Accidental Heiress. Nancy Thompson Robards
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the inevitable out of the way. When it came to Margeaux, he’d always been reckless and impulsive. Obviously, nothing had changed.
He hadn’t seen her in years, but her presence permeated his being like a spirit.
He glanced at Sydney, feeling a little guilty for bringing her here tonight, even if it had been her suggestion and she hadn’t budged when he’d recommended other options. If he was fully honest with himself, he hadn’t vetoed her choice of meeting location because he hoped he’d run into Margeaux.
Tonight.
The sooner the better.
So, it almost came as no surprise when he heard a lovely brunette call from the entrance to the casino, “Margeaux, come on! Hurry up.”
He turned his head, and there she was. Looking like a grownup version of the girl he’d once loved so deeply. A vision in a black evening dress, her blond hair smoothed back into a sophisticated up-do that accentuated her crystal blue eyes.
She took a few steps toward her friend, and then her gaze snapped to the right as if he’d called her name.
He hadn’t. Not out loud.
It had always been like that between them.
Just as he’d somehow known if he came here tonight, he’d see her.
After a split second of pure joy, his heart sank. What the hell was she doing at the casino her first night in town when her father was in the hospital?
Worse yet, why had he known in his heart he’d find her here?
“Henri? Is that you?” For a moment, Margeaux was frozen in her tracks, but then she found her footing and her legs carried her to him.
He didn’t even have to say anything. He simply flashed that smile.
Yes! It is.
And before either could say a word, they were in each other’s arms.
The contact was brief but intense and it stole her breath. Even though a lifetime had passed since they’d last seen each other—sixteen years since they’d last seen each other, at age sixteen—it felt as if there’d never been any space between them.
They pulled apart and stared at each other.
He was so gorgeous it made her heart hurt. So did the dawning realization that the beautiful woman standing next to him was the woman pictured with him in the Folio de St. Michel photo.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” Margeaux said. “What are you doing here?”
She smiled at him and then at the woman, her heart aching at the prospect of not knowing who she was or what they meant to each other. A quick glance at the woman’s hand revealed she didn’t wear rings—engagement or wedding.
“Margeaux, I’d heard you were back,” he said. “Oh, excuse me. This is my associate, Sydney James. She is the curator for one of the state art museums under my jurisdiction.”
The woman flinched at the introduction before artfully covering the slight with a bright smile and the offer of a handshake.
Not only was she beautiful, but she had an impeccable British accent that gave her the air of someone proper and well educated.
So, Henri had gotten himself a beauty with brains. That rankled Margeaux even more than the way that Henri had tried to downplay his relationship with his coworker.
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