J.C. and the Bijoux Jolis: The Rousseaus #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 14) (15 page)

He was frustrated as hell that tonight wouldn’t have a “happy ending,” but in a strange way, he was a little relieved too. If they’d fucked tonight, while she was still technically dating Neil, it would have made her a cheater. And though, to the rest of the world, it might not seem that J.C. had lived his personal life with much of a moral code, its entire commitment-free structure ensured that he’d never be accused of cheating on anyone. He abhorred cheaters. He despised them. So as much as he hated waiting until Wednesday to have her, he was glad that she’d be finished with Neil when they finally slept together. He’d just as soon start their relationship on solid ground.

As that thought passed through his head, he gasped softly, shocked to his core that the words “start their relationship on solid ground” should issue so effortlessly from his brain when they’d never taken root there before.

Libitz turned to look at him after pressing the call button on the elevator.

“You look like my Sherpa,” she said, grinning at him.

He placed the painting on the floor, resting it against his legs. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be, baby.”

“Do you have, like, a cache of suggestive lines that you’ve used all your life to seduce hapless women?”

“Hmm. I wonder if being a smartass comes as easy as, say”—he tapped his chin as though in thought—“your pussy under my tongue?” He shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out on Wednesday.”

“You’re pretty full of yourself,” she observed, putting her hands on her hips, which had the awesome side effect of making her little tits stick out.

“Until
you’re
full of me,” he volleyed back, “I’ll have to pleasure myself.”

“Oh, man.” She chuckled. “I bet you were the guy in college who rated his fucks from one to ten.”

He nodded at her. “And you were the girl who scared the shit out of every guy who secretly wanted to fuck your brains out.”

“Ohhhh,” she said, “is that why they all stopped calling? Out of fear?”

“Anyone who
stopped calling
was a monumental fucking jackass.” As the elevator arrived, he picked up the painting, grabbed her suitcase handle, and stepped inside after her. “And they were all pussies.”

She pressed the number fifteen, then turned to face him, cocking her head to the side. “So you’re saying you’re
not
afraid?”

“Oh, I’m terrified, Elsa,” he said, smiling at her. “But not of you.”

“Of what then?”

He’d been leaning against the brass railing at the back of the elevator, but now he stepped forward, closer to her, boxing her into the corner beside the control panel.

“Of wanting something new. Of who I am when I’m with you.”

She reached up and palmed his cheek, “I like who you are when you’re with me.”

“Enough to place a bet on me?”

She nodded. “I’ll be placing that bet on Wednesday night when I tell Neil to take a hike.”

“But I can’t promise you anything,” said Jean-Christian, regretting the words when they left his mouth, even as he recognized their truth. “I wish I could, but I’m in unchartered waters, Elsa.”

“I don’t remember asking for promises.”

“I might let you down.”

“Probably.”

“Or hurt you.”

“Possibly.”

“And you could end up hating me,” he said, leaning into her touch as he closed his eyes.

She inhaled deeply, and when he opened his eyes, she was staring up at him, her eyes worried. “Is that what you want?”

“No!” he cried. “God, no!”

The elevator dinged to signal their arrival, and she dropped her hand. “Then make a choice to keep me safe and make me proud and make me adore you.”

“It can’t be that easy,” he said, wincing as his mother’s shattered face flitted through his mind and vowing never to be the cause of that pain for Libitz.

“Yes, Jean-Christian,” she said confidently, ducking under his arm as the doors opened and leaving him to follow. “It is
exactly
that easy.”

***

An hour later, they had cashed a bottle of her favorite Sauvignon Blanc and stood side by side at her dining room table, staring at the portrait together as they waited for an order of Chinese to arrive.

“It’s pi,” he said for the umpteenth time.

“It’s
l’chaim
,” she argued, squinting at the tiny marking they’d found in Pierre’s signature, cleverly hidden between the
t
and
f
in Montferrat.

“She was probably a math student.”

“A math student by day and nude art model by night? Right!” Libitz scoffed.

“
L’chaim
?” asked Jean-Christian, bending over the painting. “Where in the world would he have met a young Jewish model? My uncle was Catholic!”

“And you think he went searching for his models at church?” she asked tartly. “Look closely. See this tiny slash to the left of the upside-down U? That’s what makes it
l’chaim
. Believe me, I’m right. I was forced to go to Hebrew school from the cradle.”

“And I was a finance major. That tiny slash is part of the
t
. Or an abrasion.”

Libitz backed away from the dining room table where they’d unwrapped the painting and crossed her arms over her chest defensively. He was so deep in concentration, he didn’t notice for a few seconds, but once he did, he looked up at her.

“What? Are you giving up the fight?”

“Do you have a problem with her being Jewish?”

“What? What are you—”

“Do. You. Have. A. Problem. With. Her. Being. Jewish?”

He recoiled like she’d hit him, standing up straight and putting his hands on his hips. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I am.”

His brows furrowed together, his lips an angry slash.

“Why aren’t you answering?” she demanded, dropping her hands to her sides but keeping them in fists.

“I’m trying to decide whether or not to spank you,” he spat, his eyes bright with anger. “Why the
fuck
would you ask me something like that?”

“Because you’re…you’re…”

She sputtered, all the wind promptly leaving her sails.

One look at his face told her the answer to her question. He was outraged that she’d even suggested that he was prejudiced, and she regretted making the assumption. It came from an old place of hurt and suspicion, and she hated that it still made her insecure from time to time.

She softened her voice, unfurling her fingers. “Because you were just fighting so hard to convince me it was pi.”

“It
looks
like pi to me,” he said, putting his hands on his hips, his face still furious. “Do I
look
like a bigot to you?”

She shook her head, taking her empty wine glass from the table and walking alone into her living room. Reaching into the wine fridge concealed under a wet bar, she took out another bottle of white wine and unscrewed the cap, pouring herself a healthy splash. When she looked up, Jean-Christian was standing in the doorway between the two rooms, staring at her, his expression guarded.

“You didn’t answer me,” he said.

“No,” she said, taking a sip as she padded over to the sofa in bare feet. “You don’t look like a bigot.
I
look like an idiot.”

He turned around to grab his wineglass and followed her into the living room, pouring a refill before joining her on the couch. “So what was that?”

She sighed, meeting his eyes. “Insecurity.”

“Yours.”

“Mine. My Achilles’ heel.”

Jean-Christian took another sip of wine before placing his glass on the table and turning back to her. He reached out to run his fingers through her hair, and she closed her eyes, taking a deep, cleansing breath.

“I was one of four Jewish kids at a super WASPy prep school,” she whispered without opening her eyes. She leaned into his touch, relinquishing her glass easily when he took it from her fingers and pulled her onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her. “I overlooked, even tolerated, the occasional under-the-breath comment about my religion and culture. But you have to understand…I was in the minority, and I was a kid. It was easier to try to blend in, even if that meant putting up with small-minded prejudice.”

She could feel the heat from his neck on her lips and she leaned forward to nuzzle his skin as she continued. “But I’m an adult now…and I can’t overlook or tolerate anti-Semitism anymore. I
won’t
.”

“You shouldn’t,” he said softly, gently cupping the back of her head as she dragged her lips over his throat.

“I know I’m oversensitive. I had no right to accuse you like that.”

“It’s important to you.”

She nodded, pressing butterfly kisses along a blue vein. “Mm-hm. To be accepted for who I am. All of me.”

“I don’t care what your religion is, Libitz. I mean, I
care
, but it doesn’t play any role in my regard for you.”

She opened her eyes and leaned away to look up at him. “You’re Catholic.”

He nodded.

“I’m Jewish.”

He nodded again. “So?”

“Is that going to be a problem for us, Jean-Christian Rousseau?”

“For my mother, yes.”

“Yeah. For mine too,” she said honestly.

“Now ask me what I’m prepared to do about it.”

Her lips twitched with a smile that was bursting to make itself known. “What are you prepared to do about it?”

“Nothing,” he said simply. “It’s not her life; it’s mine. And for now, I choose you.
All
of you.” He bit her bottom lip, taking his time, letting it go with a soft pop. “But, Elsa, my darling, I will go to my fucking grave insisting that upside-down
U
is pi, not
l’chaim
.”

Her smile turned into a snort, and she hid her face back in the warm curve of his neck. “You’re a monumental jackass, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “You and your sweet talk.”

“I’m crazy about you,” she said softly, whispering the words he’d said to her yesterday and feeling them deep in her soul, knowing that they were true.

“Then kiss me,” he said, his voice husky with emotion and need.

And Libitz, who had truly started to understand the workings of his heart, was only too happy to comply.

Jessica texted J.C. at ten the next morning to let him know that the Kandinsky had arrived safely at the Feingold Gallery and had been signed for by Libitz. Mrs. Carnegie was arriving at the gallery at four o’clock to collect the painting, after which J.C. and Libitz had an appointment to visit J.C.’s old college professor, Dr. Niles Harkin, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Dr. Harkin, who had a PhD in art history and taught twice-yearly courses at Princeton, was also the head of painting conservation at Manhattan’s premiere art museum. He’d sent someone to the hotel concierge this morning to pick up
Les Bijoux Jolis
so that he’d have time to take a look at it before their meeting.

J.C. stared at Jessica’s text, thinking back to last night. After Libitz had told him she was crazy about him, they’d made out on the couch like a couple of teenagers before their dinner had arrived, the doorbell interrupting them. Smiling at the memory, he scrubbed his hands over his face, remembering the disappointment in her eyes as she’d pulled her bra out from between two couch cushions and rebuttoned her dress while he’d answered the door.

He couldn’t actually recall the last time he’d been physical with a woman when sex wasn’t in the offering, and maybe it was the promise of more intimacy on Wednesday, but he didn’t feel like any time spent with Libitz was wasted. In fact, he’d been in a ridiculous swoon since she’d told him how she felt about him…his heart throbbing like that of a sixteen-year-old girl who’d been asked to the prom by her crush.

By and large, J.C. had missed out on a lot of the conventional relationship milestones that most teenagers experienced. At age fourteen, he’d decided never to fall in love or let anyone fall in love with him. He’d get his rocks off, like his father, but he wouldn’t hurt anyone like his father had hurt his mother. It had left him physically satisfied but emotionally stunted in some ways. A woman professing her affection for him in the past had left him, as Libitz had guessed yesterday, panicked and running for the hills.

Not so with her.

He’d been terribly infatuated with her at Ten’s wedding, but now, as a thirty-four-year-old man with honorable intentions for the first time in his life, infatuation was giving way to a feeling altogether bigger and deeper—something that he still wasn’t prepared to name or admit, something that still felt too fragile and too unlikely to ever belong to him.

Before he left her apartment last night, Libitz had given him the eyeglass case that held his uncle Pierre’s emerald necklace, and with late morning and early afternoon to kill before picking her up, he made an appointment with a private jeweler in the Diamond District, where he could have it appraised.

Technically, it was Jax’s necklace, since he’d found it in her attic, so J.C. figured he’d have it reset for his sister as a wedding gift, and she could wear it when he walked her down the aisle this February. Since he’d heard Gard refer to Jax’s eyes as “emeralds” a time or two, it seemed especially fitting.

“You know a lot about emeralds?” asked the paunchy old gentleman behind a utilitarian counter in a nondescript jewelry store. He added a lens to his glasses to look more closely at the necklace.

J.C. shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Ah-ha.” The jeweler, Silas Greenbaum, an apt name for an emerald expert, checked out each gemstone carefully, holding the necklace up to the light before inspecting the stones again. “Yeah. It’s good quality.”

“How good?” asked J.C., resting his elbows on the scratched glass.

“Well, see…all emeralds have imperfections because they’re naturally occurring beryl minerals. In fact, no imperfections would tell me it’s a fake or synthetic.”

“But it’s not?”

“No. These are real. Filthy, but real.” Silas removed the loupe from his eyeglasses and placed the necklace carefully on a bed of black velvet, straightening it until it was a perfect oval. “Setting’s crap. Gold-painted sterling. You should have it reset.”

“That’s what I thought.” J.C. didn’t want to seem too eager, but he was curious as to its value. “How much do you think it’s worth?”

“Hmm. Well, the color’s good. You don’t want to see yellow or brown, and these have a nice blue glow. Deep. Rich. That’s a plus. See when I hold it up to the light? Look at this one in the middle. See how it sparkles like it’s alive? Changes like it’s still forming? Still growing? That’s what makes it valuable. That’s heirloom quality. This one emerald is over two carats for sure. All on its own, it’s worth about fourteen thousand dollars. Just the stone.”

“So…?”

“The diamonds are chips. They’re worth something, but they’re not special. The emeralds are special, and there are fourteen of them. I’d give you a hundred and seventy for it.”

“One hundred seventy thousand dollars?”

Silas nodded. “Yep. You could probably get a little more, but someone’s going to have to clean it, take it apart, and reset it. That’s work. That takes time.”

“I don’t want to sell it,” said J.C., leaning away from the counter. “I want you to reset it. I’m giving it to my sister as a wedding gift.”

“I guess you love your sister a lot,” said Silas, showcasing four gold teeth when he smiled.

J.C. nodded. “I do.”

“Well, you better. It’ll cost you about eight thousand to do it in gold. Simple design. Goes up from there.”

“I don’t really care what it costs,” said J.C., sliding his American Express card across the counter. “You’ll find I’m good for it.”

“My favorite kind of customer,” said Silas, running the card to ascertain J.C.’s credit limit.

“But one thing,” said J.C., unable to part with the
entire
necklace, even for Jax. “The emerald in the middle, the one you pointed out—”

“The anchor?”

He nodded. “The one that sparkles like it’s changing and still growing…I want it.”

“You want it?”

“Find one to replace it for the necklace and I’ll buy it from you, but that one…”

“Mister…Rousseau,” he said, staring down at the credit slip before handing J.C. his card back. “You want to spend fourteen thousand for another emerald when you’ve already got one?”

“Just do it,” he muttered.

“Well, credit isn’t a problem for you, but…” Silas shrugged. “Hey! You want me to make the solitaire into a ring?”

“No! Nothing like that!” J.C. scowled. “Can you just—just put it to the side, okay? I just want
it
, not a ring.”

Silas held up his hands and took a step back. “Whatever you say. Let me just go in the back and grab an order slip. Take a seat, Mr. Rousseau. It’ll take a little time to get everything in order, okay?”

J.C. nodded, stepping across a worn gray carpet to a small conference table that had seen better days. He sat down, frowning at the table as he traced a scratch with his finger. So far, nothing had spooked him where Libitz was concerned, but he couldn’t deny a slight feeling of unease now.

Hey! You want me to make the solitaire into a ring?

A
ring
. The mention of a ring had completely unnerved him.

He swallowed, sitting back in the stiff chair and wishing his heart would stop racing. No, he didn’t want a fucking ring. Frankly, he had no idea why he wanted the fucking emerald in the first place. But certainly not—
not
—for a ring.

Silas returned with the necklace and some triplicate forms. As he sat down across from J.C., he slid a small sealed Ziploc bag to him. Inside was the two-carat emerald, and J.C. stared at it like it might grow fangs and bite him any second.

“When you’re ready to do something with it,” said the jeweler, “give me a call.”

J.C. slid it off the table and into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, the weight of the rock unreasonably heavy in his palm. He was grateful when it was securely tucked away, and he looked up at Silas with a neutral expression that took some effort.

“Shall we get started?”

***

“Miss Feingold,” said Mrs. Carnegie, her eyes narrow as she inspected the painting, “well done. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

“I’m so glad,” said Libitz, inclining her head in thanks.

With a subtle hand gesture, she advised her lead assistant, Duane, to move the painting from the table to an easel with gloved hands, so Mrs. Carnegie could see it upright.

Professionalism was paramount at the Feingold Gallery, and every one of her six employees knew it. Showing and selling paintings was managed with ballet-like grace and precision and with as few words as possible. She didn’t want to impinge on her customers’ experience with the art. She knew her place: she was their purveyor, not their friend.

“Yes. Yessss,” sighed Mrs. Carnegie, moving closer to the Kandinsky to admire it. “It’s so vibrant and naughty. Breathtaking.”

From several feet away, Libitz nodded in agreement, giving Duane a look to tell him he was no longer needed. He slipped away without a sound, and Mrs. Carnegie was left almost alone with the art, Libitz’s quiet presence neither a distraction nor an addition to her experience, only there should she be needed.

With her hands clasped behind her back, she must have looked the picture of serenity, and yet a swarm of bees whizzed and zoomed in her belly, and her eyes kept sliding without permission to the glass doors of the Fifth Avenue gallery. Jean-Christian had left her apartment at ten o’clock last night to check into his hotel, and she’d missed him every second since. All day she had imagined the moment he’d appear at the doors, walk through them seeking her eyes with his and, upon finding them, how he would—

“…all right, Miss Feingold?”

She jerked her head to her client. “Ma’am?”

“I’m
so
sorry to interrupt your thoughts,” said Mrs. Carnegie, lips pursing with annoyance as she took a step toward Libitz. “Am I
keeping
you from something?”

“Of course not,” Libitz assured her, raising her chin and offering the older woman a small smile. “I’m so glad you’re pleased with it.”

Mrs. Carnegie’s face clouded further. “Yes, yes. You’ve already said that. But can you have it installed
tomorrow
?”

“Tomorrow?”

“What have I been saying?” asked Mrs. Carnegie, becoming exasperated.

“Tomorrow is fine.” Libitz touched a pager button hidden under the belt of her tailored black dress, and Duane appeared within twenty seconds, standing at attention behind Mrs. Carnegie. “Thank you, Duane. Please arrange delivery to Mrs. Carnegie’s penthouse tomorrow. At what time?”

“Eight,” said Mrs. Carnegie, turning back to the painting. “Bridge is at ten. It must be perfect by bridge so that Henrietta Goering can see it. She just
adores
Kandinsky.”

“I’ll see to every detail,” said Duane in his low, cultured voice.

Libitz turned back to Mrs. Carnegie. “Will you have a seat, ma’am?” she asked, gesturing to a chic black lacquer table with four wingback chairs. “I’ll get the paperwork and return in a moment.”

“Yes. I don’t have all day, you know,” said Mrs. Carnegie, huffing softly as she sat down, her mood still soured by Libitz’s slight distraction a few minutes ago.

“I’ll be very quick,” Libitz promised.

Sailing into her office on four-inch heels, she grabbed the file for the Kandinsky off her desk and the small Square reader for her iPad so that she could charge everything without returning to her office. But she couldn’t resist taking a quick peek at herself in the mirror by the door before returning to the gallery floor. Her hair was gelled and styled today, slick and suave, and her dress, a clingy black Max Mara sheath, looked professional enough for her day but would be sexy for her date to the Met with Jean-Christian. She had freshened her red lipstick before Mrs. Carnegie’s arrival, and her Kohl-lined eyes were dramatic but not slutty. She looked sophisticated and urbane, and she nodded at her reflection, feeling satisfied.

Hurrying back to Mrs. Carnegie, she was surprised to hear girl-like laughter coming from the gallery floor. When she turned the corner from the back offices, she found Delilah Carnegie tittering with delight at Jean-Christian Rousseau, who sat across the table from her.

“Oh, you are simply wicked!” she said, patting Jean-Christian’s arm.

“
Alors! Vous êtes méchante aussi, madame
,” he said, winking at her.

“Flirt!” she accused him, simpering behind two fingers.

He was…beautiful, and Libitz stole just a moment to admire him. His chiseled cheeks were high and perfect, his square jaw masculine, his green eyes dark and mysterious.

And he’s mine
, she thought, her heart swelling with the sort of emotion that could only be identified as love, no matter how inconvenient or risky. She was falling in love with him—wildly, madly—and she doubted very much there was anything she could do to stop it now.

“Here we are,” she said, placing the contract on the table and taking a seat between Jean-Christian and Mrs. Carnegie.

“I’m not sure if you know,” said Libitz, “but it was actually Mr. Rousseau who sold me the Kandin—”