“You have to cut Simone loose.” He releases two small smoke circles. “Two years you’ve been separated, Gustave.Two. She shouldn’t still be on your arm.”
“I’m trying to keep the peace.”
“Oui, mon ami. But it doesn’t change the fact thatyou don’t like your ex-wife, and being with her grates on you. You need someone who makes you feel alive.” He shoots me a long, knowing look full of quiet amusement.
I’ve known Philippe most of my life, and I don’t have many secrets from him. I don’t tell him about my sexcapades because that is inappropriate and crude, but Tara isn’t that, is she?
I take a slow sip of cognac. “There is someone.”
Philippe slides forward in his chair, interest sparking. “Enfin?*. Who?”
“The…girl from the Louvre.”Pour l'amour de Dieu?*,nowI’mcalling her a girl.
His brows shoot up. “The American?”
A dry, cutting chuckle slips past my lips.
“She is beautiful,” he muses.
“Oui.”
“And?”
“And? She’s just twenty-eight. She’s working on the Carriera pastel that I’m loaning to the Louvre.”
Families often gift or loan works of art. It’s a good way to support cultural institutions, yes—but also to keep the works visible, documented, and protected without losing ownership. A painting in a museum’s care has conservation, insurance, and prestige that a privatecollection can’t match.
“And?” he prods.
“Dieu?*, Philippe. She works for me. The tabloids will go crazy. Art restorer working on my painting…they’ll reduce her to a mistress.”
Philippe narrows his eyes. “I’m still not understanding the problem.”
The problem? I don’t want a mistress, and Tara is not the mistress type. Oh no! She’s a queen amongst women.
“I don’t want Aubert to get caught up in the paparazzi nonsense like he was, and I don’t want my life to be in upheaval,” I say flatly.
He grins, shaking his head. “How far has this…gone?”
I tell him about the one-night stand, and then how I was an ass to her at the Pyramid.
He whistles softly and puffs on his cigar.
“You and Sigrid are photographed everywhere, and it’s not because of her; it’s primarilyyou,” I remind him. He, like me, is of interest to the tabloids because of his wealth, his family, and his penchant, since his divorce, for young women.
“I don’t mind.”
I shoot him a glare brimming with frustration.
He laughs softly. “That’s the price of beingComtede Valois. It’s the price of being aMarquis?*for me. This is how our world works.”
“She’s….” I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “She’s not of our world and?—”
“Are you talking about status?” he drawls, cutting me off.
I roll my eyes. “You know that’s not it.But…she’s so young and so…notFrench. The curiosity will be immense. Why should I put my life in the crosshairs of a camera lens for an affair?”
“You can always be discreet,” he offers.
