The Bachelor's Perfect Proposal (Bliss Series Book 2)

by Michelle Jo Quinn

  Veronica tilted her head up. I refused to meet her gaze. I worked my jaw with a hand as I continued, “He was with his mistress. I don’t know which one. There had been a lot of them.” Like father, like son, my mother used to say. “I think if Martina hadn’t forced my mother, she would have kept it from me much longer. There was no love lost between my parents.” And no love lost between me and Lucinde, my mother.

  She hadn’t told me about his death, because she hadn’t thought my father deserved to be mourned.

  “I’m sorry.” Veronica rubbed my five o’clock shadow with her knuckles. I pushed her hand up across my lips.

  “I’m just glad you’re here with me. I didn’t know how much it meant to have someone like you at a time like this.”

  * * *

  As soon as we disembarked, we were greeted by Martina’s chauffeur. I shook my head. Martina already knew I was coming and was trying to take care of me. The driver informed us that she had muscled her way out of the hospital and forced Gerd to let her go home. I didn’t know how she’d done it. I just knew she could.

  The four of us rode in silence. Sandrine was out of the car before any of us, even with her growing stomach, and Jake followed faithfully. I held Veronica’s hand as we entered Martina’s mansion. We were all exhausted from the tension and the flight, but Veronica stood strong beside me. I gripped her hand as we faced the curved stairs that would lead me to Martina’s chambers. Veronica tugged back.

  Her face was somber when I looked over. “Go in without me. It’s your grandmother.”

  “It’s fine. You can come.” I pressed my lips into a thin line, and my chest constricted.

  She shook her head. “Let her see you, and only you. I can meet her later.” I saw determination in her eyes. I was too tired to argue, especially knowing I wouldn’t win.

  I leaned in for a deep kiss before leaving her at the bottom of the stairs. I’d asked her to wait comfortably in one of the salons. Martina’s servants would be around to see to her needs.

  * * *

  Martina pursed her lips. “I’m fine.”

  She wasn’t fine. She looked pallid and weak under the bleak lighting. Machines beeped beside her, wires and tubes stuck out between her and whatever Gerd had set up in her bedroom.

  “You were in a coma, Onna.” I kept my voice steady, but my hands shook over my knees as I sat on the edge of her bed. “You should have stayed at the hospital.”

  She scoffed. “It was unnecessary. The doctor said so himself. I was just tired.” She waved her hand in the air. Her words slurred a little but she tried hard to not make it obvious.

  It was difficult to not show my frustration. I rubbed my temples, waiting for my breathing to slow. “What are you doing here? In Paris? Didn’t you have a harvest to watch over?”

  Martina leaned against her headboard and averted her eyes. The stubborn line on her lips showed, even with the faint lighting in her room.

  “Tell me, or I’ll start digging. I’ll find out sooner or la—”

  “Alexandre is back.”

  And that was all she had to say. The words carried a lot more meaning.

  “When?”

  “Last week.”

  “Why?”

  “Reasons.”

  I chuckled without mirth and shook my head. “Where is he now?”

  Martina huffed out a heavy breath. “I don’t know. Ask your mother.” Martina raised an eyebrow as she said ‘mother’, as though it were the vilest word.

  It was my turn to scoff. These were two people who would hate to see me more than I would hate to see them. Lucinde and Alexandre. “That’s never going to happen. And he wouldn’t go to her. We both know that.”

  “He’ll turn up soon.”

  “Is that why you had...” I waved my hand at her frail body, covered by piles of sheets and a duvet.

  She shook her head.

  “Somehow I don’t believe you.”

  “You’re going to believe what you choose to believe. You’re as hard-headed as your father ever was,” she stated.

  “He was as hard-headed as his mother,” I fired back. She narrowed her eyes at me.

  Martina was right, though. Alexandre would turn up again soon, and I wouldn’t want to be around when he did. I stood and sauntered toward the door.

  “Leaving already?” For a moment, she actually sounded tired and fragile, very unlike Martina.

  I squeezed the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. “I brought Veronica.”

  Martina pushed herself up, groaning. “She’s here?” I sent her a warning look. “Don’t give me that look. Ask her to come up. I’d like to meet her.”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  “Why are you so afraid? Of all the people in the city at this moment, I am the least of your worries.” It was hard to admit it, but once again, she was right.

  “Fine.” I conceded. “She’s been eager to meet you too. Just don’t—”

  She stopped me with a raised hand. “My lips are sealed.”

  “Thank you. You’d better brush your hair, make yourself presentable. I wouldn’t want her to think you’ve gone senile.” A smile twitched at a corner of my mouth.

  Martina tutted. “I happen to know I look better than most forty year olds out there, even after waking up from a coma.” With an air of superiority she ordered me, “Bring her up. I want to see this woman who has you wriggling like a worm.”

  A Parisian Night

  VERONICA

  My heart slammed against my chest, and my pulse drummed inside my head. I inhaled, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror, as I stood in a glittery dress that cost more than I could afford in a lifetime.

  The curls on top of my head were piled artfully by a professional who had come in and pulled, poked and prodded at my scalp, and added a jewel-studded comb, which could possibly be older than me. Another stylist took over, and her job was to make my skin shine and sparkle like it was natural to do so. She had helped me slip into the vintage couture dress I had on now, paired with exorbitantly-priced shoes.

  Neither of them introduced themselves. They came in to do their duties as they were hired and paid to do.

  I touched the brilliance that hung from my ears and those that covered my décolletage. Drops of diamonds, shining against my warm skin.

  “You’re a vision,” a voice startled me from behind.

  “Martina.” Her hair was done in an old-fashioned chignon. Her long dress swooshed around her as she ambled to me with a slight limp.

  “No wonder Levi is so in awe of you.” The mater de familia smoothed a hand over one of my cheeks. Her voice was soothing, with only a slight French accent. The only sign of her stroke was a mild weakness on one corner of her lips.

  “Thank you so much for all this.” I waved my hands over my hair, the dress, and my beautiful surroundings.

  Martina tilted her head and regarded me the same way she had the moment we had met, like I were some curious thing. Maybe I was. I felt out of sorts in this world. I’d had trouble with the language, and found it difficult to communicate with the people who constantly attended to me. The room I had occupied for the past three days was bigger than my own apartment, and had a magical view of the sprawling gardens.

  If fairy tales existed, I was in one. But I was no princess, I was a troll who pretended to be royalty. I was like Shrek, but less green, less grumpy, and all awkward.

  “Why don’t we head downstairs and you can meet our guests?”

  The past three days, I had berated myself for not remembering when Levi’s birthday was. It was basic girlfriend knowledge and for Pete’s sake, I’m an event planner! It had been highlighted, underlined, boldfaced in my calendar for months! I had even picked the perfect present for him, a limited edition watch that I had saved for, for months. A watch that was sitting inside my dresser drawer, gift-wrapped in shiny silver paper.

  I had panicked over the phone with Chase after meeting Martina, when Levi’s grandmother
had informed me that it would be the perfect time to throw him a birthday party. Chase had promptly ordered me to stop beating myself over it, that I’d been under a lot of stress, and even the most prepared person would forget, given the situation. She’d said I should just enjoy the following days amongst Paris royalty.

  Martina had been kind, and far too attentive for someone who should have been resting. The night we’d met, I’d been so nervous that, as I’d hugged her, I managed to pull one of the wires from her machine and sent it beeping loudly in her bedroom. It had been a solid ice breaker though, as she had laughed it off (Levi hadn’t). I’d made myself scarce every time the doctors, including Jake and Sandrine, had come to check on her. She’d sought me, time after time afterwards, to tell me the nitty-gritty information she’d received, and huffed at.

  “What do these young doctors know? Do I look like I’m some old wilt to you, Veronica?” she had asked me once, to which I had adamantly shook my head. “Exactly! You can see it. I can see it. Why can’t they see it? And Olivier, the worst of them all.” She had pouted, and then she’d waved it off and asked me to have tea with her, or accompany her on some errand.

  The last place I wanted to be was between Levi and his grandmother. And I’d barely seen him. He’d been out most days, attending meetings in Martina’s stead, after ordering her to stay home and rest. Martina complained about that, too, and all I could do was sit and nod, like a good girlfriend.

  This morning, after he quietly slipped away from the bedroom once again to head to a boardroom somewhere in the city, I realized that if anything happened to his grandmother—in the absence of any other male heir to the Laurent kingdom—Levi would have to take over. His father had a sister, Sandrine’s mother, who had zero interest in running a business. Sandrine had no siblings. It was all up to Levi.

  I had gone into the dark before, in fear that our differences would be against us, but that had been just a scratch. Levi had his own business and his own wealth, but the vastness of his family’s had been beyond what Chase had managed to uncover for me. Yet, he loved me, unwaveringly. I’d be stupid to turn my back on that, wouldn’t I?

  Music flowed up the mezzanine of Martina’s mansion. She hired a quintet to entertain the few guests who had been invited. More European royalty, I presumed.

  Once Levi had caught wind of what Martina planned, he stepped in and asked her, politely, to cease with the cockamamie idea. Martina had, also politely, declined. What resulted was a smaller group of invitees for an uppity formal dinner to celebrate my boyfriend’s twenty-ninth birthday.

  My hands trembled as I made my way down, trying so hard not to trip on my dress, and avoiding any eye contact with the elegant people who awaited my arrival. I swallowed whatever was stuck in my throat and held my head up high, mostly because the gold-embroidered dress made me. I wouldn’t do it justice if I slumped my shoulders.

  I threw in a “bonsoir” and “merci” as Martina presented me around the room, ever so pleasantly. I repeated the people’s names aloud, hoping that I might remember, but they all had elegant and complicated French names, which I murdered the second they left my mouth. Some found it endearing and cute, but others regarded me like I had grown another head.

  Sandrine’s parents were present and stood beside their daughter. I was warmly greeted by François and sneered at by Vivienne.

  Sandrine hugged me as she kissed my cheeks. “Breathe, Nica, it will be over soon,” she murmured in my ear. “That is a lovely dress!”

  “Thank you. Martina got it for me.” I smiled at the older woman, who was more elegant than most of the women in the room, including myself.

  “Bonsoir, Grand-mère.” Sandrine reached forward and greeted her grandmother.

  A waiter in a white tuxedo popped out of nowhere and offered us bubblies. Sandrine graciously declined. With my stomach unsettled, I, too, should have refused, but didn’t. My only regret was that I wasn’t alone to chug the whole flute in hopes of keeping my nervousness at bay. So I stood there and sipped, and smiled, and listened. Sandrine was kind enough to translate for me, but I had a feeling that she changed the context of her mother’s opinions whenever she shared them with me en Anglais.

  “Where’s Levi?” My head must have been in the clouds. I’d been standing there for a good fifteen minutes before I even realized that he wasn’t around.

  “He’s talking to Jacob,” Sandrine replied. I waited for further explanation, but she didn’t offer any. “Oh there they are.” She waved at her husband, who appeared by the door looking flustered. Levi stood rigidly beside him, an unpleasant look on his face.

  The two sauntered toward us, Levi not bothering to stop to greet the people who had shown up for this occasion. He faced Martina and spoke in clear, angry, rapid French. Then he turned and walked away.

  Everyone around me shared a look. My heart flipped and my stomach twisted. I was an outsider.

  * * *

  The latch clicked and I stepped outside into the night air. The fresh Parisian air. I inhaled the fragrance of the flowers and scent of rain that was about to come. It was good to get away for a moment. I feared that Sandrine would follow me, but I assured her that I was fine and I could find my way to a bathroom, one of sixteen in the mansion.

  Instead of locking myself in a marble bathroom with gold taps, I sought out this terrace. From the windows of my room, I had a view of it. It was beautiful, and serene. I didn’t know why it looked more special than the others. It just did.

  I leaned forward and propped my arms over the masonry and released a heavy, cleansing sigh.

  “Bonsoir,” a deep voice muttered behind me.

  I jumped and placed a hand on my heart, which thankfully, was still attached to my veins and arteries. “Oh, crud on a cracker!”

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.” A chuckle followed the voice. The moon and stars hid behind thick clouds, and the little lighting outside came from a couple of sconces on the walls. I could barely see him. “Would you like to have a seat?” The man who offered had a mixture of French and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a British accent.

  I had to remember there were affluent guests present. He could very well be one of them. And so I calmly replied, “No, thank you.”

  “C’mon, sugar, I don’t bite.” He smiled. Light or no light it was easy to see that sparkling rows of white teeth. In ghost stories, this was when the virgin girl usually got offed. Good thing I was far from virgin, and I didn’t believe in ghosts. I did believe, however, in charming murderers with great teeth. I shook my head clear of the last thoughts.

  I had two choices: walk back into the world where I didn’t belong, or spend a few moments with this stranger who, seemingly, did not want to belong. My heels clicked on the paved ground as I made my way to where he was seated.

  “Cigarette?” He flicked out a leather case.

  I lifted a hand. “No thanks. I don’t smoke. And neither should you. It could stain your perfect teeth.” Why the hell did I say that?

  The stranger paused, tilted his head at me, and chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He lit one, and with the light of the ember from his cigarette, I could see his features.

  Hello, panty-dropper! The Marlboro man had nothing on this guy, chiselled to perfection--a square jaw, straight, regal nose, thick, dark hair that was slicked back, and if I squinted enough, I thought I could see blue eyes rimmed with unfairly thick lashes for a man.

  “Are you going to stare at me all night?” He chuckled again.

  I hoped it was dark enough for him to not see the blush that crawled up my neck and cheeks. “I’m just trying to see if met you. Inside, I mean.” I knew I hadn’t.

  “Unlikely.”

  “Oh?”

  He took a long drag from his smoke and released it in one line. “I wasn’t invited.” I looked down at his clothes: regular white shirt under a leather bomber jacket, and jeans. So not invited.

  “Oh! What are you doing here, then?” He seemed harmless,
fingers crossed. And friendly.

  “I live here.” Another long drag. Then he pushed a hand through his hair.

  Was he one of the servants? A chauffeur maybe? No. A gardener? Highly unlikely. Not with his looks. Although this was Paris after all. Maybe gardeners in Paris all looked like him. Maybe I could hire him to water my lawn. I rolled my eyes at my wayward thoughts. Martina’s mansion was safe and secure. Although there weren’t any guards watching the grounds, alarms were set every night.

  “How have I never seen you before? I’ve been here for three days.” I took my shoes off under the long hem of my dress.

  “Pardon me. I shall rephrase. I used to live here.” His voice was low and rich and husky, marred by years of smoking.

  “Who are you?”

  He cleared his throat, switched his cigarette from one hand to the other, and stuck his right hand out. “I am Alexandre.” He might as well have beaten his chest when he introduced himself.

  I shook his proffered hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexandre.” Finally, a name I could remember. Not that I would forget that face. “I’m Veronica.”

  “Ah, Veronica, what a lovely name. She who brings victory.” It didn’t slip my mind that he still held my hand.

  “That’s what my name means.” You charming piece of handsome pie. Maybe that was what his name meant.

  “You’re American.” He didn’t ask a question so I kept my mouth shut. My palm in his was starting to sweat. “You’re a friend of Martina’s then. What brings you to Paris, Veronica?” The way he said my name made it sound salacious, rolling his ‘r’ and ending with ‘ahhhh’.

  “My boyfriend brought me here. Levi...Olivier.” Alexandre’s grip tightened. I knew I should have run.

  He leaned forward, and pulled on my hand, which made me tilt closer to him. “Did you say he’s your boyfriend?” His voice did not waver. I gulped and nodded. Then he moved back, released my hand, and laughed. No, guffawed.