Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2)

by Celia Kennedy

  He dove back down on me and wrapped one arm around me while sliding his leg between mine. I could feel his thighs tighten when he came in contact with my throbbing body. Acknowledging my blatant desires with a gentle graze of his knee, he said, “I love being the one who does this to you.”

  I surprised him when I rolled us over so that I was on top. I hooked my feet under his and lowered myself intimately onto him. “Now we can have our cake and eat it, too!”

  His voice sounded husky with desire. “Oui, chérie, we can…” He contemplated me with such intensity, it felt nearly impossible to bear the weight of his love. I suddenly realized my eyes must mirror his.

  I reached out to him, trembling with desire. When his mouth anchored demandingly onto mine, it was with a passion I hadn’t known existed. I continued to strain against him, to be closer still. I had a deep need to take us both to a place of complete and utter abandon. Was this part of love or utter lust? When our mouths separated momentarily, I drew in a deep breath and felt his chest rise and fall against mine.

  He pulled me back, and left me panting as he pressed scorching kisses from the tender hollow where my pulse throbbed in my neck, across my collar bone and nipped my shoulder. I cried out for more. Between suckling each breast, he gasped for breath while I rocked my hips, encouraging him. His erotic touch became more demanding, and when my control had all but disintegrated, he stroked the tenderest place, and our mutual surrender was imminent. I urged him on, begged for release. He held me coiled tightly in his arms, and then, at the peak of my madness, I released all my energy, pushing us both to absolute surrender.

  I returned to earth. When he felt me tremble in his arms, he whispered hoarsely, “What is it?”

  “Sex is incredible, isn’t it?”

  He wore a self-satisfied grin. “Oui.”

  10:00 AM, Thursday, August 18

  As Time Goes By

  BY THE TIME we met for breakfast and walked to Du Pain et Des Idées, everyone had had enough time to come to terms with the previous night’s revelations to be on more comfortable terms. As we strolled along the Quai de Valmy, John and I began to forge a deeper connection. While he knew quite a bit about me, I knew little about bhim. I asked him about his family and wished I had gotten to know his brother, James, better.

  Suddenly I realized I had grandparents. “What are they like? Do they know about me?”

  John and my mother looked guilty. She said, “John told them about you. I gave him pictures for them.”

  “They’re really proud of your achievements. It would mean the world to them if they could meet you someday,” John added. “But no pressure. When you’re ready. Just keep in mind, they are in their early seventies.”

  We stayed in the neighborhood, leaving the rest of Paris ignored. We had one month and many, many conversations to go. We ended the day with dinner at Hôtel du Nord. They enjoyed the ambiance as much as the food, a repeat of hamburgers and Champagne.

  “I can see why you love living here, Kathleen.”

  I smiled. I did. I truly loved living in Paris.

  5:00 PM, Saturday, August 27

  Love, Life’s Sweetest Reward

  “TELL ME AGAIN… what were we thinking?”

  Sébastien made an odd noise, like gagging, and answered, “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  So, it isn’t just me?”

  We stood, surrounded by family, friends, and celebrities, waiting for the photographer, who was trying to position a motley crew of people. He and his staff had their work cut out for them.

  Under an unusually warm summer sun, people showed signs of wilting. Des, the last to be located, called to me while pointing at Tiziana, Hillary, Marian, and Charlotte in the crowd. “It’s like sprinkling gold dust on a cupcake.”

  “Eloquently said.”

  Charlotte called back, “I’ll bet a hundred euros that’s a line from his newest movie. The British don’t use the word cupcake.”

  Moving my head carefully so I didn’t blind Sébastien with the feathers and beading of my vintage headpiece, I scowled at Des. “Is it?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t matter. Still applies.”

  “True.” It was too wonderful a day to get annoyed.

  “I’ll take my money,” Charlotte butted in.

  Sébastien teased, “We’ll pay you in cake.”

  I blinked back tears for the millionth time. “I love being a part of your ‘we.’”

  Tilting my chin, he kissed me softly, conveying he felt what I meant. The photographer clicked away, capturing the moment. Ahs and Ohs instantly comingled with the clicks.

  A baby cried in the distance, and, from the sound of the wail, it was a newborn. Des sprinted out of the grouping, shouting apologies as he trampled a foot or two in his haste to reach his newborn son, James (whom we lovingly referred to as “the Canadian one”). With Des’s departure, the carefully constructed vignette fell apart.

  My practical side kicked in. “I think he should just take candid shots. Who needs posed photos?” Sébastien went off to placate the photographer, while I sought the shade.

  Almost everyone migrated to stand beneath a large cluster of trees to cool down and drink ice-cold Champagne. I saw Chantal chatting with John while Des soothed his fussy son and talked with “the Canadian one’s” mother. It seemed to be going well.

  From the moment I’d met them, Margaux and Paul Langevin had been warm and welcoming to me. Clearly, they were delighted that their son was happy. When I didn’t see my mother, my best guess was she was with Margaux, who had embraced her and John, as well. The four parents had spent a few days together, getting some of our wedding plans completed ahead of time, namely the homemade gifts that the French traditionally give to guests.

  I searched for Anaïs and Yvette, who had been truly helpful in helping me balance French and American traditions. They appeared to be flirting with a couple of Sébastien’s cousins. Interesting! I looked next for my dearest friends and found them floating amongst the hundreds of guests (most of whom I had been introduced to but couldn’t remember).

  When Sébastien returned to my side, Marian wandered over, too. “Almost ready?” she asked. “I need to tell your families to get seated before the hoards take all the chairs.”

  We looked at each other and nodded. I pressed a kiss to his lips and said, “See you on the other side.”

  Smiling at my Americanism, he squeezed my hand, and then made his way slowly to where a string quartet played. They quietened down, and the pianist began to play “Our Love is Here to Stay.”

  I whispered to Marian, “Give me five minutes.”

  Behind a wall of fabric, I slipped out of a white Monique L’Huillier halter dress that was covered in thousands of beads and wiped myself down with a cold towel soaked in orange-blossom water. I could see Sébastien offer Marian his arm and lead her to the large circular arbor enveloped with deep red bougainvillea, fuchsia roses, pinkish-white hydrangeas, and garlands of crystal beads.

  The guests, realizing the time had arrived, found places to sit. I was just zipping up my dress when I saw Sébastien nod at the cellist, who had joined the pianist. They played “A Thousand Years,” a song that could both lift and break my heart at the same time. I made my way to him, wearing a vintage Chanel silk gown that swirled about my legs. The silvery-gray fabric with a tint of lavender looked like the swirling waters of the Seine. As I walked toward my soon-to-be husband, just thinking the word “husband” made me catch my heel. I took a deep breath, and continued until I reached him and he took my hand.

  In the silence, I heard Liam whisper, “I’m still a bit confused as to why Marian is saying the wedding ceremony.”

  Amidst shushes they chose to ignore, Des answered, “Who knows? Something to do with an argument. I played a priest once. You’d think they would have asked me.”

  I spoke the words, looked into Sébastien’s eyes, and, for the life of me, was utterly surprised at how quic
kly Marian happily arrived at the words, “You may now kiss your Frenchman!”

  Dior or Watanabe

  “Tell me again… What were we thinking?” I asked Sébastien once again as I leaned against him. The quartet, who’d played on and off through dinner and dancing, would soon pack up, and then, a band Chantal had invited was going to rock into the wee hours. I would love to say it was romance that made me want to go to bed, but it was pure exhaustion. Yvette and Anaïs had warned me that wedding receptions could last all night, even go on for several days. I was in desperate need of catching my second wind.

  “I’m going to find drinks. Who wants what?” Ted offered. When the order grew larger than he could carry, Sébastien offered to help.

  “Hey, Hill, show her the photos you took,” Charlotte suggested, her arms full of a sleeping baby boy.

  Hillary raised her brow, showing her indignation at the nickname. I guessed that having Aksel Pedersen sitting beside her, as her “plus one,” might have had something to do with that. She had called me when she’d received the invitation and asked if she could bring him as her date. She was worried there would be tension, due to my turning down his job offer. I was worried about Sébastien. After talking to him about it, he’d decided he would keep his distance but wanted to see Aksel through my eyes—see if he saw a changed man.

  She handed me her camera, and I scrolled through what appeared to be hundreds of photographs. At first, I scrolled quickly but then, realizing that I had been offered an excellent opportunity to recuperate, slowed down. I was still flipping through them when the men returned with a tray of drinks.

  Sébastien sat beside me, and we flipped through more together. I paused to examine one of John more closely, still startled by his change of appearance. He’d surprised us by shaving off his beard again. Now that the mystery of his being my father had been unveiled to me and everyone else, there was no reason for him to hide behind it.

  I looked to where I had last seen him seated, amongst a group of people at a cluster of tables. In the waning light, I found him with my mom, sitting beside Sébastien’s parents, who were helping them communicate with various of Sébastien’s relatives. They looked really happy. I wondered how amazing the world was, that they’d ended up together, here, on my wedding day, so far from the bar where they’d first met.

  I patted Sébastien’s hand. “I’m going to ask John to dance. It’s an American tradition, a father-daughter dance.”

  His smile was thoughtful, and he asked, “May I pick the song?”

  “Of course.”

  When I approached the group, they offered me a new round of compliments and congratulations. I thanked them, fending off the usual questions about the future, and then found an opening to ask if I could borrow John for a few minutes.

  Startled, he stood and reached for me. “What’s up?”

  I grinned at him, wanting to erase the concern in his voice. “Everything’s fine. I was hoping for a dance.”

  “Of course. I would love to dance with you.” He tucked my arm through his and walked me to the makeshift dance floor. As we approached, “It Had to Be You” floated on the evening air.

  “Sébastien picked the song,” I told him, as he held me awkwardly in his arms. Once we were safely circling the floor, I ventured, “I wanted to tell you that I’m really glad you could be here tonight. Apart from the fact that you make my mother so happy, it means a lot to me that my father is here. I know someday we’ll tell this story to my children and know how far we’ve come.”

  He pulled me a tad bit closer. “Thank you, Kathleen.”

  After we finished our dance, Sébastien stepped in and twirled me, which reminded me of the giddy night at Bethany Halvorsen’s show. I turned in a wide arc, my dress swirling around my legs. It was exactly what I needed.

  “I love you,” I told him, as we danced to Norah Jones’s “Come Away with Me.”

  ***

  “Let’s go sit down,” Sébastien suggested as the band set up.

  Happy to oblige, I wandered with him to where the girls sat. While Des cuddled James, Liam cradled Sean. The others shuffled about and helped us get settled in. As I wearily sat down, I looked pointedly at them and said, “It’s about to get noisy. I’m sure there’s somewhere quiet you can lay them down.”

  Sébastien brushed the little boy’s cheek. “My parents’ room will be the quietest.”

  Des looked relieved at the prospect. Liam harassed him. “He’s a wee bitty thing.” He stood, wrapping his arms carefully around his son. “Since you’ll have two, you could use them to do arm curls. That’s about all you can lift, anyway.”

  The two disappeared into the night, posturing.

  “What can I do for you, Kathy?” Sébastien asked sweetly.

  Smiling at his endearment, I said, “Right now, all I need is you and to think about our future.”

  He helped me by giving me a heart-searing kiss. It was the sound of guests hootin’-n-hollering that made me realize how passionately we were entwined, how easily he had transported me somewhere else. Ignoring the playful remarks, I looked up at him then scanned the garden. Most of the guests were still in attendance. As I looked for an unoccupied dark corner, I pulled the lapels of his jacket together, which caused the scent of his cologne to rush upwards and wash over me. Spotting the circular arbor, I asked, “Want to go for a walk?”

  His eyes smoldered. “We could, or we could leave.”

  I gave him a playful version of his smoldering glance. “We can?”

  “I’ll find my parents and tell them we’re leaving.” They had arranged for us to stay at a relative’s vacation cottage a few miles out of town, a shabby-chic hideaway along the Somme River. “I can’t wait to get you to myself.”

  I quickly glanced over at my friends and wondered what bawdy comments we’d have to survive once we announced our departure. Sébastien followed my gaze, and we listened to them play, “Which designer do you want to see?” They were planning next month’s trip to Paris for fashion week.

  An unexpected yawn escaped me. “Sorry!” I tried to hide it behind my hand.

  “I believe it really is time to leave.”

  “I feel a little guilty. Some of them have come a long way.”

  Kissing away my worries, he reminded me that we would see all of them the next day at lunch. “If they get hostile, we can always tell them you’re pregnant.” His voice was ripe with laughter as he pressed kisses next to my eye.

  I hesitantly smiled. “We could.”

  He settled his gaze onto my mismatched eyes. “Chérie?”

  The End… for now!

  Keep reading for an excerpt of

  Gin Fizz and Grit

  The Passport Series, Book Two

  GIN FIZZ & GRIT

  9:00 AM, Monday, May 18

  Marian Connolly

  AS MY GIRLFRIEND Hillary droned on into my phone, I stared at the cloudless, blue sky from my taxi driving towards Misery Hill. Funny, I’ve no idea why it’s called that. I’d lived in Dublin almost all my life and never questioned it but was willing to bet good money that it was her voice in my ear that made me ponder it now. I snorted at the thought. My Monday morning verbal flogging was my comeuppance for a weekend spent joyfully sleeping, drinking, and shagging Declan with my phone turned off.

  I tuned back in when the taxi rolled up to the curb outside the law offices of O’Regan and Aherne. With a quick glance at my watch, I realized it hadn’t taken that long to get here, but the conversation with Hillary felt interminable. I patted the driver on the shoulder—my regular fella—and handed him a wad of cash with a smile of thanks.

  Stepping out onto the curb while Hillary continued to natter away, I futzed with my clothes and examined my toes peeping from my black Louboutin pumps, the reward I’d given myself after two years of hard work on a lawsuit.

  Suddenly, there was silence. A pause in the conversation. Having no idea what she had been talking about, I made no attempt at respondin
g. I just said, “Listen, Hillary, I’ve arrived at work. Let’s cut to the quick. You feel guilty for fecking up, and while you might not like the reminder, it was your night to be on call, not mine. In case it has escaped your notice, I finally have my life back. It’s been months since Declan and I have had a night out on the town.” I heard her begin to sputter, so I quickly continued, “I’ve called Charlotte and congratulated her on the baby. I’ll be on the 6:00 flight to London on Friday. We’ll sort the details out later.”

  I heard her intone, “Marian…” as I hit the end button. Shaking off the rebuke, I walked quickly across the entryway’s dark slate floors and climbed the flight of stairs to the second floor. The law offices of O’Regan and Aherne were housed in a grand old building that had once been a factory. I inhaled deeply. The building reeked of history, a smell I loved. It reminded me of libraries and pubs.

  As I made my way down the corridor to my office, several faces popped out of their cubicles to offer, “Hi yas” and congratulations.

  Suck ups! I thought, as I made my way. When Magda, my assistant, came into view, I smiled. Tea and gossip were moments away.

  Instead, she worriedly whispered, “O’Regan wants to see you right away; no time for a cuppa. Something to do with the IP lawsuit having gone ass-over-tits, over the weekend.”

  “Impossible. How can that be? There was a verdict. There’s a settlement. Feck!” I scowled, trying to figure out how the God of Gobshites had struck again. This case was going to kill me. “This is personal, you know. He hates me.” I looked upwards with a fierce gaze, but when nothing happened, I turned on my heel and marched to O’Regan’s office.

  Magda chased behind me. “Wait, Marian. He’s in the conference room.”

  Muttering a slew of curse words, I zigzagged my way there.