“I can almost cover the average amount each guest keeps in play—she’ll eat three meals a day either room service or in one of our restaurants. And we’re assured of room rental for every night of the term—one hundred percent occupancy for that room.”
“Do you think it’s enough to sell The Big Boss?”
“He’s basking in nuptial bliss; he’d buy a Rolex off a street vendor.”
Chapter Fourteen
THE outer door swung open as my assistant and I were congratulating ourselves.
“Anyone here?” It was the unmistakable voice of Chef Bouclet.
“In here,” I called, ignoring Miss P as she waggled her eyebrows. I glanced at the clock—eleven-thirty. My heart sank—I so hoped he wasn’t here to cancel.
Jean-Charles filled my doorway, taking away not only my breath, but my spoken-for assistant’s as well. Tall and trim, wearing those darn Italian slacks that left just enough to the imagination to sidetrack rational thought (today’s color was an interesting medium brown with just a hint of bronze to give it life), a soft sweet-butter colored shirt, a slim-cut tweed blazer in browns and greens with a hint of golden yellow, a green scarf tied around his neck (which on anyone else would look doofy, but on him it was perfect), he greeted me with a smile that sparkled in his eyes. He even looked a little bit nervous.
My luck had clearly turned.
His eyes never leaving mine, he reached for my hands as I moved to greet him. “You are stunning,” he whispered as he kissed each cheek.
“So are you.” Whatever game he was playing, my defeat was close at hand. I was toast—and I didn’t care. I just wanted him to look at me like he was doing now… for a long time.
“I know I am early,” he glanced at the clock. “Perhaps too early, but I couldn’t wait any longer to see you. Are you able to leave now? I have something to show you…and something I want to tell you… before we have lunch.”
There went the fantasy, splattering like a water balloon dropped from the top floor. I guessed I would hear all about the girlfriend before the morning segued into afternoon—the one whose picture he kept close to his heart. So why did he want to see me? Did he want me to be a second-stringer? That would be crushing.
“I think I can break away.” I handed Miss P my phone. “You have the helm. I’m taking some personal time. Would you please be so kind as to remove any personal messages from my voice mail—I don’t want to hear them.”
***
“I never took you to be an SUV kind of guy,” I said, as I watched Jean-Charles maneuver his black Mercedes ML 550 through traffic. He had nice hands, artists’ hands, with long, thin fingers that belied their strength… and most likely the softness of their touch.
My stomach clenched—some things were just not meant to be.
His brow creased in concentration, he chewed on his lip as he drove. “I’m not a comfortable driver—I’ve spent my adulthood in large cities where owning a vehicle was an impediment—so I thought a larger car might be wise.”
“Good thinking. Americans have transformed the art of driving into a duel to the death.”
“That works in my favor—Europeans have a long history of duels.” Jean-Charles relaxed as he exited the parkway. “I’ve been practicing. Can you tell?”
“You’ve only terrified me twice, so far,” I deadpanned, then shot him a grin in response to his stricken glance.
“You like to joke?” he asked without the smile I was looking for.
“I’ve been told it’s a defense mechanism.”
He pursed his lips, but said nothing.
“Where are we going?” I asked, as we dove into a residential neighborhood in Summerlin.
“It’s a surprise.” Bypassing the guard shack protecting the entrance to a gated community—one of the most coveted addresses in Vegas and home to retired athletes and politicians, scions of the local and national business communities—Jean-Charles took the lane marked “residents.” The gate opened.
Truly at a loss, I decided to sit back and let things unfold.
He parked the car in the driveway of a large Mediterranean-style, two-story and killed the engine.
“What are we doing here?” I asked.
“This is my home. We finished only yesterday moving my things in—I’ve not even spent a night here.” His nervousness palpable, he finally looked at me. “I wanted you to be the first to see it.” He must have sensed my hesitancy. “Please?”
I don’t know why I even try to anticipate what life has in store for me—I’m always wrong. A simple business lunch… right! And when I had no fight left.
Needing time to adjust, I waited while he came around to open my door. Taking his proffered hand, I was again surprised by my reaction—not sizzle and burn this time, but something else, something solid and sure… something new, and old, as if I’d known him forever.
Damn.
After leading me to the front, he fumbled with the keys for a moment, then moved aside as he pushed open the door.
As I knew it would be, the home was breathtaking. An eclectic assemblage of antiques and modern pieces, all in different styles from different eras, the home was the perfect jumble of contrasting tastes and contradictions that blended into sheer perfection—a true reflection of its owner.
“Oh, Jean-Charles! This is amazing!”
With the pride of ownership, he lead me from room to room—the upper floor held five bedrooms en suite, all encircling a game room that could easily accommodate a pool table, foosball, and a beanbag pit for watching the enormous flat screen. The main floor had a great room and dining room combination, all with French doors opening to the pool area. An office and a library opened off the main area. A gourmet kitchen with a casual eating area and a family room with a fireplace and wet bar comprised one wing off the main room. The other wing held the master suite—a comfortable space with a fireplace, seating area, bed large enough for a family of four, and a bathroom and closet to rival mine.
When we finished the tour, he led me back to the family room off the kitchen. He motioned for me to sit on the sofa, while he lit the fire. Instead of sitting next to me, he remained standing, propping an elbow on the mantle and a foot on the hearth.
“I have something to tell you.” His face drained of color.
“Look,” I said. “Does this have something to do with the photo you carry in your pocket? With the person who will be meeting you here, to come live with you in this beautiful home?”
His hand drifted to his breast pocket as he nodded. “Oui.” His eyes were a deep, serious blue.
“Then let me make this easy on you,” I said, with a surprisingly heavy heart. Why did his touch have to make me feel so good? “You have a girlfriend, maybe even a wife, and you want to let me know so I don’t misinterpret this ease developing between us. Not necessary. I know the score.”
With a soft smile, he pulled the well-handled photo from his pocket. Moving to sit beside me, he showed it to me. “This is Christophe. He is five years old.” Jean-Charles’s eyes met mine. “He is my son.”
I stared at the visage—a mop of golden brown hair, dimples, blue eyes that rivaled his father’s, and a smile to melt your heart.
“He’s adorable. Where is he?”
“In France, for a visit with my parents. They are watching him while I get things settled. I want to build a life for us here, where young boys can still run and play. We have been in Manhattan for the last three years—there is no room there to be a child.”
“I see.”
“When he is not here, it is like a hole in my heart.” Jean-Charles took a look at the photo then repocketed it. “This is the longest we have been apart. He is amazing—the most curious little boy. Right now he loves animals—he’s fascinated with all of them—especially the babies. My mother probably had something to do with that.”
“What do your parents do?”
“They own an inn in Provence. My father is the chef. My mother tells him what t
o do, and he pretends not to like it.”
From the look on his face I could tell he missed them. “Do you have any siblings?”
“A twin sister, Gisele. Her daughter, Chantal, is bringing Christophe to me. They will be here in a few weeks, but it seems like an eternity.”
“And Christophe’s mother? Where is she?”
His face sobered as he swallowed hard. “She died.”
I grabbed his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’ve never told anybody this—I’ve never been able to speak of it. I’m not sure I can.” He took a deep, composing breath—I knew the drill. “With Christophe…something happened, an artery tore deep inside her. They couldn’t stop the bleeding.”
I pressed a hand to my mouth.
“I held her…” He buried his face in his hands for a moment. When he looked up, his eyes were dry, but filled with painful memories. “She gave me a beautiful son. He is my life.”
“What a horrible thing,” I said, at a loss. “Christophe, he is a lucky boy, to have a father like you.”
“Perhaps not the best father—for a long time I was angry.” Jean-Charles reached for my hand, holding it in both of his. “Now I let people think I am a silly man, vain and demanding—a prima donna.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to let anyone close.” Pain flashed across his face. “The pain of losing someone you love…”
“I understand.”
“I’ve always been able to push away everyone. But with you… I tried, but I simply cannot. Our dinners together, they have brought me so much joy. I even like our war of words over the plans for the restaurant—you know my business almost as well as I do. I wait always for the chance to see you again. Last night, I came looking for you—the party was a good excuse.”
“You don’t need an excuse.”
“But you are hurting, no?”
“Still smarting a bit, but I’ll live.”
“You may not want another man in your life?”
Completely in the dark, and afraid to hope for a dream, I took a deep breath. “I can be silly at times, but not so stupid that I would push away a good thing just because the timing is awkward.”
“Perhaps you did not love him as much as you thought?” Jean-Charles phrased it as a question, but I heard it as a statement.
“Perhaps. I let him go.”
“Yes,” Jean-Charles said. “With love, you fight for it.”
I didn’t tell him that Teddie didn’t fight for it either—maybe he knew that. “I’d like to know that kind of love,” I said, amazing myself with my candor. What was it about this Frenchman and his effect on me? And what was he trying to tell me? And why was my heart beating so fast?
“I have known love only once,” Jean-Charles said. “When I met you, you made me remember what it was like. When I touch you… ”
“I know.”
The worry left his face. “I thought you felt it, too, but I didn’t know.” My hand still in his, he covered it with his free hand. “Will you have me in your life, this man who is not so perfect, who can be demanding and a perfectionist, who has a beautiful son, and who will try so hard to keep that smile on your face and put one on your heart?”
“You are in my life. We are partners. Remember?”
“That is not what I mean.” He sighed in frustration. “No, that is what I mean…”
My heart sank
“But only part. I know it is unwise to mix business and the heart, but, I cannot help how my heart feels. You like me, non? You feel what is between us?”
“Yes. On both counts.” I broke eye contact and turned my gaze through the French doors. A beautiful day, sunlight streamed through the branches of the trees shading part of the pool. A breeze tickled the water, fracturing the light into a million sparkles. “Jean-Charles, combining work and pleasure is like lending money to friends—something you should never do because you will end up with neither.”
He gave me a slight shrug. “My mother, she is like you—she is the heart. My father—I’ve been told I am much like him—he creates food to feed the soul. Together, they make one.”
When he put it that way, it didn’t sound stupid at all.
“I’m not sure I can handle a relationship now, especially one that would require such a delicate balance,” I said, looking at my hand in his and avoiding his eyes.
With one finger under my chin, he titled my face until I had to meet his gaze.
“This thing between a man and a woman is like a fine Bordeaux—first, it should be allowed to breathe, to reach its fullness. Then it should be savored slowly, at the peak of perfection.” Turning my hand in his, he pressed my palm to his lips. “I will not rush you. When you are ready.”
When was the last time those words passed the lips of a red-blooded male? Whenever it was, I bet the earth had yet to cool.
“We will argue,” I warned.
“Most surely.” A gentle smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Then we will reconcile.”
“Mmmm.” He made that sound as succulent as a perfectly flakey, golden croissant dripping with butter. And if he kept looking at me the way he was right now, I’d be ready to …reconcile…any minute.
“Will you let me kiss you?”
For some reason, the word no eluded me.
Tracing the line of my jaw, he then cupped my chin, lifting my lips to his. Tenderly he captured my lips—light, sweet, stealing my breath. Then he deepened the kiss—darker, more insistent, lighting a fire, a need…a recognition.
Damn.
***
True to his word, Jean-Charles kissed me, nothing more. But in his kiss I glimpsed life’s goodness, life’s possibilities. It was, perhaps, the best kiss ever.
What was it with me? Was I genetically predisposed to find relationships that were like gliders—soaring, riding waves of superheated air—then spiraling down to a controlled crash, an abrupt landing, devastation? Or was I simply a glutton for punishment? Who knew? What I did know was that I needed to tread very carefully with the handsome Frenchman or I could find my ass in a crack.
Still tingling from the kiss, I watched as Jean-Charles opened a very fine Bordeaux, then poured us each a glass.
“To new beginnings,” he said as he raised his glass.
We toasted his new life and, I guess a new chapter of my own. We talked of hotels, in France and in Vegas, of families, of dreams… of Life.
Now the bottle was empty and I relaxed into the curve of his arm as we both sat on the couch, admiring the fire, and enjoying the comfort of each other. “Are you hungry?” Jean-Charles asked.
“Not particularly. Why?”
“I had planned to take you to lunch, remember?”
“This is better.” His hand on my thigh, I traced his fingers. I still couldn’t believe I was here—that this was happening. “Although, a few crackers with cheese to soak up some of the wine would probably be a good idea. We both have to work—and I know my boss would like for me to arrive sober.”
“I have just the thing.” Jean-Charles disengaged. “Wait right here.”
After a few minutes of banging in the kitchen, he reappeared. Spreading a red and white checkered tablecloth on the floor, he then set down a plate of various cheeses, a basket of crackers, and some red grapes. “Voilà.”
“Perfect.” I joined him in an impromptu picnic.
After we had our fill, I said, “What? No dessert?”
“You wound me.” Jean-Charles reached to touch my lips. His eyes turned the deepest blue. A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “I am French. We are experts at dessert.”
Chapter Fifteen
“WELL, you look like your planets have shifted,” Miss P announced when I wandered into the office, riding my little cloud of joie de vivre. “That must’ve been quite a lunch,” she scolded. “Of course, when you dine with a scrumptious chef, what would you expect? However, dinner is underway and Dane has been calling here every fifteen minutes asking wh
en you two are heading to Rachel.”
“Oh?” I squinted at her, trying to bring the world back into focus. “I forgot.”
“Are you going to tell me about it?” she asked.
I shook my head, still not that aware of my surroundings. “No. I don’t think so.” I wandered into my office and dove into my closet, looking for the pair of blue jeans I’d stuffed in my bag this morning.
Miss P followed me. “I’ve never seen you look like this.”
“I’ve never been like this.”
“This one’s different, isn’t he?”
“Ah-ha!” I said, as my hands closed around the jeans I was looking for. Then, jeans in hand, I rose and turned to look at my friend, life returning to focus. “Everything is different.”
Stepping into the bathroom, I changed uniforms—if things went well, tonight would be a jeans and Nikes kind of night. With a grin, I shrugged into the tie-dyed tee shirt Miss P had brought me—it fit like a second skin. I glanced at my reflection—a Deadhead in training—I liked it.
“Different looks good on you.” Miss P lounged in the doorway.
“It feels good.” I gave my hair a flip and wiped under my eyes, but the dark lurking there had nothing to do with smeared mascara. “But don’t go making any giant leaps—I’m a complete disaster when it comes to personal relationships, and I will not let that compromise my job. Work is the one thing that holds me together.”
“Chef Tastycakes has gotten under your skin,” she said, smirking. “I can see it in your eyes—heck, it’s written all over your face. I know the signs.” Miss P made the whole thing sound like some sort of an affliction, a dreaded disease. “Welcome to the club.”
“A club, is it?” I grabbed my bag and stepped around her into my office. “Well, I’d really like to stick around, maybe have you show me the secret handshake or something, but adventure awaits.”
“That reminds me,” Miss P announced as she followed me. “I almost forgot—your parents want you to stop by for a minute, if you can. They’re sitting at the bar at the Burger Palais.”
So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3) Page 25
