Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Read online

  It was now a rule that, when Tiziana entered Mahalia, all the bouncers and bartenders kept a careful eye on things.

  ***

  Kathleen Ehlers

  The phone rang across the sea to distant shores. Butterflies rioted in my stomach as I sat on the floor, facing my mother, who was there for moral support. Why am I so nervous? It’s Mikkel! Trying to convince myself everything was fine, I gave my mom a thumbs-up.

  I was so distracted by my nerves that it took a moment to realize someone had answered. Mikkel had told me his family spoke English. Nonetheless, I enunciated clearly. “Hello. This is Kathleen Ehlers, a friend of Mikkel’s. May I speak to him, please?”

  My mother drew a happy face across her own, reminding me to be happy.

  “Excuse me?” I said. The heavily accented voice on the other end was hard to understand. There was a thud and talking in the background.

  “Hello?” said a different voice.

  Time to try again. “Hello, I’m a friend of Mikkel’s. My name is Kathleen. May I speak to him, please?” My voice sounded calmer to my ears.

  My mother continued to smile encouragingly.

  What followed was an unnatural plunge to earth. I heard him speak the words, but they didn’t register with my brain or my heart. I lowered the phone to my lap, unwilling to hear more, then grasped for my mother, anxious to hold onto something real. Surely, the words I’d just heard could not be real.

  My mother picked up the phone. I forced myself to listen. “I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?”

  A brief conversation followed; my mother’s words sounded soothing. When she said goodbye, she wrapped herself around me, where I had curled into a ball on the floor. Will it swallow me?

  Tremors passed through me as mournful keening escaped my lips. My mother tugged me close, holding me like she had when I was little, when I’d needed a barrier between me and the world. But her kisses and whispered words of reassurance were not going to fix what had happened this time.

  Piercing pain hit. It stole my breath and my voice but curled around my heart and snaked into my soul where, once tethered, it exploded, flinging my hope and joy carelessly aside.

  The house was pitch black when I awoke, stiff, my head throbbing almost as much as my broken heart. My mother, beside me, gripped my hand tightly when I finally managed to ask, “How do you ever fall out of love with someone who dies?”

  Five Countries, Five Lives at the Same Moment

  NOON, Monday, August 12

  Seven Years Later

  Marian Connolly

  “DECLAN, YEAH, IT’S ME, Marian. I’ve got a table at The Long Hall, all the way in the back,” Marian shouted into her cell phone. “Okay, see you soon.” She rang off and looked around the crowded bar, hoping that they would be able to hear each other once the lunch crowd returned to work.

  The Long Hall was everything an Irish pub ought to be: noisy, yeasty-smelling, and bedazzled in décor from the late 1800s. The walls and ceiling were painted the color of merlot, accentuating the oak woodwork throughout. Chandeliers hovered above the long wooden bar, where patrons of all shapes and sizes waited for their orders. Bottles of drink lined shelf upon shelf, and the barmen pulled three and four lagers at once.

  When Declan walked in, he waved hello to a few men at the bar as well as the barman, himself, and made his way to Marian. “Hello, gorgeous!” He leaned in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Er, don’t mind. Large. Very cold!”

  Declan’s cologne mingled quite pleasantly with his natural scent, overwhelming Marian’s senses. While he stood at the bar looking manly in a pair of well-worn jeans and white fitted shirt that was buttoned a little insufficiently, she wondered at the impairment to her power of speech when he was around. She went all… girly.

  When Declan returned with a perfectly pulled pint of Guinness and a spectacularly large frosted glass of white wine, Marian smiled up into his gorgeous brown eyes and said without preamble, “What the feck is wrong with Henry Conyngham? He went arseways, didn’t he? Complete eejit! This is our weekend. We should be wildly drunk, dancing like maniacs to the Rolling Stones, Iggy Pop, or Coldplay! He’s gone and completely fecked up our annual clandestine hook-up!” Her girlish ways were forgotten.

  The Marquess Henry Conyngham, often referred to as the Rock-and-Roll Aristocrat (as a result of the very successful rock concerts held on his estate), had neglected to book acts for the concert at Slane Castle. Since escorting their grandmothers seven years prior, Declan and Marian had enjoyed all manner of indulgences with each other, one weekend per year, ever since. They’d kept their assignations private, since they didn’t want either granny pestering them about weddings and great-grandbabies.

  “He is a gammy piece of shite. But there’s nothing to stop us from finding other forms of entertainment.” His voice sent a sublime ping ricocheting through her body, as his Adam’s apple bobbed on his clean-shaven throat. Her eyes were riveted there. She’d mused more than once, sometimes while nibbling it, that there was something unusually sexy about his throat.

  Time had been very kind to Declan. Where he had once been a tall, thin boy, his body had now thickened with muscle and was dangerously delightful to touch. His dark hair was a little too long and had a tendency to flop in his eyes when not gelled back. His mischievous brown eyes were parked below slashing eyebrows that intimated a wide range of emotions. And then there were his lips, which knew how to work all kinds of magic.

  “Well then, what do you have in mind?” she asked brazenly, with the lift of an eyebrow, before taking a big gulp of her wine.

  Tilting his head at his glass, he thought for a moment then suggested, “Well, at least one or two of these here, a bite to eat somewhere else, then, perhaps a stroll through St. Stephens Green or some such. At some point, we should have dinner at a nice restaurant and then make our way to Camden Street, if you like, to see what the entertainment is. Then, I am hoping to persuade you to join me at The Merrion for a night of debauchery.”

  “Sounds like you have considered a small range of possibilities.” She endeavored to keep her tone light. Her inner turmoil was great. Her yearly one-night—all right, two-night—stand with Declan had come to mean something to her. Did she dare hope he had feelings for her, ask him if he wanted more? She was crap at the whole romance thing. Hoping her heart wasn’t beaming out her eyes, she averted them by digging through her purse for her sunglasses, “How about Il Primo? They have incredible food. I love the smoked haddock and chive risotto.”

  “Sounds perfetto!”

  ***

  Many, many hours later, they counted as they clutched the black iron railing attached to the brick façade of The Merrion. “One, two, three, four, five! Well, I’ll be buggered. There’s only five steps.” Wobbly, Declan glanced behind him at what had seemed a mountain of stairs. Turning around slowly to prevent throwing himself off hard-won balance, he saw the doorman offering a stabilizing hand to Marian as she tripped over the carpet threshold. “Thank you,” Declan said with as much dignity as he could muster in his drunken state.

  Trying not to offend the guests gathered in the lobby at 3:00 am, Marian and Declan weaved their way past the Drawing Room in all its refinement and began climbing the curving stairway. Still clutching the railing, with his hand resting on her lower back, he whispered far too loud, “All right?”

  The insanity of it all washed over her, and she began to laugh hard. He was the picture of dignified stoicism as she announced, “Stop making me laugh or I’ll wee.”

  His response was, “Shh! We’ll be tossed out on the pavement if you don’t stop being so vulgar!” His affected tone added to her laughter. Declan waved to the doorman, who had been watching the goings on. He immediately rushed up the few stairs the two had managed to climb.

  Staring at the brass nametag attached to the man’s lapel, Declan’s vision cleared enough to read. “Ronan, help me out, will you, mate
? She’s completely ossified.”

  “Why’d you let her drink so much?” the doorman muttered under his breath.

  Her head snapped up. “Ronan, is it? I’ll have you know I drink how much I like. He didn’t let me do anything! I had the correct amount to drink, I assure you. I’m not drunk—I’m happy!”

  He looked at Declan and shook his head. “Well, let’s get your happy friend to the toilet, shall we, before we’ve all had it.”

  The trio walked with as much dignity as possible up the stairway and down the hall, while Declan recited Dermot Byrnes’s comedy routine that they had caught at the Ha’Penny Inn. The comedian’s routine was inspired by the government’s anti-drunk campaign, “Know the One that Is One Too Many!”

  Marian fell into a fit of giggles when Declan tripped over his feet trying to shuffle down the hallway. Providing a stabilizing hand, Ronan urged them to whisper. At the door to the suite, he slid the plastic card into the slot for Declan and, with a final shove, pushed them inside and pulled the door shut. Firmly.

  ***

  Charlotte Young-Molloy

  “So, what do you think?” Charlotte asked her friend Taylor for the fourth time in ten minutes.

  The two women had worked at the New York office of Faith Clarkson International together. Taylor’s tyrannical mother owned the agency, so, when opportunity knocked, the two had transferred to the London office the previous year. Currently, Charlotte was looking for a house to raise babies in with her husband, Liam.

  Taylor pinched the bridge of her nose, a clear sign she was fed up. “I’m hungry and thirsty! Charlotte, we’ve been back and forth between the two houses, twice. I think they’re both fine, fabulous, perfect. Why don’t we find a place to eat and take a look at your list of pros and cons?”

  Charlotte ran a hand over her basketball-shaped belly. Whoever was in there was doing somersaults. Looking at her watch, she realized that it was long past time to eat. “Great idea. Want to try the Winning Post? It’s where Giorgio Gomelsky spotted and signed the Rolling Stones.”

  “If there’s food and liquid, I’m in.”

  Half an hour later, the two women sat at a round picnic table out back of the pub under the limited shade of a small oak tree. Taylor held an ice-cold glass of white wine, while Charlotte looked disparagingly at her glass filled with ice water. “I’d kill for a glass of wine.”

  After dramatically enjoying a hefty swallow, Taylor said, “Only two months to go! Your restraint is amazing! I didn’t think you had it in you. I don’t think I could give up drinking for that long.”

  “Continue with that attitude and you might be trying to figure out how you’re going to give up drinking for life!” Charlotte chided her friend.

  Taylor stuck her tongue out. “Ha-ha! You’re so funny. Now, while we’re waiting, let’s take a look at the pros and cons list for the Highway.”

  “Why not the Grange?”

  “’Because I like the Highway better!”

  “You’re useless. And a snob!” Charlotte chose her insults carefully.

  “Snob?” The clipped word told Charlotte that her dig had been delivered successfully.

  “Yes. You like it better because it’s more expensive and all hoity-toity.”

  “The hoity-toity part is accurate. If you could get it for the price of the other house, even I know that would be better.”

  Failing to suppress a belch, Charlotte put a hand over her mouth in surprise. “Sorry. I feel like I’m possessed. My bodily functions are out of my control.”

  “TMI!” Her friend held up a hand as she slid back into her seat, wrinkling her nose.

  “A few years from now, when you are in this situation, I’ll remind you of this.”

  Taylor sighed and fluttered her fingers, catching the ring in the sunlight and making it sparkle. Still gazing at it, she declared, “All right, back to the matter at hand. A £1.3 million, five-bedroom, two-bathroom, mostly fixer-upper with the air of hoity-toityness, or a £750,000 four-bedroom, two-bathroom, complete fixer-upper with the air of country dignified.”

  A few tiny belches escaped Charlotte. “Sorry! I am starving.”

  “Good to know!” Taylor said sarcastically. “Which house does Liam want?”

  “Two guesses.”

  “The less expensive fixer-upper or whichever one you want.”

  “Correct on both counts.”

  Fortunately, the server arrived with a tray of food. Taylor attempted to get answers out of Charlotte while they ate, finally giving up when it became clear that her pregnant friend’s only concern was filling herself with cheesy potato goodness. When Taylor sighed, Charlotte looked up and saw her friend staring longingly at her dish. Pointing at Taylor’s salad, she said, “You can eat something besides rabbit food.”

  After pushing back their empty plates, Charlotte picked up a vase from the center of the table and inhaled the aroma of cowslips, a light scent of citrusy milk.

  “Did you know that each county of England has a flower? Here, in Surrey, it’s the cowslip.” Taylor chattered away, relaxing in the sun, enjoying not being in the office.

  “No, I didn’t know that. But I know a couple of other things.”

  “What?”

  “Well, to start with, I want the hoity-toity house but am going to make do with the Grange. We can add a room and remodel for the price difference.”

  “Sounds great!” Taylor seemed relieved at her decision.

  “The other thing I know is that I just peed my pants.”

  Taylor shouted, “What? How?”

  Charlotte shushed her friend. “The baby is sitting on my bladder, and I sneezed. Not a good combo.”

  “God! A day with you would convince anyone to use birth control.”

  Charlotte winced. “Could you let the barman know I’ve had a tiny accident and that we need to pay and go?”

  “Say no more.”

  Twenty minutes later, the two walked out of Mothercare, a one-stop shop that provided for all the needs of parents and babies. “I like this dress.” Charlotte smoothed the fabric over her extended belly.

  Taylor took in the gray and white jersey dress with a geometric pattern that looked quite nice on her ever-expanding friend. “Me, too!” Then she proffered the plastic carryall. “Here, you get to carry the bag with your pee-saturated clothes.”

  ***

  Hillary Cavendish

  “So, what do you think?” Hillary had been counting her boyfriend Michael’s yawns while they sat amongst a few hundred fashionably clad individuals under a covered stadium, carefully protected from the warm August sun.

  Michael leaned forward, gazing at the sky beyond the roofline where there wasn’t a cloud in its blue vastness. His gaze returned to the elegant woman on horseback as he raised the back of his hand to his mouth. “It’s… interesting. It’s not the Aintree Grand National, but it’s… precise.”

  Seven. Seven yawns. “No. It isn’t Aintree. This is Dressage.” Hillary sighed as she looked away. She should have taken the time to explain the difference between horse racing and watching horses execute complex footwork. The rider, moving a chestnut Hanoverian through a pirouette, distracted her momentarily. She knew he’d picked his words carefully and was trying hard to please her. It was equally obvious that he was feigning interest in every aspect of the Normandy Horse Show, a beloved event she attended every year.

  “The weather’s perfect for anything,” Michael remarked. He squinted. “Is that horse skipping?” His slightly bored voice turned animated.

  Hillary nodded as she glanced at Michael and found his gaze riveted on the horse. “It’s called Tempi Changes. As close as a horse can get to skipping.” The rider and horse segued fluidly into another sequence, and his attention was lost.

  Looking for something to make him happy, she blurted, “Have you ever heard of Horse Ball?”

  Surprise overtook his disinterested expression. “What?”

  “Er, Horse Ball. Ever heard of it?” />
  “No, what is it?”

  “It’s a game like polo but with a larger ball and no mallet. I’ve been told there are elements of rugby and basketball. The players are on horseback, of course.”

  Mention of this new game seemed to inspire a massive grin on his gorgeous face. “Now that I want to see! Do they play it here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could I give it a go?”

  “No.”

  He looked disappointed, so she soothed him by explaining, “Only local or national teams are entered to compete. I could introduce you to one or two players if you like, though.”

  “Wait! There’s a whole league? When do they play?”

  She handed him the schedule of events and pointed at the top of the pamphlet. “I believe today’s first game is at 2:00.”

  With only twenty minutes before the event began, he rose to his feet, grabbed her hand, and said, “Let’s go.”

  This was the most energetic he’d been all day, so she followed him. She felt about the same enthusiasm he had shown for dressage. Trailing behind, she found herself wondering why she was interested in someone who was so wrong for her.

  “There’re women’s teams and teams for kids sixteen and younger! How have I never heard of this sport before?” Michael asked, as they crossed the grassy field briskly to where the games were played. “Do you know the rules?”

  Trying to avoid catching her four-inch heels in ruts, Hillary felt perspiration leak out of her pores. She slowed her pace. “No, I just have a general idea.”

  He took the opportunity to look up the rules on his phone and scan them until they reached their destination. Spotting an accessible area with a handful of empty seats, he pulled her along behind him, uttering, “Sorry! Excuse us! Mind your toes!” to those around them.

  An hour and many groans later, the score was close. The Spaniards had a two-point lead. Michael sat with his elbows braced on his knees, straining toward the field, clearly impressed. Hillary had to agree: the speed with which the horses travelled and maneuvered was dizzying. Just then, a player all in white leaned down, careful to keep himself seated in the saddle, and scooped the ball off the field. He then stood up in the stirrups while grasping the horse’s girth with his legs and threw the ball to his teammate on the other side of the field, ten yards downfield. The players took off. One of the Spanish players and his horse, going too fast, collided with the person who had just caught the ball.