“No.”
“Tara. Please.”
I keep walking, and as we come by the Great Canadian Pub, he draws me inside, his hand on the small of my back.
“Is this pedestrian enough so no one you know will be here?” I ask acidly.
“Oui,” he admits haughtily.
He pushes open the door of the pub. It’s warm and noisy inside. Hockey blares from the television, and the heavy mix of beer, grease, and frying oil hangs in the air. Students crowd the tables, laughter spilling between clinking glasses. No paparazzi would bother with a dive like this.
I shrug out of his touch and slide onto a high stool at a table. “I can see why you chose this place.”
He takes a seat beside me, shoulders rigid. “Do you think I enjoy this? Ducking into backstreet pubs like some criminal? Always calculating who might see me, what they’ll say, what the papers will print?” His voice drops, rougher now. “I can’t breathe, Tara. Every step of mine is watched, judged, twisted.”
I arch a brow. “You’re too old to be this afraid.”
His jaw ticks. “Afraid?Non. Exhausted.Oui. Simone turned my life into a battlefield. The tabloids dragged Aubert into the mud.And my family name—do you know what it is to carry centuries on your shoulders?”
Around us, a bartender wipes glasses, a group of students shouts at the screen, and someone drops a tray with a clatter. All normal. And yet, there is nothing ordinary about the great Gustave de Valois, sitting in the middle of it all like a caged animal suddenly loosed.
“I’ll have a Budweiser,merci,” I call out to the server.
The server, who is decidedly Australian as per his accent, says, “Sure, doll. And you, mate?”
“Same,” Gustave bites out, not liking the intrusion one bit.
“You sure you can drink a pedestrian beer like that?” I mock. It’s petty. But the hell with it.
“Tara….” He exhales low and long. “Chérie, give me a break.”
“Break from what? Your fancy lifestyle?” I’m pissed as hell. “You talk like you’re in some prison, but all I can see is bars of gold encrusted with diamonds.”
His mouth twists, frustration cracking his composure. “Yes. Gilded. But a prison, nonetheless. And I can’t always pretend that the bars aren’t there.”
For a second, I almost soften.But no. Hell no!
“You want sympathy, Gustave? You won’t get it from me. You’re the one who keeps locking the door.”
His jaw tightens as he studies me, the noise of the bar blurring around us. “And you are the first person who has the right to say that tome.”
The what?
Before I can even fathom what to say, the bartender sets our beers in front of us. Gustave pulls out two ten-euro bills and sets them down.
His watch is a Patek Philippe, I notice for the first time.
Dios mío!
“Keep the change,” I tell the bartender with a broad smile. Since Gustave is so filthy rich, he can afford the ten-euro tip.
“Thanks, mate.” The server tucks the money in his pocket, and walks away to take care of other guests.
“Do you want some photographer to follow you around, trying to find out how you and I are connected?” he demands.
“Oh,please, don’t make it sound like you’re protecting me rather than yourself.”
This earns me a glare. “Tara, I’m a man in a world that caters to men. I can get away with a whole hell of a lot.Yes, I am protecting you. My son. But what’s wrong with me wanting my private life to be private?”
