by Jenni Wiltz
“What are you going to do about it?” she said out loud.
There was no easy answer. If she went back to the study, Sébastien would probably just send her away. Besides, if she went back, she ran the risk of another heated encounter that would test the limits of her mind’s ability to withstand her body’s temptation. As much as her body wanted him, her mind knew there was far too much danger and far too many unanswered questions.
Ella hefted her laptop case up onto a large reading table and glanced around the room. Except for one wide window that overlooked the gardens, every wall contained nothing but built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with books. Some of them looked extremely old, judging from the faded gold printing on the faded leather spines. Others were newer, some with titles she recognized. She began to stroll around the room, perusing the titles printed on the spines.
It seemed Sébastien preferred biographies. Most of the newer-looking books told stories about fascinating people from the past: Lincoln, Lindbergh, Alexander II of Russia, Churchill. He’s looking for role models, she realized. He learned how to be a leader by reading about people who’d already done it and done it well.
Instantly, she wondered why he hadn’t just absorbed the lessons taught by his own family. Surely their success would have been the best type of textbook? Couldn’t his father have sat him down and given him the whole “how to succeed in business” lecture any time he’d asked?
On the wall opposite the door, a framed piece of art caught her eye. She stepped closer to take a look. It was a family pedigree, traced on worn paper the color of a used tea bag. She immediately skipped to the bottom to find Sébastien’s name. She spotted him at the very end, along with his sister Honorée. Then she traced the line back up a generation to his father.
But as soon as her finger stopped on the name “Sébastien Cherbourg III,” she realized why Sébastien had to do all his learning from books. His father had died in 1985, when Sébastien was only ten years old.
She remembered Sébastien saying his grandfather had been ill for many years. With her finger still on the line of descent, she traced it up one more generation to his grandfather, Sébastien Cherbourg II. He was born in 1925 and died in 1990. Sébastien was only fifteen years old, she realized. Robbed of his only male role models before he was even a man himself, poor Sébastien had grown up with only his mother. From what she’d seen and heard, the woman was a poor role model herself and spent most of her time in a pill- or drug-induced haze.
Suddenly, Ella felt as if her heart were more bruised than her head or her hip. Sébastien had carried the full weight of his family’s name on his shoulders since the age of fifteen, with no one to guide him or teach him the ways of the world. She wondered why he hadn’t said anything when she’d told him about losing her own father at a young age. Why hadn’t he told her he’d gone through the same thing?
As soon as she thought the question, she knew the answer. He probably thinks he has to be strong, she realized. He probably thinks it’s weakness to admit he’s sad or lonely or unprepared. Suddenly, she realized how lonely he must be, especially if he had no one to talk to.
Ella turned around and walked back to her computer. She fired it up and opened her reporting software, a combination database and spreadsheet program that tracked her clients’ jewels. The software allowed her to enter notes regarding provenance, purchase price and prior appraisals.
As she looked at the blank document in front of her, filled with empty rows and columns that waited for her to assign numbers and values, she realized how empty it all was. Compared with the gulf of loneliness both she and Sébastien must have felt after losing their fathers, what did a few numbers matter? It seemed so petty and unimportant.
And then she realized it. “I’ve had it all wrong,” she said out loud.
At first, she thought Sébastien adopted his gruff exterior because of some holier-than-thou attitude and the size of his family’s bank account. But now, she realized his tendency to push people away was something else entirely. It actually stemmed from the enormous pressure he felt to do right by his family’s name. He probably lived in fear of disappointing them…hence the biographies of strong, successful men who lived through incredibly punishing historical events.
“He’s not being selfish,” she breathed. “It’s the other way around.”
He wasn’t forcing the world to bend to his whims—he was bending himself to the whims of his family. He’d become the strong man they needed at an age when he should have been a boy. Should have been happy to play football with friends or ask a girl to a movie.
Ella realized she must have looked like a spoiled brat. While he was going through all that inner turmoil, she refused to help him, and all over a few simple spreadsheets. So what if she claimed that she’d appraised the missing jewels? They were Sébastien’s property to lose, not hers.
If she didn’t help him achieve his goal of staging this exhibition, she’d be no better than their assailant. She’d be sabotaging the dreams of a man who only wanted to be the perfect son his family needed.
Once she’d made her decision, she felt much better. At least the weight of “to report or not to report” had been lifted from her shoulders. Whether it was right or wrong, she’d help him. Damn the consequences.
Her eyes drifted back to the bookshelf nearest her. As her eyes scanned the titles, she saw one she recognized. The book had a bright red spine with silver gilt letters. It was a catalog of famous jewels of the various European royal families. Her father had owned it, too. She’d checked it out from the library at least a dozen times before he bought her a copy for her birthday.
Her trips to the public library with her father were some of her favorite memories. Even before she’d started kindergarten, he’d taken her to the non-fiction section and turned her loose on the jewelry and gemstone books. Instantly, she’d gone for the ones featuring queens and princesses. She couldn’t get enough of their diamond tiaras, pearl necklaces, and glittering gemstones in all the colors of the rainbow. She remembered sleeping with one of the books under her pillow, hoping she’d see herself in a dream, wearing some of those jewels.
She reached for the familiar book. As she flipped through it, every page brought back a memory. She remembered her father pointing out the stones embedded in the Imperial State Crown of Great Britain, from the Black Prince’s Ruby to the eye-popping 317.4-carat Second Star of Africa diamond.
Even though she knew the book’s photographs couldn’t capture the color, depth, and brilliance of the stones, they still took her breath away. It had been so long since she let herself enjoy the simple beauty of a jewel without analyzing it to determine whether it had come from her father’s workshop.
Ignoring her computer, she sank to the floor with the book in her hands. At long last, she was remembering what had made her love her father’s work in the first place.
*
Sébastien waited in the study, listening for the echoes of Gertrude, Peter, and Ella’s footsteps to die away. He’d done the best he could to put on a brave face, but from here on out, he would have to improvise.
At the time, he’d thought his plan was the best that could be done under the circumstances. Now he was having second thoughts.
Leaving Ella unprotected felt wrong. Like he was leaving her to drown while he turned back to swim for shore. In his heart, he didn’t believe the attacks had been meant for her—but he wasn’t positive. He couldn’t risk taking the chance.
He was revising his plan when he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate. He picked it up and saw that the caller was from the museum. It was the museum’s special events coordinator, Jeff Goodwin.
Sébastien swore out loud. What could he tell him? He would have to lie. It was the only way to save his exhibition. No matter what Ella decided to do with her report, he wanted the museum to believe the exhibition was moving forward as planned. It definitely wouldn’t be the first lie he’d told, but it still made him uneasy.<
br />
He pressed the “Talk” button.
“Jeff,” he said, trying to make his voice sound bright, confident and cheerful. “Opening night is tomorrow. Are you ready for this?”
“We’re more than ready,” the coordinator replied. “In all honesty, Mr. Cherbourg, I thought you’d have called me by now. When we last spoke, you said you expected Miss Wilcox to be done with her evaluation by the time the museum opened today. It’s almost one o’clock already and I’m starting to worry. Is everything all right over there?”
“Perfectly fine,” he said smoothly. “In fact, Ella is sequestered in my library, putting the finishing touches on her report. You should have it shortly. I’ll ask her to email a copy over to you.”
“Mr. Cherbourg, you’ll have to do more than that. I need a hard copy of that report as soon as possible. I have to take it to our insurers. They have to sign it before I can even begin bringing your collection onto museum property.”
Sébastien held back a groan. Things were so close to derailing. He felt them sliding through his fingers, no matter how tightly he tried to hold on. “You’ll have that report, Mr. Goodwin, I promise you. Please ask your staff to remain on call this afternoon and evening. I will gladly reimburse you for any overtime you incur on my behalf. If your insurers can sign off on Ella’s report by close of business today, you can start loading the collection this evening.”
Jeff Goodwin sighed. “Mr. Cherbourg, I can’t rewrite the rules for you. Even if you get me that report in the next hour, I can’t guarantee our insurance company will drop everything to sign off on it. It might not happen until the morning. That would leave us less than ten hours to configure the exhibit.”
“What are you saying, Mr. Goodwin?”
“Mr. Cherbourg, I think we should push back the opening by a day. Let’s open Sunday instead of Saturday.”
“No!” Sébastien barked. As soon as he did it, he regretted it. “No,” he said again, this time more calmly. “Mr. Goodwin, I say this with all due respect, but you must understand. My exhibit is more than a fundraiser. The grand opening is a social event that I’ve been publicizing for months. It must happen on time, as scheduled. I will move heaven and earth to get you what you need, but I need your assurance that you’ll work as hard as I am to make this happen. Can I count on you?”
He resisted the urge to close his eyes and cross his fingers. He’d used every negotiating trick he knew to get the man to agree: promising to work even harder, reaching out in a friendly tone, and asking rather than demanding. When he heard the museum coordinator exhale slowly, he knew he’d won. “All right, Mr. Cherbourg, fine. We’ll play this your way. But I hope for your sake that any future exhibits you put on with us are a bit better organized.”
“You have my word, Mr. Goodwin.”
He disconnected the call and put the phone back in his pocket. He could feel his heart beating rapidly. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on his brow and under his arms. This whole exhibit was cursed, he thought, just like the opening of King Tut’s tomb.
It was time to go put a little more pressure on Ella. Now, it was more important than ever that she do as he asked. He still admired the way she was standing up for herself. She obviously wasn’t afraid of him. She insisted on adhering to her personal beliefs and none of the attacks had changed her mind.
But as much as he respected her for it, he knew he had to change her mind. She had to be made to see reason. There was so much pressure on him to do this right. If he let any of it slip through his fingers, his greedy uncles would be there to convince the board of directors to vote “no confidence” in him as the Cherbourg family CEO.
He refused to let one little report stand between him and his place at the head of his family. Not when he’d spent his whole life trying to be worthy of the role.
He strode out through the study doors and headed directly across the ground floor to the library. As he walked, he realized that putting himself in the same room with Ella posed two different threats.
He’d be giving their attacker another opportunity to get rid of both of them at the same time. He’d also be putting himself in the position of having to resist her yet again. His track record on that issue wasn’t great and he wasn’t sure he could do any better if he tried again. If Frau Müller hadn’t walked in on them in the conservatory, he probably would have made love to her on top of the now-destroyed wrought-iron table. If she pushed him to the brink again, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop, no matter what was happening around him.
He made a mental list of the most unexciting things he could think of, just in case—San Francisco Giants batting averages, geometry formulas, and the boring books on painting technique his sister carried around with her all the time. As he came closer to the library, however, he heard someone speaking inside it.
He stopped in his tracks and crept closer, moving as quietly as he could. Who was in there with her? What was she doing?
Sébastien slunk along the side of the hall, out of sight of anyone in the library. He came around the edge of the doorway and stood behind the open door, peeking in through the crack. There was no one else in the room that he could see—only Ella.
She sat with her back to one of the bookcases, clutching a large red book to her chest. She turned the pages slowly and gently, as if it were a hundred years old. But he could tell by looking at it that it was modern, probably no more than 20 or 30 years old.
He couldn’t read the title on the spine from his vantage point, but he could see glimpses of the images on the pages. Tiaras, necklaces, parures of amethysts and turquoise and diamonds. It must be one of his father’s books on royal jewels. Before his death, his father collected books that showed images from other prominent collections around the world.
Always judging himself against others, Sébastien remembered. Always finding fault with himself. And with me.
As he leaned against the doorjamb, hidden from her view, he watched the expressions light up her face. Her smile nearly broke his heart. For the first time since he’d met her, she looked happy and carefree.
Every time she turned the page, she giggled to herself or oohed and aahed like a little girl. The fear behind her eyes had vanished, replaced by childish sense of wonder as she gaped at the crown jewels of the British royal family. The voice he’d heard was her talking to herself, he realized.
He wished he didn’t have to interrupt her. Because of him, she’d been almost killed twice now. Yet somehow, she’d managed to steal a moment of peace and quiet. He wondered just how much unanswered grief she kept burrowed away in her heart. Between the time spent crying last night and this time spent laughing, she’d managed to let go of quite a bit of sadness and anger. It must have all been pent up inside her for years and years.
He wondered if she’d given herself any time at all to simply rest and analyze her own emotions since her father’s death. Or had she, like him, just plowed forward no matter what?
If so, he could only guess how much undigested emotion lay beneath the surface of her tormented blue-gray eyes. Suddenly, he realized he wanted to give her anything that would keep that smile on her face. She was radiant because she’d rediscovered what it meant to laugh.
He watched, entranced, as she turned yet another page and gasped.
“I remember you!” she said. By craning his neck, he could see an ornate gold-and-pearl necklace on the page with an elaborate frame, an enamel cross and a baroque pearl drop. “You’re my favorite,” she said, touching the page gently.
She turned the page and then gasped. “I’d forgotten all about you!” she cried. Then she swiveled her head down for a closer look at the jewel. “How do people create such beautiful things and then give them away? I couldn’t bear it,” she whispered. “I’d sneak you out under my coat and give them a paste copy instead. You wouldn’t tell anyone, would you?”
He bit back a laugh.
What would she have been like, he wondered, if her father hadn’t died
? Would she be this carefree and funny all the time? Would she still be so damn stubborn? Yes, he thought. It was part of what he admired in her. No one, not even a Cherbourg, could push her around.
He sighed, fully aware of the fact that he was going to have to interrupt her peaceful moment. He wished he could give her more time before the world intruded on her memories again, but time was running out. He had to get that report over to the museum so the exhibition could go ahead as planned.
He stepped away from his vantage point, although he was still hidden behind the door.
At that moment, he heard the library window shatter.
Ella screamed and he flung the door out of his way. “Ella!” he cried.
His eyes went straight to her, huddled on the floor beside her beloved book. “Ella!” he called again.
His gaze flickered briefly to the window. There was one hole in the center, wide enough for a single bullet.
He didn’t care if there were more to follow. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was safe. He hurried over to her and smoothed her hair from her face. “Ella, are you hurt?”
“No,” she said, uncurling herself and looking up at him. “I’m fine.”
“Did you see anything?”
“I heard something at the window, almost like a knock, but I didn’t think anything of it. Then it broke and I ducked.”
Sébastien glanced at the row of books behind her and his heart sank in his chest. He pointed at a first-edition Hemingway, now shot through the spine. The book sat at her chest level. If she hadn’t ducked, it might have killed her.
“I was wrong,” he said, throat raw with anger and confusion. “This whole time, they’ve been after you, not me.”
“Me?” she gulped. “I thought they were after you.”
He wrapped his arms around her and placed a kiss on her forehead. “Crawl under that table, okay? I’m going to check it out.”
