French Kissing

by Nancy Warren

  He nodded.

  They sat in silence that was not comfortable. She sipped her coffee, thinking, as she’d thought many times before, that he’d given up too easily. It must have been such a relief to him to be able to run back to Europe with a clear conscience, always able to tell himself, “I offered to marry her and she refused me.”

  “I wrote to you.”

  This time his eyes closed briefly before he nodded again.

  “You had your damn lawyer answer my letter.”

  “That was—regrettable.”

  “Regrettable?” Her voice rose and she had to force herself to lower her tone. “I was fifteen years old. All I wanted was some kind of—acknowledgment, and you had your lawyer write to tell me that contact with you or your family would not be advisable.”

  “What would you have had me do? My wife knows nothing of my past indiscretions. My daughters, at that time, were young girls approaching womanhood. Your mother made her choice, Kimberley. And I chose to respect her decision. Now I ask you to respect my decision to protect my family from information that could only hurt them. My wife is devout. While she did not expect me to come to the marriage bed as untouched as she…”

  “I would have been a deal breaker.”

  His eyes were harder than hers, she thought. Tougher. “I see that you want some apology. I tell you that I did what I thought was right. But I do regret that you have been hurt by my actions.”

  “So I’m asking you again, what are you doing here this morning? You asked me to stay away from you and your family and I have. I even lied to your daughter last night since you were having a conniption fit behind her, terrified I might blurt out your terrible secret.”

  “When I saw you last night, I was too surprised to think clearly.”

  “You didn’t know anything about me, did you?” She thought of how she’d kept up with him, and yet he hadn’t had a clue she was a fashion editor who might be in Paris during fashion week. He hadn’t cared enough to know.

  He smiled, a touch sadly. “Self-protection, if you like. No. I chose to think of you as your mother’s daughter. It was…easier for me.”

  “Until you got a big fat shock last night.”

  “At first I thought perhaps the likeness was merely a coincidence. But when I asked someone who you were, and they said Kimberley Renton, then of course I knew.”

  “Google.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I kept up with you on Google. I’ve seen pictures of you and your wife at social events, I know that you sit on the board of several large Italian companies. I know how many times you’ve come to New York on business.” Those had always been the tough times, when he was there in her hometown and she knew he wouldn’t even try to see her.

  “Perhaps I will ask Google about you when I get back to my hotel.”

  “What Google will tell you is that I’m a fashion editor, and covering couture week is one of the most important events on my calendar.” She drilled him with the toughest look she had in stock. “I am not leaving Paris.”

  “My dear, you misunderstand me. The reason I came here today is to ask you if—there is any possibility that you and I might get to know each other.”

  She’d wanted that for so long. And now…“What about Claudia?”

  He glanced up sharply, then dropped his gaze to the plate. “Claudia has a great deal on her mind at the moment with her approaching wedding. Perhaps this is not the best time to reveal such information.”

  “Leave the skeleton in the family cupboard, huh?” So, he wanted to get to know her, but still keep her a secret from the rest of his family.

  “Claudia’s fiancé arrives today. They will be very busy. I thought perhaps you and I might spend some time together.”

  And she knew in that moment that it wouldn’t be enough. She wasn’t a confused teenager anymore. She was a grown woman. If her biological father wanted her in his life, he was going to have to share his life with her. All of it. So, she shook her head slowly. “This is a working trip for me. I doubt I’ll have much free time.”

  “All right. Perhaps we could get to know each other a little now.”

  “Sure. What do you want to know? Let’s see. I graduated from Wellesley with a degree in modern languages and a minor in writing. I wanted to go to fashion college, but Mother talked me out of it. In retrospect, she was probably right. I’m twenty-eight, no husbands or kids, I live in a tiny apartment on the Upper East Side, which I bought with my trust fund. Thank you very much. I love clothes, traveling and Audrey Hepburn movies and I’m allergic to pineapple.”

  He nodded gravely. “You had that from me. I am also allergic to pineapple.” He smiled at her and she could imagine her mother falling for his charm almost thirty years ago. “Fortunately, I detest pineapple.”

  She felt her lips twitch. “Me too.”

  “This man I saw you with last night, he is what you Americans would call your boyfriend?”

  “No. I met him four days ago.” She broke off a piece of croissant, then reached for a scoop of raspberry jam. “Mmm. You have to try these jams. They are amazing.”

  She could feel disapproval coming off the man across from her in waves and it gave her an oddly euphoric feeling. It probably was delayed adolescent rebellion. She’d never had a father express disapproval over her lifestyle before.

  “Are you certain such behavior is wise?”

  “You sound like a father. Are you going to take him aside and ask him what his intentions are?”

  There was a pause.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  11

  BY NOW, HOLDEN was used to seeing the couture set outdo each other every night; still he knew he was in for something special tonight.

  There was definite competition to see who could stage the most elaborate events. Tonight, Daniel LeSerge was presenting hats. Hats. And for this the company had ponied up huge cash, and pulled whatever strings needed to be pulled, to stage the fashion show at the Musée d’Orsay.

  The best thing about having the event in one of the most famous art galleries in the world, as far as Holden was concerned, was that security would be so tight. They wouldn’t want the Van Goghs and Monets getting stolen, so the place would be crawling with security, both uniformed and plainclothes. All the same, he planned to keep his eyes open.

  No fancy dresses were going missing on his watch, not if he could help it.

  Kimi picked him up in her hired car and went through the usual routine where she checked him out carefully, making sure the creases in the pants she’d told him to wear were sharp, his shoes tied, before nodding her approval. “Can I kiss you now or will I mess up your makeup?”

  She twinkled at him. “You would definitely mess up my makeup.” And she reached up on her toes and put her mouth against his. He was careful not to yank her against him, shove his hands in her hair or make any of the other moves instinct encouraged him to make. Still, even the brief contact set him on fire and had him anticipating getting her back to his room—or her suite—later.

  Once in the limo, he took her hand, figuring he couldn’t do much to her manicure and finding he couldn’t be close to her and not want to touch her in some way.

  “How did you enjoy your day off?” He’d spent the day going over building plans for all the big shows, including the Musée d’Orsay, and studying security, which was extensive and tight, but every net has holes in it. The trick was to find them and patch them before anything slipped through the gap.

  She turned her head and looked out the window. Then she turned back. “It was really weird. My father was waiting for me when I got back this morning.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I don’t think he knew himself what he wanted.” She blew out a breath. “He said he’d like to spend some time with me and get to know me, but also made it clear I wouldn’t be introduced to Claudia or any of his family.”

  He swallowed the crude epithet that wanted to pop out o
f his mouth and kept his voice neutral. “What did you say?”

  In the darkness, her eyes glowed. “I told him I was too busy.”

  “Good girl.” He squeezed her hand lightly, felt her squeeze back. “I can’t believe he wants to keep you a secret.”

  “In a truly twisted way I understood.” He heard the rustling of her clothes as she shifted against the leather seat of the limo. “He’s got this very stable position, he’s a business and social leader with a lot of influence in politics. He’s never told his wife or his children about me. I think he wants to protect them from the shock.”

  “He wants to protect his own ass. What about you? What about what you want?”

  She put her head against his shoulder for a minute. “Holden, you’re a good man to have on my side.”

  “Is he going home?”

  “No. And I’ve told him I’m staying in Paris.”

  “Well, this should be fun.”

  “Screw it. I am not letting him ruin my favorite workweek of the year. And speaking of work, I can’t wait to see what Daniel’s created. His shows are always outrageous.”

  “I thought it was hats tonight.”

  “Yes. But these are hats like you’ve never seen before. According to the promo stuff from his PR agency, he says he was inspired by the venue.”

  “What does that mean? He’s going to re-create Impressionist paintings in millinery?”

  “Could be. I pity the poor model who gets stuck with Monet’s haystacks on her head.”

  “This I have to see.”

  “And I’m looking forward to seeing this event through your eyes. Promise me you’ll give me all your reactions. Uncensored.”

  “Honey, you get all of me uncensored.”

  Her eyes lit with answering excitement and he could feel the heat on her skin as he slipped his hand beneath the heavy fall of her hair to cup the back of her neck. He kissed her softly, dipping in for a quick teasing taste of her mouth before letting her go.

  “I am crazy about this place,” she said as they pulled up. Before exiting the limo, she whipped out a lip gloss from her bag and refreshed her lips so they were back to perfection and no one would ever know she’d been necking in the back of the car. He reached over and pulled out the travel pack of tissues he could see in the tiny bag, which he recognized to his own bemusement as Hermès, and used one to wipe the corresponding evidence off his mouth.

  “Oh,” she said in irritation. “My fingernail snagged on my dress. Just a second.” And she pulled out a tiny compact that opened out into a full nail kit in miniature. Teensy file, scissors and a buffer. In a minute she had the nail fixed to her satisfaction.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  She grinned at him. “I know. I got it as a gift in Japan. It’s the coolest thing ever. I carry it with me everywhere.”

  When they walked into the crowded art museum, as luck would have it, almost the first people they saw were her father, her half sister and a blond, stocky dude who he would have placed as one of the plainclothes security guys if the man hadn’t had his hand linked with that of Claudia, Kimi’s sister.

  He had a tough-looking face, nose broken at some point, muscles bulging beneath an Armani suit. Boring shirt that Kimi would never allow Holden to wear, and a burgundy tie. His pale eyes scanned the crowd and he had that watchful look that often marks ex-military and law-enforcement people.

  At that moment, perhaps feeling Holden’s scrutiny, he glanced up, looked him over with indifferent gray eyes, then his gaze moved to Kimi. Holden saw his gaze sharpen. His reaction was barely noticeable. He looked at the woman by his side and then back at Kimi. For some instinctive reason, Holden moved closer to Kimi and slipped an arm around her shoulders. He guessed it was his means of signaling that this twin was his.

  The guy said something to Claudia and then she glanced up. With a friendly smile and a wave, she pulled her fiancé’s hand and approached. Holden felt Kimi stiffen beside him and automatically glance to her father, but what was she supposed to do about her sister coming toward her?

  “Hello,” said the woman who looked so much like Kimi.

  “Hi.”

  “This is my fiancé, Vladimir.” Then she paused, and giggled. “I am so sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Kimberley Renton.”

  “Yes, of course, Kimberley.”

  He almost felt the tension drain out of her body as she gave in to the inevitable. “My friends call me Kimi.” She shook hands with Vladimir, and then Holden found himself being introduced and shaking hands all around. In the surreal moments of his life this was right up there.

  Vladimir was obviously thinking the same but he wasn’t going to say anything.

  They were just heading toward an awkward pause when there was a collective gasp from all around and all eyes turned.

  Kimi started to laugh.

  Then he saw what had inspired the gasps and the laughter. A model was strolling through the crowd. She wore an unremarkable jumpsuit in black so her body was simply a frame, or a base, for the headdress that dominated her appearance. Her makeup was pale, lips whited out, but her eyes were done in wild colors, like stage makeup. The hair was a nest of tangles, and above the hair was the most monstrous headpiece Holden had ever seen. Basically, it was a birdcage. Black, wrought-iron and shaped in a bizarre oval that sat across the model’s head like—suddenly, Holden was smiling too. Like a train. Of course, the Musée d’Orsay was a former train station. Daniel had taken his inspiration from the art deco station itself, with its opaque glass ceilings, the black iron and glass. Inside the ridiculous hat—that must weigh a ton—fluttered a canary.

  He’d be willing to bet that Tweety Bird had been asleep, a cover over its cage, and as they put the hat on the model, the cover had been lifted, because the little bird was flitting all over the cage, singing its heart out.

  Applause began softly and as more and more models emerged, all with cages on their heads, decorated with feathers, flowers, fabric; one even boasted a clock face. Each cage contained a different bird, and soon birdsong built along with the applause.

  It was insane. It was magical. Holden hoisted his camera and began doing what he did best. Capturing the elusive images with his camera.

  He got the zing in his gut that told him he’d aced a shot when he snapped a sumptuously well-dressed woman feeding a bright blue parakeet a bit of bread through the cage, while the model obligingly tilted her head down to make the feeding easier.

  He had that feeling, the sense of weightlessness he occasionally experienced when he knew he’d nailed a photo.

  He turned and almost bashed into Brewster Peacock, who looked at him with a calculating expression. “Good shot.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’d love to have something like that to go with my column.”

  Holden had been propositioned for photos before. It happened. In the same way journalists sometimes scooped their own paper to make a bigger deal, so had photographers been known to sell a money shot to an outfit other than the one they presumably owed loyalty to.

  Holden had never had any respect for those guys, or for the people who bought their stuff.

  “Thanks. You’ll have to talk to Kimi about my photos.” He gave a mock salute and went to find Kimi.

  She was in a corner, scrawling notes. “Can you believe this?” Her face was shining with excitement. “I want to file a story tonight for the online edition.”

  “I’ve got some photos that you should see.”

  “Let’s go.”

  As they headed out to the limo, he briefly told her that Brewster Peacock had tried to steal his photos. She thought that was almost as funny as a hat designer sending a bunch of models out with birdcages on their heads.

  They were almost at the limo, when a voice hailed Kimi. It was Brewster.

  “Kimi, darling. Leaving so soon? I want to talk to you.”

  She waved him away. “Call me tomorrow.
”

  “But it’s important.”

  “I’ve got a story to file.”

  “So do I,” he called back. Something about the way he said it made Holden turn and glance at him sharply, but the man in burgundy silk was already turning away.

  As they piled into the back of the limo, she said, “But his story won’t have the greatest photos in the history of fashion.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him passionately. “Your pictures are going to be fabulous. We’ll save the best for the magazine, but we can put a couple of not-so-fab ones with my online piece.”

  “You haven’t even seen the proofs yet.”

  She kissed him again. “If Brewster wanted to steal your stuff, honey, you nailed it.” Not, perhaps, the greatest accolade he’d ever had, but he’d take it.

  Perhaps she realized she’d been less than complimentary, for she kissed him again, longer and deeper this time. His head was swimming when she drew away. “Tell you what, after we file our stuff, we can do anything you want.”

  As incentive, that was irresistible. “Anything?”

  She wrinkled her nose, staring at him. “Anything, except that I have veto power.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Has anybody ever told you that you are a control freak?”

  “More than one.”

  This time, he kissed her, letting her know that control was a two way street.

  “SOME MIGHT CALL Paris milliner Daniel LeSerge bird-brained,” she began, trying to evoke the atmosphere of tonight’s show at the same time she described the outlandish creations. Couture week was often more about costume and drama than wearable clothes, and no one embraced the notion of fashion as spectacle better than Daniel, she thought as she typed frantically, one eye on the clock. If she could get her story and Holden’s pictures filed by midnight they’d be among the first in the world to get the story out. Even though writing for the magazine was the biggest part of her job, keeping an online presence was growing in importance. Besides, she loved the immediacy of those pieces.

  It was silent in her suite but for the clack of her fingers on the keyboard and the rustling of pages as she checked the notes scrawled in her notebook.