Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Page 3

  A collective gasp echoed throughout the stadium. The audience watched the horses sidestep, trying to get away from each other, while the player in white held on tightly, trying to regain his balance while holding the ball tightly. Moments later, all was well; no one was crushed beneath the horses’ hooves. The audience roared with enthusiasm.

  Michael badgered the Frenchman sitting beside him, “What was that all about?”

  “He kept hold of the ball and remained seated. So, no penalty! That is good!”

  Michael turned to Hillary, astonished. “Jaysus almighty! In Ireland, people would have started a riot. You can’t run into a bloke with your horse and not expect a clattering.”

  Suddenly, irrevocably, she’d had enough. “I’m just going to go watch the show jumping. Why don’t you come find me when this is finished?”

  “I’ll come with you now,” he said, rising to his feet.

  “No! Stay here and watch. It’s more your cup of tea.”

  ***

  Tiziana Caputo-Blackwell

  Lazing on the sundeck of The Sophia, Tiziana and her brand new husband Ted sipped from tall, icy glasses, trying to decide on a new name for their yacht.

  Laughing at Ted’s suggestion, Tiziana responded, “I love you very much, but I will not let you name the boat that!”

  “If you loved me, then you would let me name it whatever I like.” He slid the back of his hand slowly and gently up her arm while he spoke.

  His touch sent shivers across her body. Staring up at her handsome husband, she flirted, “Sì, but I think Titti is a little inappropriate, no?” She pronounced the word provocatively.

  “Well, yes, if we pronounce it titty. But if we go with tee-tee, then no.”

  The huskiness in his voice lured her. Just as she leaned in to kiss him, Ted’s cell phone buzzed. Sitting up, he answered, “Yes?” There was a moment’s silence on his end, and then he responded, “Okay, thanks!”

  Putting the phone down, he swooped his beautiful bride back into his arms. “It seems a boatful of paparazzi has found our floating honeymoon. So, unless you want to christen the boat with its new name now, the captain recommends you stay out of sight while you are sans a bikini top.”

  She squinted into the distance. “Are we safe here?”

  His answer was to trail his long fingers over the silky skin of her naked torso, holding her closely while tangling his other hand in her hair. “We will be, even when the helicopters arrive. For now, I will protect you. However, the crew has put up an awning on the rear deck. Thankfully, the glass is tinted, so, while we can see out, it is hard for them to see in. We can do pretty much whatever we like and be safe from prying eyes. There is only you and me. I promise.”

  Reassured, she kissed him passionately. When they moved apart, she gazed far into the distance. At the shoreline, Calvi, Corsica stretched lazily alongside azure blue waters. “So tell me, darling, why is this place so special to you?” She knotted her wrap between her breasts and moved to the rail, running her hands over the smooth, warm metal, while the bright red silk of her cover-up flapped in the breeze about her hips.

  Ted passed her a pair of binoculars from a nearby table. “To start, it’s beautiful.” He draped an arm across her shoulders while she took in the view. He continued, pointing at a lofty citadel, built in the stone of the curved peninsula that formed a protected bay, “That is the home to the French Foreign Legion.” The backdrop of snowy mountains was as rugged as the fortress.

  She lowered the binoculars to scan the red-tiled rooves on honey-colored buildings with vibrant awnings that crowded the shoreline, while lush, green plants filled every nook and cranny of the foothills. “The town looks charming.”

  He pointed to numerous boats anchored offshore, gently bobbing. “Many people sail here from Nice or Cannes. They come for the wine and food, particularly the wild boar sausage.”

  “Ah! So you are hungry!” Wanting to experience a world that delighted him, she wrapped her arms around his neck and proposed, “Darling, how about a bite to eat and then a walk on the beach?”

  “Sounds perfect. Bout du Monde is quite popular. It’s on the beach and serves seafood. There is a great view of the citadel from there.”

  She heard hesitation in his voice. “But?”

  He grinned. “There is a restaurant called Francesca’s. She, er, they serve traditional Corsican food. Normally, wild boar and seafood are on the menu. It’s one of my favorites. Want to try it?” He sounded like an eager schoolboy.

  She questioned, “Is it the food or Francesca you like so well?”

  ***

  Kathleen Ehlers

  This is so ridiculous! Who thought up this brilliant plan?

  “Darling, could you just lean a little further back, lift your left foot just a touch, and make sure your toes are softly pointed?” sang out the celebrated celebrity photographer, Jeremy Sutton, in a sycophantic voice before bellowing to the hairstylist, “For Christ’s sake, brush her hair off her forehead and keep it off. I want her hair over her right shoulder, not her left.”

  I distracted myself from the primping and prodding by trying to calculate how much it had cost Forbes magazine to have me sit on a teak lounge chair on the beach alongside the translucent blue water of the Bali Sea. The trip to get all of us just to Finn’s Beach, on the southern tip of the island, must have cost a small fortune. I had already given up trying to keep count of the number of people necessary to juggle light reflectors, hold down wind barriers, and grapple with styling weapons while they dodged the small waves that rushed the beach. Granted, they were working in paradise, but it was all so ludicrous, I had to work hard to suppress my amusement.

  As requested, a makeup artist blotted my skin and then quickly applied another layer of powder to my forehead, adding to my feeling of being entombed. At least the sun couldn’t make it through all the makeup, so I didn’t worry about sunburn.

  “She’s sweating! Someone get a bloody umbrella over here and shade her,” Jeremy demanded as he prowled around, looking at me through various lenses. Lowering the camera from in front of his face, he looked at me and turned on the charm. “Darling, you are simply beautiful. For you, there is no bad angle.”

  Though I smiled at his compliment, the word Really? ricocheted through my head. Who believes this shit?

  Cries of alarm registered just before a wave swept the photographer to his knees. He heroically held his cameras over his head, saving his equipment. In the commotion, two wind barriers rolled down the long sandy beach. I burst into laughter as several people chased after them before they crashed into innocent bystanders.

  I was no expert, but as far as I could tell, this photo shoot was officially a disaster! Temporarily abandoned while people sorted the situation out, I waved to one of the staff. “Could you drag this into the shade for me please?”

  Taking in the general chaos, the darkly tanned employee smirked as he grabbed my chair out of the surf and pulled it into the shade. “Would you care for a drink?”

  Once protected by the thatched, green palm fronds that roofed the palapa, I smiled. “A tall glass of pineapple juice would be wonderful.”

  For once, it wasn’t my turn to clean up this disaster of epic proportions, so I settled back and watched the scene unfold with morbid fascination.

  The soggy photographer made his way over after directing his employees to pack up their equipment. “Truly sorry, love, but it’s a bust. The wind is too strong. We’ll need to find another location. My assistant thinks he has one a few miles up the road.”

  “How long until we leave?”

  “Twenty minutes or so.” With that, he left to confer with his crew.

  I hopped across the hot sand to my bag and found my cell phone. “Denise, it’s me. Any news?”

  My secretary at L’Oréal uttered the words I’d hoped for. “He’s retiring. I heard the news straight from Monsieur Huse’s secretary.”

  My heart raced. I was within spitting distanc
e of my goal. “I love you,” I sang happily to her. “I’ll see you soon.” Hot damn!

  2:30 PM, Saturday, September 19

  One Month Later

  Kathleen Ehlers

  “SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, shit, merde!” I climbed down the rickety ladder, asking myself for the millionth time why I had agreed to be a part of this. I inspected my bleeding knuckles, the result of hammering ferociously while atop a ladder that teetered and swayed with every movement. Charlotte was going to owe me bigtime! I’d started out helping as translator for her friend Bethany, a former model turned fashion designer, and had become one of the crew.

  After stepping onto the lid of a paint can, I bellowed, “Shit, shit, shit, shit, fuuuuuuuuuuck!”

  A few people gave me sidelong glances, but not only did I not care, I felt better. They continued to scurry about, keeping up their frenetic pace, focusing on their own problems.

  I slumped against a yet-to-be-painted wall, popped open a cola, and contemplated whether the color on the bottom of my shoe was really the one we’d been searching for. Then I inspected my hand. Though competent with hammers and saws, every remodeling project I took on added to the silver scars that peppered my hands and arms.

  My life had drifted a long way from childhood dreams of attending the Rhode Island School of Design or the School of Visual Arts in New York. When both of them turned me down, I’d applied Pennsylvania State University and pursued a business degree. I now existed in a much different world, one where I relied on facts and figures, and I limited my creative endeavors to renovating apartments and helping friends out with minor remodeling projects… and building runway sets.

  Renewed by the caffeine break, I jumped up and quickly rolled a large swath of paint. This was my third attempt at finding the correct color. If I weren’t a newbie to building sets, I would know how halogen versus LED lights affected every color under the sun. The first white had had a yellow tinge. The intention had been to warm up the space—to create a healthy spring glow—but, when the halogen lights were turned on, everyone appeared to have a case of jaundice. The second coat of white made everyone look like zombies. If only the theme were “apocalypse.” Initially, the idea hadn’t seemed ridiculous.

  I set the timer on my watch, walked over to the lighting specialists, and told them we’d test the new color in two hours. The chaos around me made my stomach flip. “Thank god Bethany isn’t here,” I muttered to myself.

  ***

  The lighting specialists and I sat on the floor, tucked away in a dark corner where we could see all the different light sources bounce across the set. Finally feeling successful, we were about to break for the day when Bethany Halvorsen entered the cavernous space. Having visited her New York showroom with Charlotte, my impression of her was that she was poised. Today, all six feet of her lithe body positively trembled with excitement.

  After I had explained the day’s efforts, she asked enthusiastically, “What’s next?”

  With a weary sigh, I handed her a sheaf of papers. “I go home, shower, and put on pretty clothes. You get to stay and make sure your collection works with the lights while I have dinner with friends.”

  I saw gratitude and concern on her face just before she hugged me. “Go! Go! Of course, have dinner. I can’t wait to see what you’ve decided on. Thank you so much, Kathleen.”

  As I picked up my battered canvas workbag, I grinned at the workmen, who were utterly charmed by Bethany’s beauty, southern accent, and efforts to speak French. They have no idea what’s she’s saying! I thought as I smiled again, knowing that somehow she’d find a way to communicate with the enchanted crew.

  La Fontaine de Mars

  In an “I told you so” voice, my friend Anaïs spoke her mind. “You lack inspiration. You should have bought the apartment with the pretty little balcony, here in Palais-Bourbon. The seventh arrondissement is quite fashionable.” Her last word was virtually sung as she swept her spoon through her celery soup. For support, she looked to Yvette, the third in our trio, who wisely remained silent.

  Glaring at Anaïs, I sent a silent demand to change the subject as I relaxed into the burgundy banquette and reached for my glass of Champagne. A bubble tickled my nose as I savored the flavor and was taking a second drink when she chose to ignore my hint.

  “Chérie, by now you normally have several sets of sketches, tile samples, design boards, mountains of magazines. I think your apartment is not an inspiring muse.”

  The three of us had met on a warm spring day back when I was fixing up my first apartment. Fresh out of graduate school, I’d had no spare money, so I’d taken on the remodeling myself. I’d loved every minute of transforming that grungy space into something special. They had watched me go through the process with two more apartments since, which somehow had given them permission to weigh in on all my decisions.

  “We’re not talking about it again! After climbing up and down a ladder all day, I want to think about something else. I’ve bought it. And that, as they say, is that.” I gulped down the rest of my Champagne, quickly feeling a pleasant lethargy throughout my body.

  The dishes were whisked away, and the waiter returned with a pot of something pickled. Sitting downstairs at La Fontaine de Mars, we slowly ate our way through the menu and talked fashion.

  Suddenly, Yvette was staring intently over my shoulder. I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “What or who are you looking at with such interest?” Long ago, I’d learned that, with the French, food, clothing, and the opposite sex each garnered the same level of attention.

  “Un homme,” she answered, tapping her cigarette into the ashtray. “He reminds me of someone, but I cannot remember who.”

  Anaïs, seated beside me, discreetly glanced over her shoulder, which was followed by a quick burst of French.

  Too tired to think, I gave them a questioning look.

  Switching to English, Yvette rescued me. “It isn’t him, but he looks familiar. Like one of your handsome American actors, but he’s much younger and definitely French. He has a certain… charisme. I think the film is called La Matrice.”

  “Well, then it could be Laurence Fishburne, Keanu Reeves, or Joe Pantoliano,” I said.

  “He is walking this way,” Yvette quietly informed us as she raised her glass to her mouth. Her wine-stained lips pressed against the rim as he passed by.

  Seeing only his back, I decided he had to be Keanu Reeves. “Nice backside!”

  “Well, I much prefer the front,” Yvette retorted, lifting an arched brow.

  He was forgotten as conversation switched to the end of September in Paris, and Fall Fashion Week.

  Yvette, who had a beautiful collection of lingerie, was dying to see designer Marlies Dekkers’s collection. “She is showing at the Palais de Tokyo. I wish you could take me!” she said with a pout.

  While images of my serviceable white cotton panties and purple bra flashed through my head, I made a mental note never to let Yvette see my underwear and shrugged my shoulders. These events were by invitation only.

  Releasing a resigned sigh, she asked, “Will Tiziana be in Paris for the shows?”

  Dragged from thoughts of dismal underwear, I answered, “Yes. She and Ted. They are supposed to give me a call once they get settled in.”

  Yvette accepted her plate from the waiter and then did the French pouty thing, again. “I still cannot believe she chose Spoylts’s ‘Flirtation’ collection for her honeymoon.”

  “Well, that is because you are virginal. Tiziana is more of a courtesan.” Anaïs offered her opinion without judgment. I tittered out loud, wondering what Tiziana would make of that. “I’m sure Ted was thrilled, and isn’t that the point?”

  Changing the subject after crunching on a golden beet, Anaïs reported, “My friend Isabelle tells me that the Armani Collection is to die for.”

  “I’ve heard it’s all jackets, trousers, and big bows,” Yvette said critically. “Non, merci.”

  Though Anaïs and Yvette looked alik
e physically—dark hair, waif thin and elegant—their fashion styles were quite different. Anaïs wore classic, tailored, timeless pieces. She had been lured in by Armani, while Yvette ran toward Proenza Schouler, who designed avant-garde clothing. Meanwhile, I loved all fashion. It was one of the many reasons I’d taken a job at L’Oréal Paris—I wanted to be at the epicenter of fashion, and my job paid well enough for me to indulge my passion.

  After the three of us went back and forth about what constituted style—new style, retro, avant-garde, classic, couture—the waiter interjected to find out if we would like anything else. Coffee was decided upon. Just as Thai-American designer Thakoon was about to be dissected, Keanu walked over, slowing as he approached our table.

  Instead of saying, “My name is Neo, I’m looking for the Oracle,” he spoke to me. “I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t leave without remarking on what compelling eyes you have.”

  “Thank you.” As soon as he drew attention to them—one was blue and the other green—I ducked my head. While I generally accentuated them, I found something in his scrutiny unnerving.

  At a sudden and complete loss for words, I was bailed out by my friends, who invited him to join us for a drink. Politely declining, Keanu grinned a devilish French Man grin and wished us goodnight. The three of us watched his elegant backside walk away. Yvette was right, I thought. His front was better.

  “Odd!” I mused. “Or is it just me?”