Authors: Liz Talley
“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
G
ARRETT
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. FranklinâFaithâcelebrated 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 qualityâthough 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 hideâand 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 agâ”
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 beautifulâyou met her when you arrivedâand 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
ifâ
” he placed meaningful weight on the word “âshe 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 âfledgling 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 passed.
“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.
* * *
“Y
OU
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.
He cleared his throat, and the way his body stiffened against her side told her he was about to say something that made him uncomfortable.
“I know we've talked about it a little, but what will you do, really, if you locate your birth father and he won't meet you? I mean, he could refuse to even see you.”
Bless his heart.
Garrett was so concerned about how this ordeal would affect her. “I won't take no for an answer. I've come too far for that.” She kept her head on his shoulder, but laid her hand against his chest. “You've still got a lot to learn about me, and my stubbornness is one of those faults you're going to run into.”
His heartbeat quickened under her palm. “What if he threatens you? Orâ” He stopped abruptly, and the concern in his voice pulled her around to face him. The worry she'd heard was etched in his face.
“If he throws me out?” She shrugged. “I'll still have accomplished what I came for. I'll have
seen
him.”
Garrett took a deep swallow of his Scotch and a grimace followed. “But if
I
find him, he could threaten me. Or Dylan. Or Soulard.”