I force a smile, trying to look casual, but my pulse is hammering away. Because divorced or not, I’ve already looked atle Comtede Valoismore than twice…and naked.
Cece knocks back the last of her cocktail, her eyes sparkling. “Enough about work. We need to get to the dance floor.Maintenant?*!”
Before I can protest, Cece tugs me by the wrist. Jean is right behind us, already shrugging out of his jacket.
The bass grows louder as we thread our way through the crowd—thick velvet curtains parting to reveal a room bathed in red light and shadows.
The floor is packed, couples and clusters moving in that effortless Parisian way that makes everything look chic, even the drunk hip swaying.
Cece dives straight in, her slick hair gleaming, her arms in the air, while Jean spins me with a flourish that makes me laugh out loud.
For a while, I let myself forget.
Forget Simone’s diamond glare.
Forget Gustave’s clipped words.
Forget the fact that my life has somehow tangled itself with aristocrats and their scandals.
The music is pulsing through mybody, my hair sticking to my cheeks, my bangles clinking with every movement.
I’m simply Tara—art nerd, dancing in a Parisian nightclub with new friends.
Jean grins brightly. “Better than cleaning canvas?”
I laugh, breathless. “Much better!”
Cece twirls into us, colliding. She throws her head back with a wild laugh. “À Paris, ma belle?*, everything is better!”
I feel it, too—the shimmer, the possibility, the freedom.
But then, through the press of bodies, I think of storm-gray eyes, and a tender pressure swells in the hollow of my core—because I can’t quite shake the memory of Gustave de Valois.
* Very quickly (French)
* Exactly
* The hottest bachelor in town
* Now! (French)
* In Paris, my dear (French)
CHAPTER 6
Gustave
The air in Chamonix is fresh, and it scours my mind clean.
Snow dusts the peaks, glittering in the morning light as Aubert and I step out of the chalet where we’re staying. I have two meetings here—an investor breakfast and an afternoon board session—but in between, it’s just the two of us.
Aubert adjusts his goggles, impatient to hit the slopes.
Eighteen, restless, and with legs longer than mine, he has his mother’s looks but, mercifully, not her attitude. He isn’t an elitist snob. In fact, last summer he worked as a gopher at theLe Mondenewsroom. Simone lost her mind that a de Valois would stoop to being a peon. I thought it would build character.
Either way, Aubert hadn’t asked for our blessing—he simply stated his plans, straightforward as ever,and explained why he couldn’t accompany Simone to Milan for her annual shopping trip. He had a job to hold down.
Aubert’s desire to study journalism—to be a reporter—is another ongoing battle between him and his mother, one I’ve told her to cease and desist. He isn’t going to be trapped in an office like me, managing portfolios, if that isn’t what he wants.
