Gustave
Did she know who I was?Putain!
“Gustave, this is Tara Gayarre. She’s restoring your Carriera.” Giselle smiles at me in the way she has since my divorce—deferentialandhopeful. She gestures toward the woman at her side. “Tara, this isComtéGustave de Valois. His family is loaning us the Carriera you’re working on.”
Tara Gayarre.
My mystery woman.
Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, catching the golden light filtering through I. M. Pei’s glass pyramid.
The dress she wears is no couture creation. It’s some flowing cream-colored concoction, layered with scarves, bangles, and beads. She wears it like a queen without a throne or a crown. And, in this sea of Chanel, Dior, and Givenchy, she looks like shewandered in from another world—a Bohemian princess among duchesses.
I cannot look away.
The reception buzzes around us. Waiters glide by with trays of champagne and ruby cocktails in cut-crystal glasses. Platters of oysters sparkle on ice,foie grasis served on thin toast, and guests murmur in polished French that drones beneath the glass above us.
Diplomats, patrons, old aristocrats—all in tailored suits and shimmering gowns—form glittering constellations across the marble floor.
I take her offered hand. Her bangles chime softly.
I clasp her fingers like they didn’t bring me to the edge while she sucked me off that night. But it’s the memory of them against my cheek when I was inside her that threatens to undo me.
“It’s nice to meet you…ah…Comtede Valois.” Her shock is apparent, even if her smile is disarming.
A sudden knot pulls tight beneath my ribcage. She must have known who I was.Surely she knew. That night, she wasn’t lost and lonely. She was…calculating? Did she lure me, or did I go to her of my own accord?
“Please call me Gustave.” I release her hand, all but dropping it like it singed me. “How fortunate that Giselle found you. The Carriera is important to my family.”
Her brow creases, confusion flashing in her eyes.
I don’t let myself believeit.
Someone takes Giselle away, and it’s Tara and me, alone, in a crowd of silk and perfume.
I motion for her to walk with me. I’m hoping to lead her to a quieter corner, so I can find out what her agenda is.
“How are you finding working at the Louvre?” I ask courteously as we stroll past servers and guests.
It’s innocent enough. I am talking to the art restorer working on one of the paintings I loaned to the Louvre.
“Very…it’s…good.” She’s rattled.Why? If she knew who I was, then she should’ve expected to see me,non?
Did she take any pictures of me that night?Merde! I had thought she was an American tourist, in and out of Paris…not staying here, not working on the fucking de Valois Carriera.
We slide under one of the marble staircases, and the shadows swallow us, but the buzz of voices carries like an ominous threat right there on the edges of our bubble.
“Do you always go to cocktail bars alone on Valentine’s Day?” I murmur.
She blinks at me, startled. “What?”
“You knew who I was,” I press, my jaw clenched. “Didn’t you?”
Her lips part. “No, I…no, I didn’t?—”
I cut her off with a shake of my head. “Spare me. My family’s name has been fodder for the press for too long for that to work.”
Her chin lifts. “If you think I slept with youbecause of your name, you’re more arrogant than I thought.”
