Christmas in Paris (11 page)

“I love you,” he whispered. “You're the only thing that matters.”

“I love you too,” she murmured, a small moan escaping her lips.

He laid her down on the floral bedspread and unbuttoned his shirt. She unsnapped her bra and her breasts were two golden pieces of fruit. Alec slipped off her silk panties and slid inside her and she clung to his back. He slowed his rhythm until Celine whispered his name and then he picked up speed and they came together in one dizzying thrust.

The sky outside the window was pink and purple, and Alec draped his arm around Celine's waist. Was there anything as terrible and magical as love? And once you found it, could you ever live without it?

*   *   *

NOW ALEC ATE
another handful of pistachio nuts and wondered why he was even thinking about Celine; she was in a different hemisphere. But if he called Bettina, he would have to explain why Celine left. Bettina would purr like a kitten with a warm bowl of milk.

He straightened his bow tie and heard a knock on the door. He opened it and saw an unfamiliar figure in a red satin gown. Her hair was knotted in a chignon and she wore long white gloves.

“Hello,” he said uncertainly.

“That's not a very enthusiastic welcome.” Isabel smiled, entering the room.

“It's you,” Alec gasped. “I didn't recognize you.”

“Were you expecting another woman to go dancing with?” Isabel glanced at his white dinner jacket and tan slacks.

“Of course not, I don't want to go dancing at all.” Alec bristled, studying her slender shoulders. “You just look different, like a movie poster.”

“Do you think the gloves are too much?” Isabel asked and laughed. “The woman was right. The price tag on this dress was less than the ones in the window, so I thought I was getting a bargain. The gloves are Italian silk and were only an extra fifty euros. I felt like I came out ahead.”

“What woman?” Alec walked to the desk.

“I met a strange woman in the couture section of Le Printemps. She said no one buys the designs in the window. They're overpriced and the styles are outrageous,” Isabel explained. “She showed me the dresses in the back and said this Oscar de la Renta was perfect.”

“It is lovely,” Alec admitted.

“She was like a fairy godmother.” Isabel's brown eyes sparkled. “I looked in the mirror and knew I couldn't wear anything else.”

“First you believe in fortune-tellers and now you have a fairy godmother.” Alec frowned. “You're the most unlikely financial analyst.”

“Being an analyst is all about hunches and superstitions.” Isabel fiddled with her diamond clip. “I know an analyst who wore a striped tie on the day the stock market crashed, so he refuses to wear a striped tied again.” She paused. “It's only the numbers that are constant. How they end up on the screen is a combination of magic and voodoo.”

“I'll remember that if I ever hire a stockbroker,” Alec laughed.

“Is this your latest drawing?” Isabel stood at the desk. “Gus looks very pleased with himself.”

“He just discovered a treasure chest and he's going to give the jewels to the local children.” Alec picked up the drawing. “Except to the boys who play cricket, they have their pressed white slacks and shiny black balls. They don't need anything else.”

“Not all cricket players go around stealing other men's fiancées,” Isabel laughed.

“A friend was here and reminded me I haven't told my sister, Bettina, that the wedding was canceled,” Alec said. “It brought up old memories, like a toothache that won't go away.”

“Why don't you call Bettina?” Isabel asked.

“She thought I wasn't good enough for Celine.” Alec poured a glass of scotch. “She didn't know why she was marrying me.”

“Why would she say that?” Isabel wondered.

“Celine does look like the female lead in a James Bond movie, she could stop traffic by stepping out of a taxi.” He rubbed his brow. “But it's more complicated. A bit like those nighttime American soap operas you see on television with French subtitles.”

“It sounds fascinating.” Isabel perched on an ivory love seat.

“Bettina's mother left my father and ran away with a farmer when she was three years old,” he began. “She never forgave my mother for marrying Alain, she wanted him all to herself.”

“But she was a child,” Isabel murmured. “Surely your parents made her behave.”

“My mother was determined for Bettina to feel loved, and my father was more comfortable with his newspapers and boxes of cigars.” He sipped his drink. “When Bettina was four, she marched into my father's study with her favorite Madeline doll. She said he could have it as long as he sent me back wherever I came from.”

“Older sisters are often jealous of little brothers.” Isabel grinned. “But that was ages ago, you're both adults.”

“Bettina has a memory like an elephant. And it doesn't help that Celine and I were engaged after three months and she and Édouard have been together for four years,” he sighed. “Édouard seems as eager to propose as Queen Elizabeth is to give up the throne.”

“You have to tell her,” Isabel insisted. “She won't be happy if she shows up at an empty cathedral with a set of Villeroy and Boch demitasses.”

“I'll call her tomorrow.” He put his glass on the sideboard. “You paid a fortune for these tickets, we don't want to be late.”

“We're going to have a wonderful time.” Isabel rubbed her lips. “I read an article about the ball in
Paris Match
. It's attended by
ducs
and marquises and viscounts.”

“It sounds like a chapter from
The Three Musketeers.
” Alec grimaced, walking to the door. “I'll be happy with a glass of Dom Pérignon and a plate of veal sweetbreads.”

“Wait,” Isabel called.

Isabel walked toward him and put her hands around his neck. He inhaled her scent of jasmine perfume and felt slightly dizzy.

“Your tie was crooked.” She stepped back and her face lit up in a smile. “Now it's perfect.”

“Thank you,” he said, and realized he had been holding his breath. “I've always been hopeless at tying my own tie.”

*   *   *

THEY CROSSED THE
Place de la Concorde and Alec felt a rush of pride. Paris in the winter could be damp and bitter, but the Christmas tree glittered like an elaborate charm bracelet, and the obelisk was a shimmering beacon, and the stone facade of the Petit Palais took his breath away.

“It's magnificent.” Isabel gazed up at the wide columns and gold inlaid doors. “It's like a scene from
The Arabian Nights.
”

“The Petit Palais was built for the world's fair in 1900,” Alec explained. “It was designed in the Beaux Arts style and takes up a city block. The columns are pink Vosges granite and the mosaic floors were imported from Italy.”

The interior courtyard had a domed cupola and sweeping murals and a glass bar lined with crystal bottles. There was an ice sculpture and platters of black-truffle brioche and smoked eel and pork rillettes.

“I thought the Red Cross was all about thick bandages and those little white hats.” Alec whistled. “This looks like a scene from the
Decameron.
”

“Parisian women are so sophisticated.” Isabel glanced at women wearing sapphire pendants and shimmering cocktail dresses. “How am I supposed to compete with baronesses wearing emerald brooches inherited from the Duchess of Montpensier?”

“You're an American, it's the most competitive race on earth.” Alec took a champagne flute from a passing waiter. “Is that the way you behave before a client presentation?”

“That's different. When I walk into a conference room, it's like one of those sand puzzles that you shake and it falls into place,” Isabel said. “No matter how nervous I am, I relax.”

“Getting a viscount to ask you to dance is easier than predicting the consumption of chia seeds in Japan,” Alec insisted.

“Picking the right husband isn't easy at all…” Isabel's voice wavered. “I thought Neil and I were in love. He looked handsome in a tuxedo and we enjoyed doing the fox-trot and the waltz.” Her eyes were huge. “Until a month before the wedding, when he decided to quit his job and insisted we move to his grandparents' farm so he could spend his days in cowboy boots.” She smoothed her skirt. “I didn't expect to attend black-tie galas every week, but it is nice to get dressed up and feel young and pretty.”

“You're going to do fine.” He pointed to the circular foyer. “All you need to do is hold a glass of champagne and stand over there.”

“Why should I do that?”

Alec studied her brown eyes and dark eyelashes and slender neck.

“Because you'll be the first thing a man sees when he hands his wool overcoat to the coat-check girl.” He paused. “And he won't look anywhere else.”

*   *   *

ISABEL SIPPED CHAMPAGNE
under a framed Pissarro, and Alec's shoulders relaxed. She really was striking in the red satin gown, like a ballerina on one of Bettina's music boxes. He really had to stop thinking about his sister; she was like Maleficent at Aurora's christening.

The sideboard was filled with silver platters of caviar dumplings and baked sea bass and onions au gratin. He looked up and saw Isabel talking to a blond man in a silk tuxedo. She caught Alec's eye and a smile lit up her face. He grabbed a plate and noticed a familiar figure wearing a black tuxedo and gold watch.

“What are you doing here?” Mathieu approached him. “You usually avoid any occasion that requires shirt studs and cuff links.”

“I'm doing a favor for a friend,” Alec explained. “No wonder your rates have gone up if you're hobnobbing with barons and
comtes
at a two-hundred-euro-a-plate ball.”

“Helene's boss gave her the tickets for Christmas.” Mathieu sipped his champagne. “She wanted to wear her Pucci gown while she could still do up the zipper.”

“I have to thank her for the watercolor you gave us as a wedding present. I tried to return it, but the gallery owner said fine art wasn't returnable.” Alec nibbled steamed mussels. “The art world can be so pretentious. If it's not a commercial commodity, why was it for sale in the first place?”

“You should keep it,” Mathieu suggested. “It would look fine above your desk.”

“I don't need any more reminders of Celine,” Alec grumbled. “I'm sure she didn't fill her carry-on with silver salt shakers or a ceramic fruit bowl. She's probably forgotten that next Friday was supposed to be her wedding day.”

“You'll get over her.” Mathieu put his hand on Alec's shoulder. “It just takes time.”

“No one wants to be with someone who doesn't feel the same,” Alec said slowly. “I'm just afraid I won't get over the idea of her: That you could live the rest of your life with someone you loved. That you could wake up every morning and see her slip on her stockings and think you were the luckiest guy in the world.”

“There are plenty of spectacular women at the ball. You're good-looking and entertaining when you're not moping like a basset hound.” He pointed to a woman wearing a blue cocktail dress. “Strike up a conversation with that brunette.”

“Basset hounds don't mope, they were born with droopy cheeks,” Alec corrected. “And I'd rather sample the bay prawns in warm mayonnaise than make conversation with a woman.” He paused. “They all look lovely in their designer gowns and clouds of expensive perfume. But just when you get comfortable enough to wear plaid pajamas to bed and drink orange juice out of the carton, they trample all over your heart.”

“Helene would kill me if I drank juice out of the carton,” Mathieu laughed.

Alec looked up and saw a woman in a green chiffon gown walking toward them. Of course Bettina was at the Red Cross ball! Why hadn't he thought of that, and how could he sneak away without her seeing him?

“Where are you going?” Mathieu asked.

“She can't see me here.” Alec put his plate on the sideboard.

“It's a charity function, not the red-light district of Montmartre.” He stopped and looked at Alec. “You haven't told her the wedding is canceled.”

“Not exactly.” Alec shifted his feet. “I was going to call her tomorrow.”

“Unless you become the invisible man, you're telling her tonight.” Mathieu turned and smiled. “Bettina, how nice to see you. Alec was just commenting on how beautiful you look in that green dress.”

“My brother and his attorney, what a surprise,” Bettina murmured. “Who would have thought the scrawny teenager who used to sneak my father's port would become an important lawyer.”

“We did not sneak Alain's port, he offered it to us,” Alec retorted. “We may have finished the bottle after he went to bed, but eighteen-year-olds have done worse.”

“I'm surprised to see you and Celine out so close to your wedding,” Bettina replied. “Shouldn't you be rehearsing your vows or packing for your honeymoon?”

“Celine's not here,” Alec mumbled.

“You came alone?” Bettina raised her eyebrow.

“Excuse me, I have to join Helene,” Mathieu cut in. “The doctor said she shouldn't drink more than one glass of champagne.”

“When will you and Celine start a family?” Bettina asked. “Though I can't imagine Celine ruining that perfect waistline.” She ate an escargot. “Maybe you'll adopt.”

“Celine talks about children all the time.” Alec bristled. “She wants a boy who plays the flute and a little girl who loves ballet.”

They had imagined a boy with Celine's high cheekbones and small nose. The girl would have his dark hair and her violet eyes and red mouth.

Except now the boy would have Patrick's floppy blond hair and the little girl would be so breathtaking, she would make your heart ache. Two stunning people shouldn't fall in love—what was left for everyone else? Beauty should be distributed evenly, like crustless sandwiches at a child's birthday party.