“Marriage is not for young men, it is true,” Franz said, settling his considerable girth back in his chair. He patted his belly thoughtfully. His own wife, significantly and obviously younger than him, by at least two decades, had excused herself to powder her nose some time before.
Idly, Luc wondered if the woman was more interested in the waiter, who seemed closer to her in age and interests, than in her husband. She had been gone almost long enough to incite speculation.
“But it settles a man down. Even a man of your…ah…stature.”
Luc had heard this before, of course. Stature being code for reputation. The truth was, he was feared because he was utterly ruthless. He knew no other way. When he wanted something—hotels, land, existing companies that he felt he could operate better, Gabrielle—he went after it. And he always got what he went after. Sooner or later.
“My stature precedes me, does it?” Luc asked mildly. He chose not to be insulted—he wanted the hotels more than he wanted to teach Franz Federer some manners.
He kept his gaze on Gabrielle as she charmed the younger brothers and their overawed wives with her stories of growing up in a royal palace not fitted for young children.
“I can’t bring myself to tell you about the rock crystal vase I nearly destroyed one day, while playing horses in a drawing room,” she told them, shuddering theatrically. “It’s far too incriminating, and a priceless piece of art was this close to being lost forever! I would have died from the shame of it!”
She made it sound like a madcap adventure worthy of an Enid Blyton book, when, unless he missed his guess, a childhood with King Josef must have been anything but pleasant. He felt a kind of pang, trying to imagine her as a little girl, locked away in that palazzo with her grim, fault-finding father. He rather thought there had been fewer incidents of playing horses than the anecdote suggested. But her audience ate it up—captivated, no doubt, by the fantasy of a reckless young princess this close to disaster. Luc found himself no less charmed.
“I don’t mind telling you that there was some concern that you might not be the best fit for our family’s hotels,” Franz continued, forcing Luc’s attention away from Gabrielle and her past. “And with that business with the tabloids recently…” He shook his head sorrowfully, though his eyes were avid as he assessed Luc’s reaction.
Luc smiled, though that deep, abiding rage he never seemed to conquer rolled over in his gut. He hated the tabloids. He hated Silvio Domenico and his slimy brethren more than he could express. He hated even more that Gabrielle had thrown them into the frenzy of a tabloid cycle—directly into Silvio’s clutches.
But she had not planned it. She had simply run—afraid and unknowing. Luc believed her—and if he had paid closer attention to her emotional state at their wedding, and less to her father’s assurances of her obedience, the entire affair could have been avoided. He blamed himself.
“You cannot believe what you read in those rags, of course,” he said carelessly, as if it was of no matter to him. “They are writers of fiction and fantasy.”
“All civilized men must be appalled at their prominence these days,” Franz said, shaking his head in sympathy that Luc suspected was feigned. “The stalking and the lies. And yet everyone reads them!”
“They are a scourge,” Luc agreed. He gestured toward Gabrielle. “As you can see, I have caught up to my runaway bride, against all the odds. Did I not read that she was tortured, somehow, by the experience? Ravaged in some way? I don’t think she looks any the worse for her ordeal.”
“Indeed she does not,” Franz agreed. Perhaps too readily for Luc’s comfort.
“The truth is that we honeymooned in America quite without incident.” Luc sighed, sitting back in his chair and swirling the wine in his glass. “I wish I could tell you that it was scandalous, but it was not. I’m afraid my scandalous days now exist only in the imagination of the paparazzi. I cannot say that I regret it.”
“I think she is a good influence on you,” Franz said after a moment—as if Luc had asked to be patronized by a man he could buy and sell several times over.
Luc set his teeth and forced himself not to react. Every sense told him that this infernal deal was about to be closed.
“I would like to think so,” he said. He even thought it might be true—though he did not intend to share that with Federer, of all people.
“You seem more settled. It suits you,” Franz said.
The gall of it! As if he and Luc were intimate in some way beyond his lust for Luc’s money—and possibly Luc’s wife!
“This is good for a man as he approaches his middle years.” Franz smiled. “And it will be good, too, for our hotels.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” Luc said. He extended his hand.
When the other man took it, Luc smiled. A real smile this time.
The deal was done. And Luc had his wife to thank for it.
She met his eyes once more, that telltale color reddening her cheeks. Suddenly, Luc couldn’t wait to show her exactly how grateful he was.
London was a cold, gray slap after the sun-drenched blues and greens of the California coast. Gabrielle pulled her silk scarf tighter over her hair to ward off the wetness as she rushed through the Brompton Road crowd toward the doors of Harrods, eager to get inside and out of the rain.
Once through the grand doors, Gabrielle pulled her scarf away from her face and shook it out slightly, damp all over, though she found it a bit exhilarating after all the sunshine she’d gotten over the previous weeks. She had thrown a light trenchcoat over a pale yellow Chanel suit better suited to California than England, and was convinced she’d landed in a puddle the depth of the Thames in her rush to get from the car into the famous department store. She felt the wet and the London grime all the way up the backs of her legs. She was cold and soaked. And she didn’t care in the slightest, because Harrods worked its usual magic on her the moment she stepped inside.
Gabrielle shook the water from her scarf and tucked it in the pocket of her coat, then unbuttoned the trench as she walked through the grand rooms she’d seen so many times before. She knew it was touristy at best, and sentimental at worst, but she had never been able to shake her abiding love for the British institution that was Harrods. Whenever she visited London she made a point to visit the store, to wander through the gilt-edged displays and marvel at the soaring ceilings and marble floors. Every now and again, when she knew her father would not be around to judge her, she brought home one of their gourmet hampers, always wishing she could take it on the perfect picnic somewhere, but making do with her private rooms. Being in the bustling, lavish rooms at Harrods reminded her of being a young girl, dispatched to the nearby store with her governess du jour while her father tended to affairs of state. Her father would have his privacy while Gabrielle enjoyed herself wandering about Harrods, then followed it up with an afternoon cream tea. Few things had ever made her happier.
“If it isn’t the delightful Mrs. Garnier,” a sly voice drawled in Italian from behind her, causing Gabrielle to start, and drop the leather gloves she’d absently picked up.
She recognized the man immediately—it was the paparazzo who had so angered Luc in Los Angeles. Silvio. He leaned close, his beard grizzled and the smell of old cigarettes wafting up from his damp jeans and tracksuit top. Gabrielle forced herself not to recoil—anything she did would be held up to scrutiny and twisted into the most negative light possible. It was best to do very little.
“My apologies, Your Royal Highness,” the man continued, his voice suggestive, his eyes hard, “if I’ve interrupted. You looked so sad just then. So alone.”
“Not at all,” Gabrielle said easily, finding her public smile harder to come by than usual. “I was daydreaming quite happily, I assure you. I used to come here quite often as a girl.” She swept him with a quizzical look. “Have we met?”
“Your husband did not introduce us when we ran into each other in Los Angeles,” Silvio replied, shifting his weig
ht to move even further into Gabrielle’s space, water glistening in his shaggy salt-and-pepper curls. “But I’m sure you remember the occasion—outside a restaurant, just a few days after he chased you to the States? I think maybe he had something to hide that night, yes?”
“Something to hide?” Gabrielle echoed. The man obviously loathed Luc. It was etched into every line on his weathered face. She found she felt much the same about him. She forced a light trill of laughter. “I think you misunderstand him. My husband is a private man and we were on our honeymoon. No need to read anything into it but that.”
“Private people don’t spend their honeymoons having dinner at the Ivy, Your Royal Highness, do they?” Silvio retorted, so close now that Gabrielle could see the brown and yellow nicotine stains on his teeth.
She was forced to shift back against the display table to put an appropriate distance between them, and her skin crawled when he smirked.
“Not if they want it to stay private.”
“You still haven’t told me your name,” Gabrielle replied, buying time and scraping together every little bit of manners she’d ever been taught, determined to remain polite even when she wanted to run, screaming, into the streets of Knightsbridge to get away from the man. “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“I am Silvio Domenico,” he said aggressively, and made a lazy sort of gesture with his hand, approximating a bow. He eyed her as he leaned against the display table, his cold gaze repellent. Gabrielle merely straightened her spine and waited. “I feel sorry for you,” he said after a moment.
“I can’t imagine why,” she said crisply. Repulsive man! “But I must excuse myself. I have a great many—”
“I don’t think you’ll want to run off just yet,” the odious man interrupted, with a smile that chilled Gabrielle to the bone. “Not if you want your so-called private husband’s life to stay that way.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Gabrielle asked, letting her impatience show.
Sensing that he might be losing his audience, Silvio shifted closer, his gaze alight with an excitement that Gabrielle instinctively knew could not bode well for her. Or for Luc.
“It turns out that Luc’s last mistress wasn’t as discreet as she was supposed to be,” Silvio told her with evident delight. He paused deliberately. “You do know that Luc is famous for his confidentiality agreements, right? No roll in the hay with Luc Garnier unless you promise not to talk about it. That’s the rule. He makes them all sign.” He waited for her reaction with obvious enjoyment—he wanted to feed on it, Gabrielle could tell. He wanted her to react badly—to hurt.
So she refused to show him anything, however little she might personally like to hear about the women who’d come before her. Much less any documents Luc might have had those women sign—which she very much doubted was true. Who would dare sell Luc out to the press? She merely arched an eyebrow.
“That seems quite sensible, given the fact you and your colleagues follow him around the planet digging for every detail,” she replied crisply.
“What surprises me is that there are always so many takers,” Silvio said, with that nasty edge to his voice. “Don’t see the attraction myself.” Gabrielle stared at him. He laughed. “You, too? I thought he bought you?”
“This conversation is over,” Gabrielle replied icily, turning to go, but his hand on her arm stopped her. She stared at it, then up at him in outrage. How dared he touch her? “Remove your hand! At once!”
“You know about La Rosalinda, of course?” Silvio continued, but he dropped his hand. His voice lowered, becoming even more intimate and disgusting. “The toast of Italy. What an uproar Luc caused when he dismissed her!”
Rosalinda Jaccino was an Italian film star. She was a world-renowned beauty—all flowing black tresses, mysterious eyes and sexy curves. The sight of her breasts supposedly caused riots. She also happened to be Luc’s most recent ex-lover. Gabrielle had read all about her while researching Luc in the weeks before their marriage. She certainly didn’t want to hear what this repulsive toad of a man so clearly wanted to tell her about the other woman. Just as she really, truly did not want to picture that bombshell with her husband.
In bed with her husband. That sinuous, famously curvy body wrapped around his—
Those are not helpful images, she told herself dryly. And if Luc had wished to marry La Rosalinda he would have done so. Instead he had looked the world over and chosen Gabrielle.
But there was no time to ruminate on her marriage—she was trapped in the leather goods section of Harrods unless she wanted to cause a scene. Which she did not. She knew, somehow, that Silvio would stop at nothing to tell her whatever it was he had clearly tracked her down to tell her. She would just as soon he did not share whatever it was with half of London.
“What is it you want?” she asked with great patience, wishing she could escape into the Egyptian Hall next door. If this awful little man tainted her Harrods experience—one of the few truly happy memories of her childhood—she didn’t know how she would stand it.
“It is not what I want,” Silvio said. “It is what I think you will want—once you know what I know about La Rosalinda and your husband.”
He made the word husband sound like a particularly filthy curse.
“Surely you did not come to talk to me about my husband’s former lovers?” Gabrielle asked, with as much dignity as she could muster. “I must confess that I am not interested in them.” She shrugged. “I am sorry if that disappoints you. And, while this has been a charming interlude, I really must—”
“Don’t dismiss me, Your Royal Highness.” The man’s voice went cold. Brutish. His eyes were flat. “I don’t think you’ll be quite so high and mighty if I go straight to the papers with what I have, will you?”
“What do you have?” Gabrielle asked, fighting to keep her voice even. A trickle of foreboding ran through her, making her skin feel itchy.
“I have a tape.” He laughed, still so close that Gabrielle could smell the tobacco on his breath, along with a hefty hint of onions. “Well, not exactly a tape. More digital than that—but the end result is the same, isn’t it?”
“A tape of what?” Gabrielle asked through her teeth, unable to keep the edge out of her voice. The loathsome man was obviously enjoying himself. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and grinned at her.
“Your husband,” he said, relishing the moment. “And La Rosalinda.” He smirked. “The lady likes to film herself when she’s in bed. And let me congratulate you, Your Royal Highness—your husband certainly knows what he’s doing.” He let out a wolf whistle, turning the heads of nearby shoppers. “He’s the star of the show, believe me. Very accomplished.”
“Don’t be absurd,” she said coldly, dismissively. “Luc would never allow himself to be filmed at all—much less at such a time.”
“Who said she asked his permission?” Silvio retorted, his smirk deepening.
Gabrielle blinked at him. She held herself very, very still. Around them shoppers bustled this way and that, and London charged about its business, as if this wasn’t happening.
This couldn’t be happening.
“Why are you telling me this?” she managed to ask. But what she thought was, poor Luc—this will kill him!
“Unless you want the surround sound movie of your brand-new husband and his ex to air on television tomorrow night—so artistic—you better watch how you talk to me,” Silvio retorted in a hiss. And then he laughed.
Vile little man.
“What do you want?” Gabrielle asked, hearing the strain in her voice as she spat the words out. Her hands curled into fists so tight she felt her nails dig into her own palms.
“Meet me back here tomorrow,” Silvio said, with unholy glee in his voice. “Bring yourself, and ten thousand pounds—and I’ll give you the tape.” He laughed. “Bring anyone else—or tell Luc—and I’ll sell the tape to the highest bidder and you can watch him perform with the rest
of the world. Does that sound like a deal?”
Gabrielle could only glare at him—which made him laugh all the more.
“See you tomorrow, sweetheart,” he said, and walked away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“YOU seem unusually quiet,” Luc said as the dinner plates were cleared from their places, sitting back in his chair and regarding Gabrielle with that piercing gray gaze of his. She was afraid he could see too much—see through her—too easily.
She tried to look at him and see what someone else might, but she felt too captured by his direct gaze to manage it. He was too virile, too masculine. The coat he wore was expertly tailored to emphasize the impressive, sculpted width of his shoulders. Across the dinner table his hard mouth crooked slightly at the corner, almost affectionately—a word she would never have thought to apply to him previously. The grand dining room of the London Ritz seemed to fade, and Gabrielle wondered helplessly if it would always be this way with him—if he would always command her attention, her focus, and bleed the light and color from the rest of the world.
She had an inkling that he probably would.
“I think that I miss the sun,” she said, finding it hard to manage her usual light and easy tone. “Though this room is a fair approximation of it, isn’t it?” She waved her hand, taking in the glittering chandeliers and lavish furnishings, all of which gave the famous hotel restaurant a distinct golden hue even late in the evening. “It’s almost like sunshine.”
She knew that she should tell him. She should have told him already. She should have called him the moment she’d left the horrible paparazzo’s presence. She should have told him as they dressed for dinner—when he’d told her he preferred the slightly more risqué Balenciaga black dress to the more classic Chanel black dress and she had changed accordingly. She’d had ample opportunity to tell him during the ride from her house in Belgravia to the Ritz, when she’d asked him about his day and told him silly stories about her minor adventures. And they’d done nothing but talk throughout dinner—even touching briefly on his past with the paparazzi, giving her many an opportunity to raise the subject.
Pure Princess, Bartered Bride Page 12
