by Megan Mulry
“We are so messed up,” she says. “You go from being a researcher to being a businesswoman, and I go from being a businesswoman to being a researcher.”
“You are?”
She looks over at her desk, piled with documents and history books. “It’s so weird, but yeah, after I got here and I started letting go of the idea that I was only on a leave of absence or a hiatus or whatever . . .” She shrugs. “I got really into it. I’ve started doing all this research into our family history, and we found a bunch of documents that might prove historically important.” She smiles. “But what the hell do I know about seventeenth-century French history?”
“I bet a lot.”
She smiles again. “Well, I’m learning. It’s been really great. Anyway, back to you. What happened after your dad’s funeral?”
The conversation circles back to Rome. I still haven’t referred to him by name. Margot finally presses. She’s holding her wineglass close to her lips. “So, are you going to tell me this guy’s name or keep him as some big, bad secret?” She starts to take a sip.
“You’ve probably heard of him. His name is Jérôme de Villiers.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She flies into a fit of coughing, nearly breaking her wineglass when she sets it down next to her with a crash. Then she’s thumping her own chest to alleviate the choking. There is a quick knock at the door, and Étienne pokes his head in with a smile, then frowns when he sees Margot struggling. He rushes into the room and lifts her up, patting her back. “Are you okay, sweetheart? What happened?” She’s waving her hand in front of her face.
“Nothing! Nothing!” she wheezes, catching her breath. “Totally fine!” She’s talking way too brightly.
I am frozen in the chair. “You know him?” I whisper.
Margot is still watery-eyed and trying to collect herself.
“Know whom?” Étienne asks kindly.
“Jérôme de Villiers . . .” I say, hoping the name will ring no bells after all.
“Rome? Of course,” Étienne says with innocent joviality. “He’s my cousin! Our mothers were sisters. We’re actually sort of related to Trevor, too, by marriage. Trevor’s older half-brother, Luke, is also our cousin . . .” He realizes he is rambling a bit and stops talking into the silence.
I take a slow sip of my wine and nod, which Étienne sees as some cue to elaborate. “Really?” I add. I figure if he talks, I won’t have to.
“Yes, there were three Rothschild sisters. Estranged, of course. What else?”
I smile and pretend I didn’t know any of this. “Interesting . . . I think I may have seen something about that,” I say lightly, as if it has nothing much to do with me. “He and I negotiated a deal in Russia, after I inherited my father’s company in March.”
“Oh, great. Right, so you’ve met him?”
“Mm-hmm,” I answer as I take a sip of wine and try to avoid Margot’s best-friend laser eyes.
Étienne senses something more is going on, but he’s a good guy, so he natters on. “Right. Yeah, so Rome’s mother was the oldest—brilliant, apparently—but she ended up being a crazy socialite in Paris, gallivanting everywhere, but really sharp, you know? I think she was probably the brains of that operation—her husband, Rome’s father, was a total lush, nearly destroyed the whole company—but Rome doesn’t really talk about it. His parents died about ten years ago. That’s when he took over Clairebeau. But you probably knew that already.” He is starting to seem like a caged animal, looking from Margot to me.
I nod and act as if I don’t know anything about it, as if I never held poor Rome in my arms as we exchanged every sordid detail about our parents, very late at night in a Russian hotel room. “What a coincidence,” I say.
Margot is sitting back down again, rubbing the pad of her index finger against her thumbnail like she always used to do before finals at MIT.
“So you met him in person, then?” Étienne asks politely.
“Only briefly.”
Margot widens her eyes, and I shake my head at her.
“Oh.” Étienne purses his lips. “Oh, I see.” Then he smiles. “A passing fancy, then.”
Margot stands up and pats his solid upper arm as she walks him across the room and tells him the two of us will be out to dinner soon. She closes the door quickly and kneels on the floor in front of me. She pulls the wineglass out of my hand and sets it on the table next to us, then takes both of my hands in hers. Very serious.
“I mean this in the most loving way possible, Miki: Rome is bad news. He’s a terrible flirt. He’s an international playboy, for goodness’ sake. Étienne loves him, obviously, because he’s funny and charming and all that. But like you said, it’s just best to forget about him and move on.”
“I know,” I whisper, even though there is that treacherous part of me that is clinging to the absurd idea that he is The One or my soul mate or something equally ludicrous. I stare at her and nod yes.
She looks so concerned, I almost feel sorry for her. “Miki”—she squeezes my hands more tightly—“he is not a good man. I know I sound overly dramatic, but I’m afraid for you. We joke about what a rat bastard he is. He jokes about what a rat bastard he is. Seriously. What are you thinking?”
It is like lunch with Vivian all over again. But worse, somehow, because Margot actually knows him and still thinks he’s a bad man.
“He’s coming to the wedding, isn’t he?”
Margot nods. “He’s actually hosting the whole thing.”
“Oh, god. Maybe I should just go.” I try to pull my hands from hers. “I don’t want to make your wedding awkward.”
“No! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you defensive. I’m just . . . Oh, Azi’s coming, too. Does she know about you?”
“Know about me?” I laugh at the absurdity. “What’s to know? I was probably one of the seventy-four women he slept with in the first quarter. Oh, hell. I am such an idiot. Promise me you won’t make a big deal of it. Can you do that?”
“Of course I can do that, but I’m worried about you. Are you really okay?”
“I swear I’m okay. More than okay.”
We both stand up, and Margot hugs me. “Miki, you deserve to be happy. You will meet someone so much better than Rome.”
I pull away slightly. “I refuse to be your pet project for the weekend!” I say with a smile as I set her farther away from me. “It’s your wedding, for goodness’ sake! You don’t need to be worrying about me.”
“I know. You can take care of yourself.” She looks at me in that penetrating way of hers. “For now, it’s only two days of seeing him with her. You can deal with it?”
“Sure, I can handle it.” I hope I’m not lying.
“Good! And you’ll stay here for a couple of weeks. Please? You can work from here. Trevor’s a mad technical wizard, and we have massive bandwidth, so you can do whatever you need to do and it would just be great to be with you.”
“Okay, okay!” I smile. “I’d love to. I have everything I need with me, and I’m my own boss. That has such a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” We walk to the door, and she rests her hand on the knob before opening it.
“Showtime?”
“Let me rinse off my splotchy face. I’ll meet you out in the kitchen. Thanks, Margot. I’m so glad to be here.”
“Me, too.” She looks at me hard one last time to see if I’m just covering up or if I’m rallying. “Me, too,” she repeats, then pats my upper arm one last time and pulls the door open. “Let me show you where your room is. Sorry you have to share with Zoe,” she whispers. “Hope you don’t talk about Rome in your sleep; she’d file that story with her editor in about five seconds.”
Great.
Margot leads me out into the living room, then down a short hall to a small room with two narrow single beds. “It’s pretty tight. Sorry.”
“It’s perfect. Are you kidding?” The pale yellow walls and terracotta tile floor are the epitome of French country comfort. “I love it.”
“Okay. The bathroom’s just here, outside your door. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“Thanks again, Mar,” I say as she leaves.
I close the door for a bit of privacy.
Two hours later, Margot’s family and the rest of us are sitting around the rough refectory table in the kitchen, laughing loudly and pouring more wine, surrounded by plates and platters and bottles and glasses from the delicious meal that Lulu and Trevor and Étienne and Zoe prepared while Margot and I were catching up with each other before dinner. Margot’s parents have returned from Aix, and Ariel has been put to sleep. All nine of us are feeling loose and happy. Trevor is sitting to my right, and Jules to my left.
The too-loud engine of a too-expensive car roars outside the kitchen window, and Trevor jumps up, almost slipping backward as he underestimates his drunkenness.
“That must be Rome and Azi.” He walks out to open the front door as I feel the blood drain from my skull. Margot looks at me as if she is my Victorian governess, her entire posture demanding I be strong, no matter what. She mouths the words I didn’t know and then turns to look toward the entrance to the kitchen.
Zoe practically falls off her seat, she’s so excited. “Oh! Rome is here with his fiancée? How fun! I didn’t think we’d get to see them until tomorrow!”
Rome fills the room like he always does as he comes in. He’s laughing—the familiar deep roll—and holding Trevor’s shoulder with one hand and his fiancée with the other. A tall, model-thin black woman with enormous turquoise earrings walks next to him, laughing at something Trevor says and smiling at the general company.
“We made it at last!” she calls in her elegant British-African accent, going around the table and kissing everyone on both cheeks. Lulu is thrilled to see her, unfolding herself from the farm table and standing up to give the stunning woman a big hug.
“How are you, gorgeous?” Aziza asks Lulu. “Introduce me around!” Lulu introduces her parents to Aziza, then turns to me and Zoe.
“This is Miki Durand, my sister’s best friend from university. And this is Étienne’s cousin Zoe Mortemart. She works at Paris Match, so don’t say anything around her unless you want it on the front page,” Lulu jokes. Aziza shoots a quick smile in Rome’s direction, and I feel myself die a little with each breath.
He is staring right at me.
Aziza shakes hands with Zoe first. She is polite but cool, especially compared with Zoe’s unveiled curiosity.
Then Aziza turns to me.
“Hi, I’m Aziza. So nice to meet you.”
Lulu is smiling with her usual puppy-dog enthusiasm. “You two will love each other!” She points at me and looks at Aziza. “Miki is so fabulous, Azi! She’s part Russian and part French and brilliant and lovely!”
Rome’s eyes widen when Lulu’s higher voice cries out my name. He has the audacity to look angry. At me! As if I somehow orchestrated this debacle. I keep my cool. I deserve an Oscar.
Trevor is staring at Rome staring at me.
“Do you two know each other?”
Aziza looks from me to her fiancé, then back at me. “Are you Mikhaila Voyanovski? Of course! They are business colleagues; isn’t that right, Rome?”
Man, she is definitely the daughter of a diplomat or someone equally tactical, because she’s got this whole grace-under-pressure thing down pat.
“Yes.” Rome comes around the table and actually kisses me on both cheeks, because it would be ridiculous not to. But does he need to be this good a faker? My treacherous body wants to hurl itself at him. “How are you, Miki?”
“Fine, thanks.” The smell of you is making me faint. “So nice to see you again.”
“Come on, everyone—let’s get more wine and move to the living room!” Étienne (my hero!) calls over the melee. Margot’s parents and Jules start to get up and clear the table.
“I’ll get that!” I say a bit too loudly, taking Jules’s plate from him.
Aziza tries to help with the plates. “Are you staying here?” she asks with kindness.
“I am. Are you?” I try to sound casual, but I can tell my voice is strained.
Rome’s voice cuts through the sound of glasses and dishes. “No. We’re staying at my place in Lioux.”
“It’s a château.” Aziza winks and gives me a little nudge with her elbow, new friend to new friend.
Of course it is. I smile weakly. “Sounds like fun.”
“Oh, you’ll see it tomorrow,” Aziza continues merrily. “Didn’t Margot tell you that’s where the wedding reception is going to be? It’s all tucked up in the mountains, with this incredible view over the valley, and—”
“That’s enough, Azi.” Rome sounds like he’s embarrassed, which is impossible—I would have thought the only thing better than bragging about his own châteaux and jets was having someone else brag for him.
Aziza looks surprised and then bursts out laughing. “Since when have you ever been modest, Rome?” She is still laughing at him. “Please don’t start now. It doesn’t suit you.”
Margot finally returns from the living room. “Oh, Azi, quit it with being so helpful. Go sit down with Lulu and Trevor and everyone. Miki and I will get this cleaned up in a few minutes. My parents would love to talk to you. They were both in the Peace Corps in Somalia, and they’re dying to hear how it’s changed in the past thirty years.”
Azi’s smile falters. “Not enough, I’m afraid. But I’d love to talk to them.” She wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and heads toward the living room. “You coming, darling?” she asks Rome when she catches him staring at me.
“What?” He looks back at his fiancée. “Oh. Yes. Let’s just stay for one drink and then head over to Le Cloître.”
I sigh my relief that they won’t be staying long. Rome looks equally relieved when I catch a glimpse of his face before he turns to leave the kitchen.
Margot and I are the most assiduous, painstaking dishwashers in history. I don’t think I have ever cleaned a stack of plates with more purpose and conviction. After everyone is resettled in the living room, Rome comes back into the kitchen, ostensibly to get a glass of ice water.
He looks at me, then at Margot. Something must flash across Margot’s face, because Rome smiles. “Margot knows, right?”
“Knows what?” I try lamely.
“Miki,” he whispers, and I feel it like a caress, damn him.
“Why don’t you two go out back?” Margot lifts her chin toward the laundry room, where a small door leads to the terrace.
“Good idea.” Rome smiles.
“Bad idea.” I scowl and keep washing the dishes.
He leans his hip against the counter and pulls a clean kitchen towel from the drawer. He’s obviously familiar with the house, and I kind of hate that he’s actually a normal person with friends and cousins, instead of a 24-7 playboy at some debauched BDSM château party every night. When he starts drying one of the plates and putting it up on the rack, I want to rip it out of his hand and smash it on the tile floor.
“What are you doing?” I grind out.
He raises an eyebrow. “Helping with the dishes. Where’s Landon?”
Margot turns off the water on her side of the sink. “I’m out of here. Please don’t break any of the china, all right?” She kisses me on the cheek and nearly snarls at Rome. “You are a very bad man.”
He gives her saucy wink and says, “And you know you love it!”
Margot shakes her head as she walks out of the kitchen, but damn if she doesn’t have a reluctant smile on her lips.
“So?” he prompts, taking another plate from my hands and letting his finger trail suggestively along the back of my wet hand.
“So what?” I ask.
He looks down the length of my body. “You look fantastic, by the way.”
“I’m in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, doing dishes,” I huff, as I pass him another plate. His fingers touch mine again, even more slowly this time, and said blue jeans suddenly feel all tight and confining. I shift my thighs and he totally notices.
“None of these old places has air-conditioning. It can get a little close.” His hands are strong and deft as he dries the next plate, and I start to feel very close as I watch him. He puts up the plate and then reaches in front of me and turns off the faucet, since I’m just standing there, wasting water.
“Miki,” he whispers close to my ear. “Where is Landon?”
“I don’t know. LA, probably.” My voice is shaky because all I want to do is lean into Rome and press myself against his hard chest. I take a deep breath to fortify myself. “What difference does it make?” I straighten up and try to pull away from him, but he grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the back door.
Next thing I know, we are out under the stars and the pool is twinkling in the background and the cicadas are sawing away and if it were any more romantic we’d be in a Russell Crowe movie. “Rome, stop. You’re engaged. What are you doing?”
“I just want to talk to you . . .” He sounds sort of desperate, and I hate to admit how much I love the longing in his voice. The idea that he’s been thinking about me, maybe even pining, does incredible things to my insides. He’s rubbing the tender part of my wrist back and forth as he looks into my eyes, as if he can somehow caress the truth out of me.
“So talk,” I whisper.
He slams his lips into mine and uses his free hand to press into the small of my back and push me against him, against his . . . oh, god. He’s so turned on and we’re under the stars in Provence and it’s so tender and hot all at once and . . .
