Harlequin Superromance February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: His Forever Girl\Moonlight in Paris\Wife by Design (48 page)

What would it be like to see Jacques Martin again? Would she have heart palpitations? Yeah, but not because of any attraction to him.

Because of Sawyer.

With everything else he was going through, could she do this to him, knowing it could be the end of the marriage she wanted so desperately to save?

The choice had come down to choosing her daughter's happiness or her husband's and therefore her own.

A tear fell on the paper, smearing the ink and obliterating the last two numbers.

She might have considered that as a sign not to start the sequence of actions if the number wasn't already etched into her brain.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T
HE
MATTER
WAS
OUT
OF
Garrett's hands now. He could only hope things went as he'd planned and that he hadn't made a mistake.

It all seemed a little surreal that Saturday morning had come at last. That they were strolling hand in hand toward a bench where, unbeknownst to Tara, they would await the meeting with her birth father. He, with his heart in his mouth, hardly able to concentrate enough to put together a coherent sentence. She, in her yellow dress, smiling and bright.

“You look like a freshly picked sunflower...or maybe a drop of the sun.” He kissed her hand as they walked. “You've certainly brought light and warmth into my life...and Dylan's.”

The smile she rewarded him with both soothed his heart and made it ache.

For the millionth time, he wondered if Tara would pick up a familial vibe or notice a resemblance between her father and herself.... Though he'd exaggerated the similarity in looks in order to appeal to Jacques Martin's ego, it definitely existed. Her mouth was an exact copy, but her eyes and nose belonged to her mom.

As they approached Place des Vosges, another worry niggled at his brain. Why in the hell, with Paris's abundance of parks, had he chosen
this
particular place for their meeting? It seemed a cruel twist of fate.

Paris's oldest square, beautiful in its symmetry, had drawn its share of famous residents, and Parisians and visitors were still drawn to its beauty.

But it was also a well-known place for dueling, for God's sake, and
that
irony caused the sweet morning air to leave a bitter taste on Garrett's tongue as he spoke.

“King Henri the second was wounded here in a tournament.” Garrett guided Tara to an empty bench. A quick glance around the immediate area turned up no Jacques Martin, which relieved and agitated Garrett at the same time. “He died of the wounds.”

“Poor Henri.”

“Yeah.” He tried to ignore the irony in that statement, too, and changed the subject by pointing to
maison
number six. “Victor Hugo lived there. It's a museum now that houses some of his things. Did you know he went mad?”

He watched Tara's mouth curve down at the corners. “No, but I can believe it. I've never cared for
Les Mis.
I mean, it
was uplifting, but the story was so sad.”

“It must not have given him much joy, either. He took to carving furniture...with his teeth, earning him the nickname Beaver Hugo.”

Laughter rippled out of her. “You're kidding, right?”

Garrett held up three fingers. “Boy Scout's honor. Well, not about the nickname, but the part about carving out furniture with his teeth. Or, at least, that's what I've read.” He grinned. “Probably started out as a pencil chewer.”

“So maybe the madness was caused from all the lead he ingested.” She said it with a straight face that dissolved into a giggle. “Nope, I don't believe you.”

“God, you're beautiful when you laugh.” He nabbed her smile with a kiss that she returned with enough enthusiasm to make him wish they were home in bed.

She jumped, then her lips tore away from him, and she leaned over. “Oh, look!” she cooed.

A small blue ball lay at her feet with a tiny Yorkie rushing toward it in pursuit.

Garrett looked up to see Jacques Martin watching them intently, and his breath froze in his chest.

He counted the man's steps as he approached although instinct had already told him the distance between them.

Ten paces.

* * *

T
ARA
PICKED
UP
THE
BALL
as the Yorkie skidded to a halt at her feet.

He didn't bark, just looked at her with bright, expectant eyes, twitching with excitement. The ball she held matched the dog's turquoise collar, which was set with jewels that sparkled in the sunlight like real diamonds.

Surely not
. But the man who approached them—the dog's owner—had an affluent air about him that screamed “Money!” and changed her mind to
maybe so.

“Bonjour, madame...monsieur.”
He rattled off something she didn't understand, and, as she had gotten used to doing, she turned to Garrett for a translation.

His eyes cut to the stranger and back. “He said he's sorry for the clumsy throw.”

“Ah, English?” the man asked.

“American.” Tara leaned over to allow the dog to sniff her hand. He rewarded her with a couple of licks. “Can I pick him up?”

“But, of course.” The Frenchman nodded toward the dog's continued licks. “Attila likes you.”

She chuckled at the name. “Attila the Hun?” The tiny dog felt almost weightless in her hand and barely made an indent on her dress when she placed him on her lap. He had way too much energy to just lie there, though, and scrambled up to lick her face. She laughed as he covered her nose with doggy kisses. “More like Attila the Honey, if you ask me.”

A wide smile split the Frenchman's face and his dark eyes brightened. “You make a good joke.”

Nice-looking for a middle-aged guy, the man was of medium height and build, with dark hair combed back from his face. Heavy brows framed dark brown eyes with a keen and perceptive gaze that seemed to miss nothing. His pink shirt was crisp and tucked neatly into trousers that appeared to be of black silk. Expensive-looking black leather shoes and belt. A leash that matched the dog's collar dangled from his hand. His whole demeanor exuded elegance—something she'd grown used to in Paris.

Attila flipped around, looking at her over his shoulder, and wagged his almost nonexistent tail.

“He wants you to throw the ball, but not too far.”

Tara waited for a strolling couple to get past and then tossed the ball a few yards away.

Attila shot from her lap, catching up with the ball before it stopped rolling. He stretched his little mouth wide to pick it up and skipped his way back, jumping on the bench beside her and placing it back in her lap.

“What a good boy you are!” Tara scratched behind his ears, and he closed his eyes and tilted his head to give her full access to his favorite spot. “He's so adorable. How old is he?”

“Seven months.” Pride showed in their visitor's eyes almost as if he were talking about his child.

Tara scooted closer to Garrett and pointed to the empty space beside her. “Would you like to sit down?”

The man gave a slow nod. “Thank you. You are very kind.”

“Yes, she is.” Garrett gave her leg a pat. Attila added his approval by stretching over Tara and licking his hand.

When the gentleman sat down beside her, the pleasant fragrance of his cologne filled her head. Unlike the light, clean aroma that surrounded Garrett, this was a heavier scent, exotic and mysterious. Perhaps a good match to the man who wore it. But the two extremes dueled for dominance in the air around her, with a distinct advantage determined by the way she tilted her head.

She picked Attila up and buried her nose in the soft fur, finding a third scent that was decidedly feminine. “You smell good.” She rubbed her nose against him again, and he licked her cheek in response.

“My wife's
parfum.
” The man rolled his eyes. “I tell her a dog with such a name should not smell like a woman, but she puts a little on her hands and strokes it into his fur.”

Tara fought back her own eye roll. She couldn't imagine her mom putting perfume on a dog. And never in her wildest imagination could she imagine her dad walking a dog that wore a diamond-studded collar. The absurdity almost dislodged a snort she kept at bay only through sheer will.

She tossed the ball again, and the dog sprang from the bench.

The Frenchman's laugh was low. “He already has you trained. Now he will allow you to throw the ball for him all day.”

“That's okay.” Tara clapped when Attila grabbed the ball and held it up like he was showing off his prowess. “We don't have any place we need to be for a while.”

“So you are American?” The man gave her a sidelong glance and passed a hand over his brow. The heavy Rolex on his wrist glinted in the sun—another thing she couldn't imagine ever seeing on her dad. If Sawyer were ever given such a thing, he would sell it and send the money to some mission.

“Yes, I'm from Kentucky,” she answered.

“Ah!” Attila jumped onto the bench between them and the man took his turn at throwing. “I have visited Kentucky, I believe. But only once, and that was many years ago.”

Garrett jerked beside her, coughing hard several times.

“You okay?” she asked and he nodded. She turned back to the stranger. “You should go back there sometime.” Most of the French people she'd talked with on this trip weren't familiar with Kentucky. It was nice to converse with someone who had some familiarity with the place. “It's really beautiful on Kentucky Lake in the summer.”

The Frenchman shrugged. “Perhaps I'll return someday.”

Garrett coughed again, this time louder and harder. She hoped he wasn't coming down with something.

“Hey, babe.” Apparently he'd gotten the coughing under control enough to speak. “I'm going to find a bottle of water. Be right back, okay?”

She nodded.

“You want anything?”

She shook her head. “No. I'm good.”

“Your husband?” The man nodded toward Garrett as he left.

“Boyfriend.” The words felt good on her lips. She couldn't keep from smiling, waving bye to him when he glanced back over his shoulder.

The man pointed to the half hand she'd waved with. “You have had an accident.”

“A wreck on a motorcycle.” She ran her fingertip up the scar on her arm. “But I've since sworn off those things.” She held her hand out for a shake. “I'm Tara O'Malley, by the way.”

“I am—” he paused to throw the ball for the dog whose energy didn't seem to be waning in the least “—François Martin.”

All of the moisture in Tara's mouth abandoned her at the sound of the man's surname. “Martin?” The word came out as a croak.

“
Oui,
Martin. It is the most common surname in Paris.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “Much like Smith or Jones in the U.S.”

Tara nodded mutely. She already knew that, but to have an actual Martin sitting beside her seemed an amazing coincidence. She'd been feeling like she was getting close to finding her father. Maybe this man was here to help.

“I, uh.” She sucked in a breath. “I've been looking for a friend of my family while I'm here, and
his
name is Martin. Jacques Martin. You wouldn't happen to know anyone by that name, would you?”

A hint of laughter lit the man's eyes before he gave her a small smile. “
Oui,
Tara O'Malley. I know two men who have the name of Jacques Martin.” He held up two fingers and ticked the names off. “My father's name was Jacques Martin, though he died many years ago. And my son is also Jacques Martin. He is fifteen years old and could not be the friend of your family, I think.”

“No.” Tara's chest heaved with disappointment. She tossed the ball for the waiting Attila. “You don't know of any others. Cousins...?”

The man shook his head, his heavy brows drawing in and nearly touching. “No, but as I said before, there are many Martins, and Jacques is also very common.”

Garrett headed back toward them from across the park, and a spark of joy lit Tara's insides at the sight of him. Thankfully, he'd ignored her when she declined the offer of a drink. He held a bottle in each hand.

“Are you originally from Paris?” She continued to make conversation.

“Yes. I was born here and have lived here most of my life although I also travel extensively.” The touch of pride was evident again.

“It's such a beautiful place.” Tara rolled her shoulders to loosen the muscles that had tightened when the man told her his name. “I'm glad I got to come see it for myself.”

The Frenchman's eyes met hers directly. “Yes, she is a beauty.” He swallowed hard before he glanced away, obviously moved by his love for the city. “I have much to be proud of.”

The wistful timbre of his voice and the sudden serious tone the conversation had taken made Tara a little uncomfortable. A shiver scampered up her spine, though there was no logical reason for it. But Tara sensed sadness in this person. Perhaps he'd experienced a recent loss...or maybe he was the type of wealthy person who was never quite satisfied no matter how much he had.

“Here you go.”

Garrett's familiar voice wrapped her in instant warmth. She took the Orangina he proffered, enjoying the solidness of him as he settled down beside her again. She downed the small bottle of liquid in two gulps, the cool drink soothing her parched throat.

Garrett laughed. “Thought you weren't thirsty.”

“I'm glad you knew better than I did.” Pointing to her companion, she added, “I should introduce you two. Garrett Hughes, meet François Martin.”

She should have timed it better, should have allowed Garrett to swallow what was in his mouth. Instead, she watched him choke when the name Martin left her lips. He managed not to spew Orangina, but his face turned so red she was afraid he was going to burst a blood vessel. His body jerked with spasms and he finally gave in to a series of long, loud coughs.

“Sorry.” At last, he got himself under control enough to extend his hand. “
François
Martin, is it?”

“Yes, that is correct.” François's hand dropped to caress Attila's head, his several-carat diamond ring glinting sunlight into Tara's face.

She turned to face Garrett. “His father and his son are
both
Jacques Martin.”