“Okay. Make a lunch reservation for me and Lucienne and text her with the details.”
“And if she has another appointment?” Christoph asks.
“Tell her surely she needs to eat.”
* * *
Lucienne doesn’t say no to lunch. She shows up at Nieve, an elegant bistro inside the Aylster Hotel, on time. Christoph did well to pick this venue because the ambiance is romantic, almost bridal, with its ivory color scheme. A lot of couples have dates here.
On the other hand, it isn’t the best place because it’s on the first floor and two of the walls are floor-to-ceiling glass. Anyone can peer inside if they want, and the disastrous articles are still trending. There’s nothing more exciting than a love affair gone wrong, especially when it involves famous people writhing with jealousy and love-hate. Of course, there’s none of that in reality, but then, reality isn’t important. People don’t stay glued to their screens for the truth, but for entertainment. The messier the better. If they could, they’d bring out a pool of mud for us to dive into.
Lucienne walks in, a huge pair of sunglasses covering most of her face. But that doesn’t mean the other patrons don’t recognize her. You can’t miss the striking height and regal bearing as she struts into the restaurant. She takes off her sunglasses and drops them into her Birkin purse. A two-piece skirt suit in dark blue-green flows over her curves, ending around mid-thigh. She’s in a pair of strappy heels, and a diamond anklet winks with each confident step.
As she reaches me, her eyes flick to the other customers. They’re pretending to eat, but you can’t miss their gazes darting in our direction.
I rise to greet her. She hugs me, dispensing air kisses. Her breasts press against my chest, and her soft floral scent washes over me. Lust stirs in my gut, and her smile is overbright. I wonder if she knows the effect she has on men. On me.
Yes,I decide as a mischievous gleam sparkles in her eyes. It’s annoying that my body responds to her at all, especially after Gabriella’s little display did nothing. Lucienne’s suit covers everything.
“For me?” she says when she sees the bouquet of tiger lilies.
“Yes. I figured I should provide my own prop, since I’m the one who called for this date.”
She brightens in what seems to be genuine pleasure, looking at the lilies like it’s been forever since anybody bought her flowers. It’s disturbing because she shouldn’t react like this—and I shouldn’t be feeling like a caveman who just single-handedly killed a mammoth and brought it home for his woman. Lucienne must’ve received hundreds of flowers, thousands of gifts. Or maybe she’s only been around coke snorters who squander all their money on drugs.
A wing of golden hair slides forward as she buries her nose in the lilies. She straightens and casually flicks it back with one hand, a huge Toi et Moi diamond and sapphire ring sparkling on her fourth finger. The stones are set in a simple platinum band, which emphasizes the extraordinary cut and size of each one—at least seven carats for the diamond, and a lot more for the sapphire because they appear smaller at the same carat size as a diamond.
She notices me looking. “Like it?”
“It’s pretty.” I go along with her for now, since she doesn’t seem interested in talking about the tabloid crap. “You have good taste.”
Toi et Moi rings used to be fairly popular. Some even have historical value. The one Napoleon gave to Joséphine de Beauharnaise sold for about seven hundred and thirty thousand Euros at an auction some ten years ago. Grandmother was upset she couldn’t win it, but she was down with pneumonia. Grandfather wasn’t going to leave her side to bid on a ring, even one that famous, and Mother wasn’t going to cut her vacation short, since she doesn’t care for jewelry auctions. She’s an art collector.
“Thank you. And I’m glad you like it. What I’m thinking is, it’s the engagement ring you gave me yesterday when you proposed at Gion.” She gives me a comically broad wink. “I would’ve put it on sooner, but had to get it resized.”
“Why are we doing this?”
“So that the scandal rag writers won’t have anything that sounds off to pick at when we get married.”
I think it through. “Makes sense. We got engaged at the restaurant, which no one saw because of the partitions. But you weren’t wearing a ring when we kissed outside Gion, and this story explains that little anomaly.”
“Exactly.” She leans closer. “Sound plausible?”
“Plausible enough. Except I would have never brought you a ring that didn’t fit.” Part of me is irked with myself for not thinking of the ring sooner. The most important prop in an engagement or wedding—no matter how fake—is the ring.
She shrugs. “If it makes you feel better, you can tell everyone my finger was too thick.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The casual way she puts herself down scrapes my nerves. “If anyone asks, we’ll just say it was my error.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but the waiter interrupts our conversation. I ask for the lunch special, and she orders French toast with two strips of bacon on the side, explaining, “I love breakfast, especially French toast. Nieve has some of the best in the city.”
I wait for our server to leave. “Where are your PR people?”
“Taking a lunch break, I suppose. Why?”
She’s either stupid or deliberately obtuse. My money’s on the latter. “Didn’t they see what happened?”
“Oh, the articles?” She blinks like she’s shocked I’m bringing them up. “Do they bother you?”
