Moonlight in Paris

by Pamela Hearon

  “Non.” Henri’s bottom lip drooped as he pondered the question, then he pinned Garrett with a meaningful stare. “But there is some reason they—how do you put it?—‘fly below the radar.’”

  “Shit!” Garrett wiped his hand down his face.

  Henri answered with a low chuckle. “Oui, and very deep. And, s’il te plaît, you must burn the document when you finish with it.”

  Garrett studied the names and addresses circled in red. If he made first contact with Tara’s father, he could assess the situation and arrange for their meeting—and prepare them for each other.

  He grabbed a pen and made the notes he needed, then returned the paper to his friend. “Do whatever you want with it, Henri. I have what I need.”

  Henri’s perfect posture slumped in relief, but only slightly. “Peut-être Tara will stay in Paris a little longer maintenant. To know her father, oui?”

  That Henri had gone to such measures to gain him and Dylan more time with Tara was staggering, and Garrett was overwhelmed with emotion. Loosening his tie did nothing to ease the tension in his neck and jaws. He leaned forward to capture Henri’s gaze. “I’m speechless...that you would go to this extreme. You’re a devoted friend, Henri, and Dylan and I are so blessed to have you in our lives.”

  Henri’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and for a split second, Garrett thought he saw mistiness in the Frenchman’s eyes. “We are more than friends, Garrett. Nous sommes frères.”

  Garrett stood and walked around the desk, pulling Henri to his feet and into a hug. “Brothers. I like that.”

  They slapped each other’s backs extra hard to keep things on a mature male level, and then Garrett checked his watch. “If I leave now, I can go by the Kléber address on the way home.”

  He gathered the papers he’d been working on and stuffed them into his briefcase in the improbable event that he’d feel like looking at them once he got home. His gut told him tonight was going to be an exciting one with Tara.

  Hell, every night was exciting with Tara.

  Henri held the office door open for him to pass. “Bonne chance, Garrett.” He added another hardy clap on Garrett’s back.

  “Thanks.” Garrett headed toward the elevator, walking backward for one last acknowledgment to his friend. “I owe you,” he called as the doors opened.

  Henri’s hands were in his pockets and he gave a shrug. “Oui.”

  Less than a half hour later, Garrett stood in the massive corridor of an ancient but elegant building that looked as if it had once housed a large corporation, but had now been divided into small, though impressive, suites.

  The door his hand rested on had a thick, leaded glass window trimmed in rich mahogany. The etching on it read simply: Jacques Martin, le concessionnaire.

  So this Jacques Martin was a distributor of goods although no hint was given as to the kind of goods distributed. But the location of his business spoke of his success.

  Garrett pushed the door open to a small waiting room. Stepping inside was like hopping from one century to another. While just as elegant as its exterior, the office interior was very contemporary decked out in blue-gray walls with low, Italian leather sofas in the hue that he called purple but Henri insisted was l’aubergine—eggplant.

  A young woman who looked as though she had been supplied by the Chanel School for Receptionists sat at a desk of sorts. Made either of glass or clear acrylic, it had no drawers and no real legs—except for the model-worthy ones that belonged to the receptionist. The workspace was nearly bare, holding only a small appointment book, an equally small pad, a pen, a cell phone and the elbows of the receptionist, though not her weight, as she sat very straight.

  “Bonjour, monsieur.” She greeted him with a tight smile. “Comment puis-je vous aider?”

  “Bonjour, madame. Je m’appelle Garrett Hughes.” He concentrated to keep the question out of his voice. “Je voudrais parler avec Monsieur Martin, s’il vous plaît.”

  A question lit her eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. She glanced at the appointment book. “Avez-vous pris rendezvous?”

  Was he expected? Hell, no. Nor was the news he was bearing, if this turned out to be the right guy.

  “Non. Je suis ici pour—” he chose his wording carefully “—une affaire personnelle.” It didn’t get much more personal than this.

  A flare of color bloomed in the young woman’s cheeks, but her manner remained cool and poised as she stood. “Un moment.”

  The tight, black dress clung to every curve of her body as she swayed to a door at the end of a long, narrow hallway. He watched her movements, imagining what the dress might look like on Tara, and found himself grinning at the image despite the nervousness that was causing his heart to beat a staccato rhythm.

  The young woman rapped twice and stepped inside the office, though Garrett couldn’t hear an invitation.

  He stood waiting for two of the longest minutes of his life, and then the door opened again, and the young woman swayed out, followed by a middle-aged man with deep-set eyes and jet-black hair, combed back much like Henri’s coif.

  “Monsieur Hughes?” The man questioned, and Garrett’s mouth went dry.

  The lips. The mouth. It was the same one he had kissed a thousand times over the past week.

  And it belonged to a man who, without a doubt, had to be Tara’s father.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  GARRETT HAD BEEN LED into a false sense of security by Jacques Martin’s easy, though cautious, manner.

  The preliminaries had gone smoothly with the two men sitting across the desk from each other in Martin’s office. Yes, he was Jacques Martin. Yes, he attended a year of college at Murray State University. His English was flawless, and he had shifted to it almost immediately.

  The trouble started when Garrett asked if he remembered Faith Franklin.

  A flash of recognition lit Martin’s eyes at the mention of her name, or perhaps it was the sudden understanding of where this conversation was leading. His face drew in, as if he was concentrating hard. “No, I remember no person of that name.”

  Garrett had thought that might be the answer. He plunged ahead with the details of the story, assuring Jacques Martin that his memory was of no concern. “You and Ms. Franklin—Faith—celebrated together on graduation night. She admits that you both had too much to drink and ended up in bed together. A few weeks later, she found out she was pregnant from that encounter.”

  The Frenchman’s face blanched. “That is impossible.”

  “But true.” Garrett used the understating technique Henri was so fond of.

  “Faith and I...” Jacques paused. “Had no relationship.”

  His use of the woman’s given name convinced Garrett she was indeed remembered and hope flickered in his chest. “Perhaps not, but you slept together, and a daughter was conceived. She’s twenty-eight years old now.”

  Martin’s white pallor seeped away, replaced by a red that had a purplish quality—though not quite l’aubergine. “And I suppose this person hired you to find me?” Resting on the desktop, his hand clenched and unclenched repeatedly.

  “No.” Garrett thought it best not to shift the focus to him and Tara. “She’s a friend of mine, and she’s come to Paris to find you.”

  “Surely with her hand out expecting part of my fortune.”

  The acid in his tone burned Garrett’s insides as an image of Tara’s injured hand flashed through his mind. “Tara’s not like that. That’s her name, by the way. Tara O’Malley. And she’s not a...a gold digger. She’s a wonderful person.” Reminding himself to remain calm, he loosened his fingers from their tight grip and spread them wide to show he had nothing to hide—and neither did Tara. “She only wants to meet you. Nothing else.”

  Jacques snorted derisively, and then shrugged as if he were turning down
a piece of chocolate. “I have no desire to meet her.”

  Garrett noticed his fingertips were leaving perspiration marks on Jacques Martin’s antique cherrywood desk. He shifted farther back in his chair. “She’s come a long way just hoping for a chance to meet you. She’s a daughter you should be proud of.”

  Jacques’s head tilted. “Is she?” He arched an eyebrow. “So are my other two children who were born to me by women other than my wife. My very jealous wife.”

  “But Tara is from a relationship twenty-eight years ag—”

  Jacques Martin’s fist slammed on the desk, but his voice was almost a whisper. “There was no relationship!”

  Nothing good would come of engaging this man in a heated confrontation. Garrett backed off and tried for an offhand, man-to-man approach. “Surely, your wife wouldn’t be threatened by anything that long ago, Monsieur Martin.” He forced his lips up at the corners. “We all bear the sins of our youth.”

  The Frenchman leaned on his forearms, his tone conspiratorial and quiet. “My wife is young and beautiful—you met her when you arrived—and she is jealous of everything, even things that happened two years before she was born.”

  The new information slid into place, and the puzzle began to form a clearer picture in Garrett’s mind. The young woman in the waiting room was a jealous trophy wife with a philandering husband who had two known children from outside his marriage. Now there was a third. Jacques Martin’s character solidified, and if Garrett didn’t care for him before, he disliked the man intensely now. He motioned with his head toward the door. “Your wife?”

  “Yes, and my receptionist. Yvette is quite spoiled, and she detests sharing my fortune with the two other bastard children who surfaced. She threatens divorce if—” he placed meaningful weight on the word “—she learns of any further indiscretions. I have no desire to pay more alimony or look for a fourth wife yet, though I suspect I shall someday. Perhaps then I will arrange to meet your friend.”

  The statement was wrong on so many levels. Garrett had a strong desire to punch the Frenchman right in his arrogant pout. Believing Tara could have come from the loins of this asshole took a stretch of the imagination.

  The two men eyed each other for a long moment, then Jacques Martin stood. “Now, Monsieur Hughes, I have work to do. If you will excuse me.” He gestured toward the door.

  Garrett stood and straightened to his full height, playing the intimidation card just for the hell of it. “I’ll tell Tara you don’t wish to see her, but I don’t think that will keep her from coming anyway.”

  “If you do not want your friend hurt by rejection, I suggest you keep her away. If she comes here, I will refuse to see her.” The man spoke as if he were referring to a cocktail mixed incorrectly.

  Garrett’s words pressed through gritted teeth. “Tara is a person. A beautiful, precious daughter.” He paused, shifting his stance to throw one last curveball. “She looks like you, you know.”

  Interest flickered in Martin’s eyes along with the hint of a smile. “Yes?” Obviously, that touched a nerve with the conceited bastard. But the moment passed quickly, and the near-smile glided into an oily sneer. “Then my imagination will have to serve me well. Au revoir, Mr. Hughes.”

  Garrett’s imagination churned up an idea. If Martin could just see Tara’s smile, hear her laugh. Could anyone who knew her not want her in his life?

  Especially the only person in the world who could have created her?

  If his plan didn’t work, he had nothing to lose, whereas Tara and Jacques Martin had everything to gain if it did.

  “I think it would be only natural to want to know what your father or daughter looked like, especially if you were aware of a strong family resemblance.”

  Jacques Martin pursed his lips.

  “Like that.” Garrett pointed to the man’s mouth and smiled. “She looks just like you when you do that,” he lied.

  Martin’s mouth flattened into a near-smile.

  Garrett took that as progress and pressed ahead. “I understand why you don’t want your wife to know about Tara,” he lied again. “But that shouldn’t stop you from meeting her.”

  “Non.” Martin shook his head. “That will only open a door that should remain closed. I cannot chance that she might begin making the demands to see me.”

  Garrett pushed on, fully aware he was treading on dangerous ground. “What if it’s done in such a way that she doesn’t suspect who you are?”

  He’d reached the point-of-no-return, and suddenly it felt as if the air in Garrett’s lungs wasn’t enough to sustain speech. He dropped his arms and shifted to give his chest room to expand, astounded to see Martin follow his lead. The man was invested in the conversation! A jolt shot through him. Was it possible this might actually work?

  Martin’s head tilted in question. “And how would you suggest that should be accomplished, Monsieur Hughes?”

  Garrett held the breath steady as it left his lungs. “Perhaps we could arrange for a chance meeting. Somewhere you might easily go alone without raising your wife’s suspicion.”

  Martin’s eyes narrowed. “Go on. I am listening.”

  “Saturday morning, we could be at Place des Vosges at...let’s say eleven o’clock?” Paris’s oldest square was close to home and one of Garrett’s favorite places. “You could be there and engage us in conversation. Perhaps share a bench with us.”

  “And you believe this Tara O’Malley will charm me, win my affection, and I will choose to inform her of my identity.” There was no question in the tone.

  If he looked very closely, Garrett could see a hardness that he didn’t want to notice tightening the edges of Martin’s mouth. He shifted his gaze to look directly in his host’s eyes. “Yes, sir. I believe exactly that.”

  “And if I am not won over, what then?”

  The twist in Garrett’s stomach caught his heart as it sank, far too aware he was offering up Tara, the woman he loved, as a dispensable pawn in this risky game.

  “I promise not to tell her who you are.” Garrett jerked a business card from his pocket. He jotted Tara’s number on the back and threw it on the desk in front of the man. “That’s her number. I’ll leave it up to you to contact her when you feel it’s appropriate.” That probably wouldn’t be until Mrs. Jacques Martin number three was out of the picture, but Garrett felt reasonably sure it would happen someday. Maybe sooner than later.

  A wall of silence fell between them and remained for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Martin picked up the card. He turned it over to Garrett’s information. “Soulard? Ah, the new beer I have been hearing about, yes?”

  Garrett’s ears perked up at the friendliness in the tone. Maybe they were getting somewhere. “Yes, that’s right. We’re a fledgling company, but we’re doing very well.”

  The tips of Martin’s fingers turned white as he gripped the corner of the card, and he shot Garrett a menacing look. “I have many friends in positions of power, Garrett Hughes. If this woman...this Tara...attempts to make any contact with me, it could be very, very bad for your ‘fledgling company.’”

  The ice in his voice sent a chill up Garrett’s spine, but he kept his gaze locked with Jacques Martin’s. Soulard. Everything he’d worked so hard for. And Henri...damn! Damn! Damn! He held out a hand that he willed not to tremble. “And I give you my word that will not happen.”

  Martin studied him for a moment longer then grasped his hand with a firm shake, turning them so that his was on top, in the position of control. “I trust you are as honest and intelligent as you seem. I will be at Place des Vosges Saturday morning.”

  Garrett turned and made his way out the door on legs that were stiff and wooden, breathing deeply to battle the nausea churning up his insides.

  “Au revoir, madame.” He nodded to Jacques Martin’s third wife as he pas
sed.

  “Au revoir, monsieur,” she answered, her cheeks blazing with color.

  How much had she heard...or suspected?

  No doubt, Jacques Martin was already rehearsing the lie he would use to calm her down. It would be interesting to see what happened when the Frenchman’s icy manner clashed with his wife’s heated one, but Garrett had no desire to stick around for that collision.

  It was the Fourth of July.

  Paris might have a fireworks display after all.

  Garrett prayed that Henri and Soulard didn’t get burned by the fallout of the explosion.

  * * *

  “YOU CAN’T GET ’EM like this in Paducah, and certainly not in Taylor’s Grove.” Tara studied the meaty olive before popping it into her mouth. She rolled it around, like Garrett had taught her, appreciating the silky texture and allowing the subtle flavor of the oil to prepare her tongue for the burst of flavor. When she bit into it, the briny tang brought her taste buds to full attention. She held the plate out to Garrett, who declined the offer.

  “You seem preoccupied.” She pointed to the Scotch he’d chosen tonight over his usual wine. “Is everything okay?”

  “Sorry. Hard day at work.” He smiled and tilted Tara’s face up with a finger under her chin. “Let me get my mind back where it belongs.”

  The kiss with a Scotch chaser brought a yummy warmth to her lips and a smile to accompany it. “That makes my two Jacques Martin strikeouts today bearable.”

  Garrett’s smile wavered. “No luck, huh?” She shook her head as he pulled a pen and his copy of her list from his pocket. He drew a line through the top name. “This one isn’t him, either.”

  “Thanks for checking, though.” She got comfortable again with her head against his shoulder. It was too hot to sit so close on the terrace, but she couldn’t resist the opportunity to relax in his arms and pretend that their time together wasn’t waning.

  Garrett didn’t seem to mind. He’d chosen the bench over the separate chairs and pulled her close when they sat down.