Accidental Heiress. Nancy Thompson Robards
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from a crystal flute. “Imagine that.”
The number of bags Pepper Meriweather had brought might suggest that she intended to stay for the summer, rather than the planned two weeks.
Right now, the fifteen evening dresses and twenty-five pairs of shoes and sandals Pepper couldn’t leave home without were proving to be a lifesaver.
Margeaux chose a slinky little black dress and a pair of sexy, strappy sandals to complement it. As they made their way down to the casino, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirrored hallway leading to the grand lobby of the Hotel de St. Michel. It had been a while since she’d dressed for a night out. Pepper had styled Margeaux’s long, blond hair into a chignon that looked as if she’d gone to the salon.
The sexy black dress made Margeaux’s skin look a little paler than she would’ve liked, but she’d been working so much lately that she hadn’t had time to build the deep bronze glow that had been her trademark.
Even so, seeing her reflection made her check her posture and hold her head a little higher. She was still pushing against the inner struggle of whether going down to the casino was the right thing to do with her father in the hospital. It smacked of fodder for tabloid headlines: Margeaux Broussard Parties while Father Lies in Hospital Bed. Tonight, the only thing better than being anonymous would be rendering herself invisible. But her father was fine. She’d done her duty by him tonight and would follow his wishes to come back and get him tomorrow.
Besides, this dress was far too fabulous for invisible.
Bottom line: Margeaux Broussard had never shied away from life, and she didn’t intend to start now. Tonight would simply be a nice night out with friends.
Nothing scandalous about that.
“We all look like Bond girls,” said A.J. “I wonder if we’ll meet any spies in the casino tonight?”
The girls laughed and as they forged ahead toward the casino, Margeaux hung back in the lobby, reacquainting herself with the hotel’s ornate beauty. The chandeliers hung from frescoed ceilings, dripping honeyed light, warming the gold-and-marble atrium. She took in the sculptures, the caryatids and the bas-relief motifs etched into the walls.
Throughout her youth, she’d seen this place dozens of times. The memory had her gaze shifting until she’d located a certain long, dark hallway that led to one of the seven elevator banks.
Once on a dare, she’d dragged Henri here; they were only thirteen years old and he was her best friend. They’d hid in the hallway with a bag containing a big, black rattle snake, which he’d trapped in the overgrown orchard that grew between her homes. She’d dared him to let it loose in the lobby during the high-season rush.
He didn’t want to, but she’d taunted him until he’d buckled.
“Okay, I will on one condition,” he’d said, and Margeaux had been too full of mischief to even ask about the condition. How bad could it be if he was too chicken to do something like this? All she wanted was for Henri Lejardin, son of the Minister of Security and Protocol, to break out of his shell and do something fun for a change.
She didn’t care if they got caught. The worst that would happen was that it would rile up her father. Sure, it would embarrass him if it came to light that his daughter had a hand in the prank.
But shouldn’t a man who had no time for his family feel a little embarrassment? At least he’d have to make time for her—even if it was to reprimand her.
But Margeaux’s father wasn’t the only one who’d gotten a surprise that day. After Henri had set the snake free in the lobby and Margeaux had sufficiently delighted in the way people had screamed and scattered like handfuls of tossed marbles, Henri had run back to the dark hallway, backed her against the wall and kissed her senseless. She’d never seen it coming. She’d certainly never thought a boy who played by all the rules would ever do something so bold and out of character.
The unexpected feel of his mouth on hers had sent her reeling. She could remember it as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. Henri had kissed her boldly, ravenously, and she’d kissed him back, in awe at his hunger. It was as if they’d both done it before, though neither of them had.
Somehow, following instinct, they just knew what to do.
Over the next three years, instinct would lead them to new, uncharted territory. They’d explored together and discovered just how well they’d fit.
Their hands.
Their mouths.
Their bodies.
Henri was no longer the shy, hesitant one.
Margeaux had liked these new paths down which he coaxed her and she’d followed willingly.
Until finally, they’d reached a dead end.
Now Margeaux felt anxious. Her nerve endings were like live wires, burning under her skin. She put her fingers to her lips, remembering the feel of that first kiss. More than once when she’d kissed another man, she’d found herself fantasizing that the man was Henri, only to suffer the letdown when she’d opened her eyes to discover the familiar stranger in her arms.
The memory of that first kiss took her back. Tonight it was as if she were seeing everything for the first time, and it had an unforgettable emotional impact.
Henri was somewhere on this island, and she had a sudden urge to find him and rediscover some of those paths.
But the newly discovered rational side of her reminded her that it had been a long time since they’d talked, much less kissed or…He certainly had a life by now. Probably a wife. Maybe even a family.
She hadn’t kept up with him because it hurt too much. Too much history, too much…too much. She’d been lying low for the past couple of years trying to play the “out of sight, out of mind” game with the press. It had worked. The paparazzi had finally moved on to the newest celebutante train wreck.
Rehabilitating one’s self was not “sexy news.” Nobody cared that Margeaux Broussard had finally grown up and was making her own way. That she wasn’t stupid—it was dyslexia that had held her back. After that heaven-sent discovery she’d made with Pepper’s help, everything had changed. It was as if the world that had always been blurry and nonsensical had finally snapped into focus.
She wasn’t stupid. She was sober and productive and some had even deemed her talented. Through photography, she’d finally found her voice and her vision.
That was what had given her the strength to come home. Finally, she could prove to her disapproving father that she wasn’t the fille sauvage—the wild girl—as he’d written her off. It would take a while, but she was prepared to go the distance.
“Margeaux, come on!” called Caroline. “Hurry up.”
The girls waited for her at the entrance to the casino.
She took one last wistful look at the hallway and glanced around the lobby. She’d come back here and photograph the hotel lobby, she decided as she walked toward her friends. This would be the first of many places and people she intended to get reacquainted with.
Knowing that Margeaux Broussard was back in town made everything about St. Michel feel different to Henri Lejardin.
As he and Sydney entered the lobby of the Hotel du St. Michel, he was glad to have hands full of the materials they’d need to do a final edit of the copy for the show catalogue during their working date.
He’d made a final call to the curator of the Musée d’Orsay, pressuring him about the missing paintings. When the curator couldn’t assure their arrival by Wednesday, Henri decided to cut the pieces from the show.
It may have been a rash decision, but he’d been impatient all day and wanted closure on this project, so that they could move forward with plans for the opening.
Knowing that Margeaux was back had only