metro stations where they’d travel underground to their daily destinations.
His eyes fixed on a young couple. The woman had a short haircut and wore a striped dress, gesturing wildly with her hands as they walked. Jules couldn’t hear her from his second-floor apartment, but from her facial expressions she seemed to be shouting at her companion. The man, bearded and in jeans, listened silently. At one point, he deftly kissed her on the cheek without causing either of them to lose their stride. From arguing to kissing, their familiarity with each other made Jules guess they were a couple that had been together for a long time. Did interactions with women always have to include commotion?
“Yes, Karim.” He turned from the window and paced the wooden floor as he took a call from his personal assistant at the office, who Jules spoke with several times a day regardless of his own whereabouts.
“Jules, I’ve checked with Lanon in Project Development about acquiring an interior designer to do the apartment for your parents. She tells me that all of our designers are swamped and if we pull anyone away from their current project, we won’t make our completion dates.”
“I see.” Jules contemplated his assistant’s report. A few years ago, he had bought a large building in the Second Arrondissement with apartments that would be a good fit for his parents because he was able do the structural changes needed for wheelchair access. Which was not always possible in the stately old buildings of Paris. Plus, it was in a lively neighborhood with plenty of shops and public spaces nearby. His tenant there had moved out, although later than he had expected. So the unit still needed paint, furnishings and decor, and some further accommodations given his father’s mobility restrictions.
“I’ll be in the office shortly. Please check with Giang in Resources as to how we should go about finding a designer immediately.”
Of course, it couldn’t be just anyone. Since the designer was to work with Jules as a son of the inhabitants as well as an employer, it wasn’t a typical project. He’d want to select this hire himself.
“I already have. He suggested we contact some of our high-end furniture suppliers, as a lot of designers come through their doors.”
“Good, then. Kindly get that done.”
After the call, Jules knotted his tie in the mirror. He squared himself in the eye. The two little permanent creases between his eyebrows always gave his face a serious demeanor.
This morning, there was also worry in his big brown orbs. Converting abandoned factories into housing for an entire village in India was one thing. But taking charge of his parents’ affairs, staying in Paris to be with them in their elder years was going to be his biggest project yet. He was fundamentally as unsettled as they were.
For some reason, he thought of that pretty girl in the striped dress on the street yelling at her man.
Returning to the window, Jules saw the couple far down the block now, as tiny as dolls from his viewpoint. He shifted his gaze to the Eiffel Tower one more time.
Paris.
The City of Light.
Home.
Jules had never felt lonelier.
* * *
“I might have good news,” Yasmine Jaziri told her roommate, Zoe Gaiman, as she sat down at the outside table of the café on Boulevard Saint-Michel, the longtime haven for young people and students in the city’s Latin Quarter.
Zoe nursed her lemon soda as she allowed Yasmine to get settled in. When the waiter approached, Yasmine ordered a glass of red wine.
“Let’s hear it.” Zoe couldn’t wait. She could use some good news no matter who or what it pertained to.
“My boss, Si, told us that Jules Durand is desperately looking for an interior designer.”
“Jules Durand? As in Durand Properties?” Zoe bubbled. The real-estate development corporation, which owned dozens of buildings in Paris and many more throughout the world, was founded and led by a certain Jules Durand whom Zoe had read about in a magazine article. The fact that he was much younger than would be expected for someone so accomplished had made an impression on Zoe, and she’d remembered the name. Also, judging from the couple of photos accompanying the magazine story, Jules Durand was twenty-five kinds of good-looking.
“Apparently, he has an apartment he needs work on, and quickly,” Yasmine continued.
“What, he asked Si if he knew anyone?”
“Yeah. Si mentioned it at the staff meeting this morning.” Yasmine apprenticed for Si Wu, a renowned furniture designer. Trendy and finely crafted side tables that cost more than Zoe earned in a year kind of thing. It made sense that Jules Durand would buy from a studio like that. “I can get you the contact information.”
“I doubt he’d consider me qualified.” While Zoe was a burgeoning interior designer, Durand Properties was not going to be interested in someone with her level of experience. She’d been in Paris for a year and had only managed to secure a few small jobs. A tiny restaurant that needed a new look on a budget. A nursery school that was updating their two classrooms. The couple that needed to utilize their parking garage for storage. Not much more than what she had been doing in Maupont, the small town near Lyon where she grew up. She had fled to make a name for herself in Paris, not to mention leave painful memories behind.
“What can I get for you two mademoiselles?” the older mustached waiter asked when he returned with Yasmine’s wine.
“Thank you, we’re just having drinks,” Zoe quickly answered. There was no money in her budget for an expensive dinner. She and Yasmine had agreed they’d meet to savor a slow drink and watch the parade of Paris go by. At this point, even that was a treat.
The waiter snarled, no doubt hoping they were going to order food. Zoe shrugged her shoulders at him with a cute smile. It failed to crack his gruff exterior.
“It doesn’t hurt to try,” Yasmine continued on about Durand Properties. “You have nothing to lose.”
“You’ve got that right.”
Zoe had come to Paris on a hope and a dream, and feared that neither were coming to pass. Even sharing a one-bedroom apartment with Yasmine, whom she’d met through a mutual acquaintance, she couldn’t afford this expensive city. Something had to give or she’d soon be letting her brothers in Maupont know that she was coming home, defeated.
“Just send an email,” Yasmine encouraged. “You have some nice photos from the jobs you’ve done. Include those. You know what you’re doing.”
Sweet Yasmine. Always a word of encouragement. She assessed her roommate sipping from her wineglass Her thick dark hair was stick straight, as opposed to Zoe’s corkscrew red curls that grew every which way out of her head. Yasmine hailed from Tunisia and had moved to Paris to study, eventually landing under Si Wu’s tutelage. Even though Zoe’s fantasy of success and a life in Paris seemed to be crumbling, she’d always wish the best for Yasmine.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try and see if I can get a meeting.” Not with Jules Durand himself, she hoped. That would be too nerve-racking. He’d probably have an underling interview prospective designers, wouldn’t he? The CEO would have much more supervisory tasks in front of him.
What was she even thinking? Jules Durand’s company, with some of the most notable buildings in Paris, was not going to hire someone who knew how to make a room look larger by placing mirrors in the correct locations! They would employ designers with CVs as gr
and as the rooms they’d be filling.
The waiter returned with a tray full of delicious-smelling food for another table. Zoe’s nose followed the aroma as far as it could.
“Yasmine, you know what? You’re right. I do know what I’m doing. I don’t doubt my abilities.” She liked saying those words out loud. “Durand Properties might be just the break I need.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The possibility that if she did pursue the opportunity she might encounter Jules Durand himself niggled at her. Staring back at her from those magazine photos with his eyes as dark a brown as hers were as light a blue, he was one intense man. His were the kind of eyes that could take over a girl’s thoughts. Make her wonder if the impossible might be possible. Not Zoe, of course. None of that was for her. But it might set someone else to speculation.
“Okay, get me the contact information.”
Two days later, Zoe and her portfolio strode toward the Durand Properties headquarters. In her one good black suit with the coordinating silky blouse underneath, she felt professional and terrified at the same time.
Just as Yasmine had promised, the contact person at Durand Properties was easily reachable by email. He, in turn, sent her an e-log from which to choose an appointment time. Several of the slots were already filled, leading Zoe to deduce that other people were being interviewed, as well. Which didn’t bode well in her favor as her competition might have more experience than she did.
Nonetheless, she was excited. This was why she came to Paris, to work within the walls of the incredible architectural marvels, both old and new, that graced this remarkable city. She loved it here, where the boulevards teemed with energy. She didn’t want to return to sleepy Maupont, where the most she could hope for was the odd job revamping a guest bedroom or small office. Where, walking down every street, she’d see someone she knew who would give her that look of sympathy and pity for what would define her family’s name there for the rest of eternity. No, Paris wiped the slate. Gave her a fresh start. And it was where she wanted to live for the rest of her life.
Marrying His Runaway Heiress Page 17
