Once in Paris (2 page)

 

Brianne sneaked into the building and into her math classroom, grimacing as haughty Emily Jarvis spotted her and began to whisper to her friends. Emily was one of the enemies she'd made in the little time she'd been at this exclusive finishing school. At least there was only another month to go, and she could be sent somewhere else. To college, hopefully. But for now she had to bear this la-di-da finishing school and the highbrow snobbery of Emily and her friends.

She opened her math book and listened to Madame lecture them on advanced algebra. At least this course was fulfilling. And she understood equations, even if she didn't understand meticulous sewing.

After class Emily paused in the hall with her two cohorts flanking her. Emily was from a titled British family that could trace its heritage all the way back to the Tudor court. She was
blond and beautiful and wore the most expensive clothes. But she had a mouth like a gutter, and she was the coldest human being Brianne had ever known.

“You skipped class. I told Madame Dubonne,” she added with a venomous smile.

“Oh, that's okay, Emily,” she replied with an equally sweet smile. “I told her what you've been doing with Dr. Mordeau behind the Chinese screen in art class on Tuesday after class.”

Emily's shocked face drew in, but before she could reply, Brianne flashed her a gamine grin and skipped off down the hall. It always seemed to amaze other students that although Brianne looked fragile, almost vulnerable, that look concealed a strong and stubborn spirit and a formidable temper. Students who thought they could pick on Brianne were soon dispossessed of the notion. She hadn't been lying about what she'd said to Madame Dubonne, either. Emily's careless assignation with the school's art professor, Dr. Mordeau, had been overheard by several students, all of whom were disgusted by the couple's lack of discretion. Anyone walking into the studio would have heard what they were doing, even without their silhouettes so visible behind the flimsy screen.

Later that day, Dr. Mordeau went on extended sick leave and Emily wasn't in class the next morning. One of the girls had seen her leave in a chauffeured limousine, suitcases and all, just after breakfast.

After that, school became less of a trial to Brianne, as Emily's former cronies realized their reduced status in the student body and behaved accordingly. Brianne became close friends with a copper-haired girl named Cara Harvey, who was just eighteen, and they spent their free time going to art galleries and museums, of which Paris had more than its share. Brianne wouldn't admit that she'd hoped to find Pierce Hutton at any of them, but she did. The big man fascinated her. He seemed so alone. She'd never felt quite that level of empathy for anyone before. It was a little surprising, but she didn't question it. Not then.

 

The day of her nineteenth birthday, she went alone to the Louvre in late afternoon to look at the painting she'd found Pierce Hutton staring at. Except for a card from Cara, her birthday had gone by without any notice at all from others. Her mother had ignored it, as she usually did. Her father would have sent roses or a pres
ent, but he was dead. She couldn't remember a birthday that was so empty.

The Louvre for once failed to lift her drooping spirits. She whirled, making the skirt of her ankle-length slip dress flare out. It had a pale green pattern that made her eyes look bigger, and with it she wore a simple white cotton T-shirt and flat slippers. She wore a fanny pack instead of carrying a purse, because it was ever so much more comfortable, and her hair was loose, long, blond, straight and thick. She tossed it impatiently. She'd have loved curly hair, like some of the other girls had. Hers was impossible to curl. It just fell to her waist like a curtain and hung there. She really should have it cut.

It was getting dark and soon she'd have to go back to school. She'd splurge on a cab, she decided, although she wasn't the least afraid of Paris after dark. As she scanned the street, looking for a cab, a small bistro caught her eye. She wanted something to drink. Perhaps she could get a small glass of wine. That would make her feel properly an adult.

She walked into the dark, crowded interior and realized at once that it was more a bar than a bistro, and very exclusive. She didn't have
much money in her fanny pack, and this environment looked beyond her pocket. With a faint grimace, she turned to go, when a big hand came out of nowhere and shackled her wrist.

She gasped as she looked up into black eyes that narrowed at her start of surprise.

“Chickening out?” he asked. “Aren't you old enough to drink yet?”

It was L. Pierce Hutton. His voice was deep and crisp, but just a little slurred. A wave of his thick black hair had fallen onto his broad forehead and he was breathing unevenly.

“I'm nineteen today,” she faltered.

“Great. You can be my designated driver. Come on.”

“But I don't have a car,” she protested.

“Neither do I, come to think of it. Well, in that case, we don't need a designated driver.”

He led her to a corner table where a square whiskey bottle, half full, sat beside a squat little glass and a taller one with what looked like soda in it. There was a bottle of seltzer beside them and an ashtray where a thick cigar lay smoking.

“I guess you hate cigar smoke,” he muttered as he managed to get into the booth without
falling across the table. Obviously he'd been there for a while.

“I don't hate it outdoors,” she said. “But it bothers my lungs. I had pneumonia in the winter. I'm still not quite back to normal.”

“Neither am I,” he said on a heavy breath. He put out the cigar. “I'm not anywhere near back to normal inside. It's supposed to get better, didn't you say that? Well, you're a damned liar, girl. It doesn't get better. It grows like a cancer in my heart. I miss her.” His face contorted. He clenched his fists together on the table. “Oh, dear God, I miss her so!”

She slid close to him. They were in a secluded corner, not visible to the other patrons. She reached up and put her arms around him. It didn't even take much coaxing. In a second, his big arms encircled her slender warmth and crushed it to his chest. His face buried itself hotly in her neck, and his big hands contracted at her shoulder blades. She felt him shudder, felt the wetness of his eyes against her throat. She rocked him as best she could, because he was huge, all the while murmuring soothing nothings in his ear, crooning to him, whispering that everything would be all right, that he was safe.

When she felt him relax, she began to feel uncomfortable and a little embarrassed. He might not appreciate having let her see him so vulnerable.

But apparently he didn't mind. He lifted his head with a rough sound and propped his big hands on her shoulders, looking at her from unashamedly wet eyes.

“You're shocked? American, aren't you, and men don't cry in America. They bury their feelings behind some macho facade and never give way to emotion.” He laughed as he dashed away the wetness. “Well, I'm Greek. At least, my father was. My mother was French and I have an Argentinian grandmother. I have a Latin temperament and emotion doesn't embarrass me. I laugh when I'm happy, I cry when I'm sad.”

She reached into her pocket and drew out a tissue. She smiled as she wiped his eyes. “So do I,” she said. “I like your eyes. They're very, very dark.”

“My father's were, and so were my grandfather's. He owned oil tankers.” He leaned closer. “I sold them all and bought bulldozers and cranes.”

She laughed. “Don't you like oil tankers?”

He shrugged. “I don't like oil spills. So I build oil drilling platforms and make sure they're built properly, so they don't leak.” He picked up his glass and took a long sip. As an afterthought, he passed it to her. “Try it. It's good Scotch whiskey, imported from Edinburgh. It's very smooth, and it has enough soda to dilute it.”

She hesitated. “I've never had hard liquor,” she confessed.

“There's a first time for everything,” he told her.

She shrugged. “Okay, then, bottoms up.” She took a big sip and swallowed it and sat like a statue with her eyes bulging as the impact almost choked her. She let out a harsh breath and gaped into the glass. “Good heavens, rocket fuel!”

“Sacrilege!” he chided. “Child, that's expensive stuff!”

“I'm not a child, I'm nineteen,” she informed him. She took another sip. “Say, this isn't so bad.”

He took it away from her. “That's enough. I'm not going to be accused of seducing minors.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, would you,
please?” she asked brightly. “I've never, you see, and I've always wondered what makes women take off their clothes for men. Looking at statues in the Louvre isn't really the best method of sex education, and just between us, Madame Dubonne seems to feel that babies are brought by seabirds with big beaks.”

His own eyebrows rose. “You're outrageous.”

“I hope so. I've worked hard enough to get that way.” She searched his dark face quietly. “Feeling better?”

He shrugged. “Somewhat. I'm not drunk enough, but I'm numb.”

She put her fingers over his big hand. It was warm and muscular, and there were thick black hairs curling into the cuff of his long-sleeved white shirt. His fingernails were wide and flat and immaculately cleaned and trimmed. She touched them, fascinated.

He looked down, studying her own long, elegant fingers with short nails. “No paint,” he mused. “How about on your toenails?”

She shook her head. “My feet are too stubby to be elegant. I have useful hands and feet, not pretty ones.”

His hand turned over and caught hers.
“Thank you,” he said abruptly, as if it irritated him to speak the words.

She knew what he meant. She smiled. “Sometimes all we need is a little comfort. You're no weakling. You're a tough guy, you'll get through it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Certainly,” she said firmly. “Shouldn't you go home now?” she asked, glancing around. “There's a very slinky-looking woman over there with platinum hair out of a bottle giving you the eye. She looks like she'd just love to lead you home and make love to you and steal your wallet.”

He leaned toward her. “I can't make love,” he said confidentially. “I'm too drunk.”

“She wouldn't care, I think.”

He smiled lazily. “Would you?” he mused. “Suppose you come home with me, and we'll give it my best shot.”

“Oh, not when you're soused, thanks,” she replied. “My first time is going to be fireworks and explosions and the
1812 Overture
. How could I possibly get that from a drunk man?”

He threw his head back and burst out laughing. He had a nice laugh, deep and slow and
robust. She wondered if he did everything as wholeheartedly as he grieved.

“Take me home, anyway,” he said after the laughter passed. “I'm safe enough with you.” He hesitated after he'd laid the bills on the table. “But you can't seduce me, either.”

She put her hand on her heart. “I promise.”

“All right, then.” He stood up, weaving a little, and frowned. “I don't even remember coming here. Good God, I think I walked out in the middle of negotiations for a new hotel!”

“They'll still be going on when you get back,” she chuckled. “Heave ho, Mr. Hutton. Let's find a cab.”

P
ierce Hutton lived in one of the newest, most exclusive hotels in Paris. He fished out his key for her as they passed the doorman, who looked suspicious. So did the desk clerk, who approached them at the elevator.

“Something is wrong, Monsieur Hutton?” he asked pointedly.

“Yes, Henri. I'm very drunk,” he replied unsteadily. His big arm tightened around Brianne. “Do you know my business associate's daughter, Brianne? She's in school in Paris. She found me at Chez Georges and brought me home.” He grinned. “She saved me from a
femme du nuit
who had her eye on my wallet.”

“Ah,” Henri said, nodding. He smiled at Brianne. “Do you require assistance,
mademoiselle?
”

“He's rather heavy, but I think I can cope. Will you check on him later, just to make sure?” she added with genuine concern.

The last of Henri's misgivings evaporated. “It will be my pleasure.”

She smiled shyly. “
Merci beaucoup.
And please don't reply with more than
il n'ya pas de quoi,
” she added quickly, “because that's the entire extent of my French vocabulary, despite Madame Dubonne's most diligent efforts.”

“You are at La Belle Ecole?” he exclaimed. “Why, my cousin is there.” He named a girl whom Brianne knew just faintly.

“She has black hair,” Brianne recalled. “And she always wears a long sweater, however hot it is,” she added with a chuckle.

“Oui,”
Henri said, shaking his head. “The
enfant
is always cold. Here, let me help you,
mademoiselle
,” he said, and assisted them to the elevator.

Henri helped them into the elevator, which was fortunately empty except for the operator,
and instructed the man in rapid French to get Monsieur Hutton into his apartment.

“He will assist you,” he assured Brianne. “And we will take excellent care of
monsieur
,” he added gently.

She grinned at him. “Then I won't worry.”

He nodded, thinking what a kind young woman she seemed. And such glorious blond hair!

She rode up in the elevator with Pierce and the operator, who helped her get him to the apartment, which she unlocked with his key. They maneuvered him into the huge bedroom, done in a black-and-white color scheme that seemed to suit him. The bed was king-size, with four posts that rose like slender wraiths toward the ceiling. They lowered him onto it, and he opened his eyes as he stretched on the black coverlet.

“I feel odd,” he murmured.

“I don't doubt it,” Brianne mused, thanking the elevator operator, who smiled at her and closed the door behind him.

Pierce's black eyes searched over Brianne's flushed face. “Feel like helping me undress?” he asked.

She colored even more. “Well…”

“There's a first time for everything,” he reminded her.

She hesitated. He wasn't in any condition to do it himself. He was very drunk. Probably he wouldn't remember what she looked like in the morning.

She untied his shoes and pulled them off, and his socks with them. He had nice feet. They were long and elegant, and very big. She smiled as she walked around the bed and eased him up into a sitting position. She took off the jacket and then unbuttoned the shirt. He smelled of expensive soap and cologne, and under that shirt was a broad, dark-skinned chest with thick black hair covering it. She touched it accidentally and her hand tingled.

“Margo was a virgin,” he said softly. “I had to coax her out of her clothes, and even though she loved me desperately, she fought me at first, because I had to hurt her.” He touched Brianne's red face gently. “I don't suppose there are any virgins left these days. Margo and I were always the odd ones out. Very traditional. I didn't make love to her until we were married.”

“Can you move your arm…? Yes, that's fine.” She didn't want to hear this, but she was
a captive audience. She pulled the shirt off and had to fight not to admire the tanned, muscular arms and chest. He didn't look like a man who spent a lot of time behind a desk.

“You're only nineteen,” he said on a rough breath. “If you were older, I think I could make love to you. You're very pretty, little one. Your hair excites me. It's so long, and there's so much of it.” He took it in both hands and closed his fingers. “Sexy hair.”

“Yours is nice, too,” she said for the sake of conversation. “Now, I don't think I can…” she added, her hands hesitating at his belt.

“Of course you can,” he said quietly. He coaxed her hands to the belt and held them there, helping her, his eyes on her face as she fumbled the buckle loose. He guided her to the fastenings and then deliberately placed her hands under both waistbands. “Now, pull,” he coaxed. And he arched his back to help her.

A hundred shocked, outraged, delighted thoughts flooded her mind as the clothing came away from that lithe, powerful body. He was nothing like the painting in the Louvre. He was beautifully made, a work of art in himself, with not a white streak or a bulge or a hint of fat anywhere. Fine hair shaded the most intimate
part of him, and she hesitated with the slacks around his knees, with her heart beating her to death as she stared helplessly at where he was most a man.

It was a good thing, he thought dimly, that he was drunk, because her rapt expression would have triggered a raging arousal any other time. As it happened, he was too relaxed to feel desire at all, and for her sake, he was glad. She found him intimidating even in relaxation. He permitted himself a small upturn of the lips as he considered her expression if she saw him in full arousal.

That, of course, would never happen. Margo was dead. He was dead, inside and out. The brief amused light in his eyes went out. He lay back on the pillows with a long sigh.

“Why do people have to die?” he asked wearily. “Why can't they go on forever?”

She broke out of her trance and finished stripping him, before she tugged the coverlet over his hips to spare herself any more embarrassment.

“I wish I knew,” she confided. She sat down beside him on the bed. Her hand went to rest on his where it spread over his chest. “Try to
get some sleep now. It's the best thing for you.”

His eyes opened, searching, haunted. “She was only thirty-five,” he said. “That's no age at all these days.”

“I know.”

His hand turned and caught hers, smoothing it palm down into the thick hair that covered him. “White knights come in both sexes, it seems,” he mused drowsily. “Where's your armor and lance, fair Joan?”

“In my pocket. Want to see?”

He smiled. “You're good for me. You chase the clouds away.” He studied her. “But I'm bad for you. A very bad influence.”

“It was only a sip of whiskey,” she reminded him.

“And a striptease,” he added blithely. “I'm sorry about that. If I'd been more sober, I wouldn't have put you in such an embarrassing situation.”

“Oh, it wasn't so bad. I'd seen that painting in the Louvre, among others, after all.” She cleared her throat. “He really was, uh, stunted, wasn't he?”

He chuckled with pure delight.

“Sorry.” She pulled her hand away and got
to her feet. “Can I bring you anything before I go?”

He shook his head. It was already beginning to hurt, despite the stupor. “I'll be all right now. You'd better get back to school. Did you get in trouble for cutting that class?”

She chuckled. “Not a bit. I'll finish next month.”

“Then where do you go?”

She looked forlorn for an instant before she disguised it. “Oh, back to Nassau, I guess, for the summer. But next fall, it's university, whatever they say, even if I have to pay for it myself. I'm already a year behind the class I should be in. I'm not waiting any longer.”

“I'll pay for it if they won't,” he said, surprisingly. “You can pay me back when you have your degree.”

“You would…do that for a total stranger?”

He frowned slightly. “Total stranger?” he asked pointedly. “When you've seen me totally nude?”

She couldn't manage a response.

“Which is something of an accomplishment, let me tell you. Until now, Margo was the only woman who ever saw me like that.” His eyes became dull again. He winced.

She put her fingers against his cheek in a comforting gesture. “I envy her,” she said genuinely. “It must have meant everything to her, to be loved like that.”

“It was mutual,” he managed to say through his teeth.

“Yes, I know.” She drew her hand away with a little sigh. “I'm sorry I can't stop it from hurting so much.”

“You can't imagine how much you've helped,” he replied solemnly. “The day I was in the Louvre I was looking for a way to get to her, did you know?”

She shook her head. “I only knew that you seemed totally alone and despondent.”

“I was. You eased the pain. Today, it came back, and you were there.” He searched her pale eyes. “I won't forget that you pulled me back from the edge. Whatever you need, I'll be around. I have a house of my own in Nassau, not too far from Brauer's. When things get too hot, you can always come visiting.”

“It would be nice to have a friend in Nassau,” she confessed.

His eyes narrowed. “I don't have a friend. At least, I didn't.” He laughed coolly. “You're a damned funny friend for a man my age.”

She smiled. “I was going to say the same thing.”

“So people will talk. Let them.” He caught her hand and brought the palm to his mouth. It was firm and cool against the faint moisture under her fingers. “I'll see you again, Brianne.”

“I know.” She got to her feet, and her eyes lingered on his broad, dark face. “You have to look ahead, you know,” she said gently. “One day, it won't be so hard. You must have things you haven't done that you've always wanted to, designs that you haven't tried yet, projects to complete.”

He stretched a little sorely. “For the past two years, I took care of Margo while the cancer ate her alive. It's not easy, learning to live for myself. I don't have anyone to take care of.”

She opened her eyes wide. “Don't look at me. I'm independent, I am.”

His eyes darkened. “You're a miracle,” he said unexpectedly. “Maybe guardian angels really do exist and you're mine. But it's reciprocal. I get to be yours. Pick the college you want. I'll get you in, even if it's Oxford. I have connections everywhere.”

Her eyes twinkled. “You don't look like anyone's fairy godfather.”

“Appearances can be deceptive. I've never seen a father confessor with long blond hair, either.”

She chuckled. “I'm going.”

“Go on, then. Thank you,” he added.

“It was no trouble. You're worth saving from yourself.” She paused at the bedroom door and looked back, a little less bubbly now. “You…will be all right, won't you?” she asked. “I mean, you won't do anything…”

He leaned up on an elbow. “I won't do anything,” he promised solemnly.

She made an awkward movement, a little unsure of herself. “Take care of yourself.”

“You, too,” he replied.

She opened the door, hesitated.

“I know you don't want to go,” he said, his voice deep and a little curt. “But you have to.”

She looked at him over her shoulder with huge, curious eyes. “I don't understand,” she murmured worriedly.

“We've learned more about each other in a lot less time than people usually do,” he explained. “It's a kind of bonding that I haven't experienced, either.” He smiled dryly. “Don't worry about trying to understand it. Friendship is a rare thing. Just accept it.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

“Wait a minute. Hand me my slacks.”

“You're going with me?” she mused, handing them to him.

“Funny girl,” he muttered darkly. “I'd fall down the elevator shaft in my present condition. No. I want to give you something.”

“If you try to pay me…!”

“Will you stop flashing those eyes at me?” he grumbled, pulling a card from his wallet. He tossed it onto the coverlet. “That has my private number, here in the hotel. If you get in trouble, if you need me, use it.”

She picked it up and lifted her eyes to his. “I'm sorry I misunderstood.”

“And what exactly would I pay you for, anyway?” he demanded irritably. “The sort of woman you're thinking of does a little more than take off a man's pants!”

She gasped.

“Get out,” he told her. “And take your evil mind with you, nasty girl.”