“Forgive me if I am a terror this morning,” Giselle said. “The pastry chef comes tomorrow and I am not looking forward to sharing my kitchen. Especially with a man who no doubt thinks he is better than the rest of us who wear the toque.”
“I’m sure you will charm him,” Lacey said. “And no doubt you will be able to teach him a thing or two about baking. You’ve certainly taught me so much.”
“You are a dear one.” Giselle smiled. “Now hurry with the omelets. Then you can help carry coffee to the invalides upstairs.”
She half hoped Marc’s name would be on her room-service delivery list, but it was not. She took coffee to a grateful Gabe and Josh and two other cousins, then hesitated outside the door of Marc’s bedroom/pantry before moving on.
An hour later she finished in the kitchen and went upstairs to change. She didn’t have classes until that afternoon, and thought she might walk to the library. Anything to get out of the inn, where the possibility of seeing—or not seeing—Marc had her nerves on edge.
She was surprised to find a note, addressed to her in an unfamiliar hand, tacked to her door. She tore open the envelope and read it:
Lacey,
I thought I had better apologize for what happened last night in the kitchen. Blame my poor behavior on the late hour or too much to drink, or even the fact that I’ve been out of the country so long I’ve forgotten my manners. I feel as if I took advantage of your friendship and I’m sorry for that.
Your friend,
Marc
She stared at the words on the inn stationery until they blurred, then wadded the letter into a ball and fired it at the trash can by the desk. Then with a cry she retrieved the note and tried to smooth it out, finally tucking it between the pages of one of her schoolbooks.
How dare he apologize! As if she were a child who wasn’t old enough to know what she wanted! How dare he try to pass off that wonderful kiss as a lapse of manners or the effect of too much alcohol. How dare he!
Before she lost her courage, she rushed from her bedroom, and down the stairs to Marc’s room. She pounded on the door, not caring if his whole family heard her. “Open this door, Marc,” she said. “I know you’re in there.”
The door opened so quickly she almost fell into his room. He caught her and pulled her inside. “What are you doing here?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
“What’s wrong with you?” she demanded. “Do you have laryngitis?”
“No. But I don’t want anyone to hear us.”
“Why? Are you ashamed of me? Is that why you sent that horrid note?”
“Horrid note?” He frowned. “If you mean my apology, what was so horrid about it?”
“Why did you think you had to apologize?” She stabbed a finger at his chest, backing him up against the bed. “I wanted you to kiss me last night. I wanted you to do more than kiss me and I think you wanted it, too. Why are you scared to admit it?”
“Scared?” He stood up straighter and captured her hand in his. “What do you mean, scared?”
“Practically from the first moment I met you, you’ve talked about how you don’t believe in romance and sentimental nonsense and all of that. And yet many moments we’ve spent together have been some of the most romantic I’ve spent in my life. Why can’t you see that?”
His hand around hers relaxed, and his other hand caressed her shoulder. “Maybe because I haven’t had much practice.”
“Then you can practice with me. Right now that’s what I want, more than anything.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, a gentle brush of her lips against his that quickly turned more fevered as his arms went around her and he pressed his mouth more firmly against hers.
The kiss the night before had been like the bit of dark chocolate offered with fruit at the end of a meal—sweet and tantalizing. This morning’s kiss was the full fudge torte, rich and decadent, tempting one to gluttony.
There was no work counter between them now, no brioche waiting to be baked or fear of interruptions to hold them back. Their focus was solely on each other—the feel of their bodies fitting so perfectly together, the soft brush of lips, the silken twining of tongues, the sensation of being so attuned to one another, of never wanting the moment to end.
They fell back on the bed together, hands exploring, learning the softness and hardness of each other’s bodies even as their lips remained pressed together. She arched against him as he squeezed her breast, and reached around to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. It didn’t matter that it was the middle of the morning, or that they were surrounded by an inn full of people who might hear their lovemaking. They were concerned only with each other, and the sensations building between them.
The knock on the door was as loud as a pistol shot, freezing them where they lay. It came again, followed by a man’s hearty voice. “Marc, open up. It’s me, Alan.”
Marc’s face went dead white and he gripped Lacey’s arms so hard she was sure he left bruises. “Marc, what is it?” she asked. “You’re hurting me.”
He released her and sat up on the edge of the bed. “Shh, he’ll hear you,” he whispered.
“Come on, Marc, open up. I saw Frank downstairs and he told me you were here.”
Marc continued to look ill. He buried his face in his hands. Lacey knelt beside him, anxious to comfort him. “Who is that?” she whispered.
He raised his eyes to meet her, sadness—and was that fear?—reflected back at her. “It’s my dad,” he said.
Marc listened as Alan continued to pound on the door. The man might not have been around when Marc needed him, but now that he was in the way, he wasn’t about to give up.
“You’d better open the door,” Lacey whispered. “Or the whole house is going to come to see what’s the matter.”
He nodded. “But he can’t find you here.”
No, it wouldn’t do for a female staff member to be found in a male guest’s bedroom.
She looked around the small room. “I don’t see how we can avoid that.”
“Hide under the bed. I’ll get rid of him as quickly as I can.”
She started to protest, then nodded. He helped her scoot under the bed, then pulled the coverlet over until it hung down to the floor. “All right, I’m coming!” he called. “Give me a chance to finish dressing.”
He rebuttoned his shirt where Lacey had unfastened it, then raked a hand through his hair, took a deep breath and opened the door.
No matter how much Marc might have wished he could deny his paternity, all he had to do was look at Alan to know they were father and son. Alan Kendrick was a fleshier, grayer version of Marc. “What took you so long?” Alan asked, pushing past him into the room.
How many times had Marc wanted to ask his father the same question? “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I was invited. Your mother and I may be divorced, but Gabe, at least, still considers me part of the family.” Alan looked around the small room. “What is this, a broom closet? You should come to our hotel. Four stars and a great view of the Eiffel Tower.”
“I prefer being here with the rest of the family.”
Alan didn’t even notice the slight. “So I hear you’re photographing the wedding. That’s a bit out of your line of work, isn’t it?”
Marc ground his teeth together. Why did everything his father say sound like a challenge? “I’m doing it as my wedding present to the couple. And as a favor to Uncle Frank.”
“I hope they appreciate it. Margie showed me that piece you did in Life on Afghan refugees. Really good stuff.”
The compliment caught him off guard. He knew manners required him to say thank-you, but he couldn’t get the words out of his mouth. “Is Margie with you?” he asked instead. Margie was Alan’s third—or was it fourth?—wife. She was a plump, pleasant person, older than most of his father’s girlfriends.
“Yes. She said she’d always wanted to see Paris, so I thought, why not? You know how much women appreciate all that romantic claptrap.�
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No wonder Alan had been married three—or four—times, with an attitude like that. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Marc thought of Lacey, and her accusation that he was afraid of romance. Well, who could blame him, with a father like this one? He’d learned from an expert how not to be close to people—or let them get too close to you.
“What do you want with me?” he asked.
“I want to see my son. To see how you’re doing, find out what’s going on in your life.”
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
Alan frowned, looking older than his years. “That’s old news, son. I’m sorry things worked out the way they did, but we have to move on from there.”
“Then I guess you and I are headed in different directions.” He rubbed his temple, where pain pounded like rhythmic blows from a hammer. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some things I need to do.”
Alan studied him for a long moment, then shook his head and turned to leave. “I’ll see you around,” he said.
“Yeah. See you around.”
Marc closed the door after his father, then leaned his head against the hard wood, willing himself not to think. He’d cut ties with Alan years ago, so why did seeing the man always upset him so?
In the tension of the moment, he’d forgotten all about Lacey until she gently touched his shoulder. “Are you okay?” she asked.
He raised his head and looked into eyes so full of concern they made his throat tighten and ache. “I’m fine,” he managed to croak. “Just…fighting a headache.”
She nodded. “So that was your father.”
“Yes.” How many times over the years had he wished that wasn’t the case?
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“He pops up every so often, tries to insinuate himself back into my life.” He turned away. “I don’t really want to talk about him, okay?”
“All right.” She sounded hurt, but he couldn’t do anything about that. Alan Kendrick was a subject best left alone.
Lacey touched his back in a brief gesture of comfort, then pulled away. “I guess I’d better go,” she said.
He nodded. “I’ll see you later.” Later, when he’d pulled himself together enough to face her. No telling where things would have ended up between them if Alan hadn’t interrupted, but the mood was destroyed now.
“Au revoir,” she said softly, then closed the door behind her.
He sank to the bed and clutched a pillow to his chest, squeezing it hard, as if in doing so he could squeeze out the pain that welled inside him—old hurt and fears and regrets. The past was a weight around his ankles, making it difficult to stride into the future. Much as he tried, he’d yet to find a way to sever that burden.
CHAPTER SIX
LACEY SLIPPED out of Marc’s room, her earlier elation overshadowed by sadness. The look in Marc’s eyes when he’d realized his father was outside the door had made her heart ache. For a moment, she had glimpsed the boy inside the man—the boy who had been abandoned by the person he loved most. And in the conversation she’d overheard while under the bed, she’d sensed a man who still wanted his father’s love but was too proud—or too afraid—to ask for it.
It had been all she could do not to crawl out from under the bed and demand that they both stop being such…such men and really listen to each other.
But relationships were not like recipes, she reminded herself. The same ingredients and actions were not guaranteed to produce the same results every time. And no one had asked this cook to get involved. The two men would have to work this out for themselves. Maybe being here in this wonderful place, with family for the happy occasion of a wedding, would help them settle their differences.
She was halfway to the stairs when a familiar voice called to her. “Mademoiselle Lacey. Wait a moment, merci.”
She turned and waited for Celeste Beaulieu to join her. Today the matriarch was dressed in a pink suit that no doubt bore a designer label, her hair and makeup perfect as always. Lacey hoped she looked as good when she was old enough to be a great-aunt.
“I saw you coming from our handsome photographer’s room.” Madame Beaulieu leaned close and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “The morning is a lovely time for an assignation, non?”
Lacey flushed. “I…I was just delivering room service.”
“Mais oui! It is the room service every man should be so lucky to receive.” Madame Beaulieu laughed. “Do not think I mean to scold, chérie. In truth, I am envious. When a woman reaches a certain age, such opportunities for romance are fewer, but I still remember the incredible feeling of not wanting to wait a minute longer to be with my lover.”
“Marc and I aren’t…that is, we…”
Madame Beaulieu laughed again. “If you are not yet lovers, I predict you will be soon. I have seen the way you look at one another.”
“How is that?” Lacey asked, genuinely curious.
“With great heat and also tenderness.” The older woman patted her hand. “Do not be embarrassed by this. You are young—do not be afraid to follow the desires of your heart.”
She spoke with such certainty and wisdom, qualities Lacey felt she herself lacked, especially when it came to Marc. “But…I hardly know him,” she said. “How do I know what I’m feeling is real?”
Madame Beaulieu’s smile was as bright and warm as the golden Paris sun. “How do you know you are in love?”
Lacey nodded.
Madame Beaulieu tapped Lacey’s chest. “Listen to what is in here. Love comes from the truest part of ourselves. If you listen to your heart, you will know. After all, why should it be so strange to love someone you have only just met? Our first impressions of people are usually the most accurate. When we first meet someone, we are forced to rely on our intuition instead of our logical minds. It is the same way with love, I think.” She stepped back, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “After all, you are in Paris, in the spring, when anything is possible, non?”
Lacey nodded. Anything did seem possible in the City of Light. Even for as unlikely a pair as an Iowa farm girl and an acclaimed international photographer to be happy? The notion tempted her, but her mother’s warnings to find someone more like herself and her own experiences with men who were all wrong for her held her back. If only she had a recipe for cooking up the perfect love affair—one that would turn out right every time.
MARC’S FEELINGS WERE as snarled as film ripped from a camera and left in a heap on the darkroom floor. He had forgotten everything else in those moments when he was kissing Lacey. In her arms, he’d been ready to believe anything was possible—even something as crazy as falling in love with a woman he’d known only four days.
Then his father had knocked on the door, recalling Marc to reality. In the real world, love led to loss. People were undependable. They left and you were powerless to keep them from walking away. It didn’t matter if you were a little boy or a grown man, the pain was the same.
When he’d first picked up a camera, he’d found a way to lessen the pain. Observing life through a lens put him in control. He could frame the world the way he wanted and distance himself from the emotion of the moment.
So he turned to the camera again this morning. After all, he had a job to do. He’d promised Gabe and Alex some candid shots of the wedding party. Focusing on the people around him would help him forget his own troubles for a while.
On the way downstairs he met the older woman everyone called Aunt Celeste. She smiled and startled him by winking as he passed, as if she was privy to an amusing secret about him. He shrugged. Maybe the old gal was flirting with him. She’d probably been a pistol in her day.
He took his camera into the garden. At this hour—or perhaps due to the aftereffects of last night’s bachelor party—the area was quiet. He spotted movement over by the gazebo and walked quietly toward it, not wanting to disturb whoever was there.
Gabe and Alexis sat side by side on a bench just inside the gazeb
o, their heads together, talking quietly. Marc positioned himself behind a flowering shrub and focused his camera on the couple. They looked so serious. Was Alexis upset because Gabe had partied a little too hard last night? Was she angry enough to call off the wedding?
The thought made Marc’s stomach hurt. Even though he didn’t believe in happily-ever-after for himself, he wanted it for Gabe and Alexis. They seemed so perfect for each other, and they’d been so happy.
Gabe took Alexis’s hand in his, and she raised her head and smiled at him. Relief surged through Marc and he clicked the camera shutter, capturing the love and intense happiness on the faces of the bride and groom. Then he slipped away, before his presence broke the spell they were under.
Finding no one else in the garden, he returned to the inn, to the side parlor where guests often gathered to read or visit. He found the room unoccupied and turned to leave. But as he reached the door, it opened and Josh, Shannon and Taylor came in. “Marc!” Josh greeted him. “I’ve let these women talk me into playing Monopoly with them.”
“I was in here yesterday and found a French version of the game,” Taylor said. She opened an armoire and pulled out a battered cardboard box.
“Would you like to join us?” Shannon asked.
“No. But I’d like to stay and take some pictures. I promised Alex I’d get plenty of candid shots.”
“I don’t mind,” Taylor said. She opened the box and began handing out playing pieces. “The car for you, Josh. Shannon, your favorite is the wheelbarrow, right? And I’ll be the Scottie dog.”
Marc moved to the other side of the room. As the other three began playing, he snapped off a series of shots, focusing particularly on the best man and maid of honor, who were seated on opposite sides of the card table. He smiled to himself, relieved at this reassurance that the house was not filled with lovers.
He raised the camera to his eye to frame a new shot, and froze. Though Josh and Shannon appeared to be focused on the game, indifferent to each other, he noticed how often they glanced at one another. They unconsciously leaned toward each other and Shannon repeatedly crossed and uncrossed her legs. When Josh’s hand accidentally brushed hers as he reached for the dice, she jumped.
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