Once in Paris. Diana Palmer
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friends.
She opened her math book and listened to Madame lecture them on advanced algebra. At least this course was fulfilling. And she understood equations, even if she didn’t understand meticulous sewing.
After class Emily paused in the hall with her two cohorts flanking her. Emily was from a titled British family that could trace its heritage all the way back to the Tudor court. She was blond and beautiful and wore the most expensive clothes. But she had a mouth like a gutter, and she was the coldest human being Brianne had ever known.
“You skipped class. I told Madame Dubonne,” she added with a venomous smile.
“Oh, that’s okay, Emily,” she replied with an equally sweet smile. “I told her what you’ve been doing with Dr. Mordeau behind the Chinese screen in art class on Tuesday after class.”
Emily’s shocked face drew in, but before she could reply, Brianne flashed her a gamine grin and skipped off down the hall. It always seemed to amaze other students that although Brianne looked fragile, almost vulnerable, that look concealed a strong and stubborn spirit and a formidable temper. Students who thought they could pick on Brianne were soon dispossessed of the notion. She hadn’t been lying about what she’d said to Madame Dubonne, either. Emily’s careless assignation with the school’s art professor, Dr. Mordeau, had been overheard by several students, all of whom were disgusted by the couple’s lack of discretion. Anyone walking into the studio would have heard what they were doing, even without their silhouettes so visible behind the flimsy screen.
Later that day, Dr. Mordeau went on extended sick leave and Emily wasn’t in class the next morning. One of the girls had seen her leave in a chauffeured limousine, suitcases and all, just after breakfast.
After that, school became less of a trial to Brianne, as Emily’s former cronies realized their reduced status in the student body and behaved accordingly. Brianne became close friends with a copper-haired girl named Cara Harvey, who was just eighteen, and they spent their free time going to art galleries and museums, of which Paris had more than its share. Brianne wouldn’t admit that she’d hoped to find Pierce Hutton at any of them, but she did. The big man fascinated her. He seemed so alone. She’d never felt quite that level of empathy for anyone before. It was a little surprising, but she didn’t question it. Not then.
The day of her nineteenth birthday, she went alone to the Louvre in late afternoon to look at the painting she’d found Pierce Hutton staring at. Except for a card from Cara, her birthday had gone by without any notice at all from others. Her mother had ignored it, as she usually did. Her father would have sent roses or a present, but he was dead. She couldn’t remember a birthday that was so empty.
The Louvre for once failed to lift her drooping spirits. She whirled, making the skirt of her ankle-length slip dress flare out. It had a pale green pattern that made her eyes look bigger, and with it she wore a simple white cotton T-shirt and flat slippers. She wore a fanny pack instead of carrying a purse, because it was ever so much more comfortable, and her hair was loose, long, blond, straight and thick. She tossed it impatiently. She’d have loved curly hair, like some of the other girls had. Hers was impossible to curl. It just fell to her waist like a curtain and hung there. She really should have it cut.
It was getting dark and soon she’d have to go back to school. She’d splurge on a cab, she decided, although she wasn’t the least afraid of Paris after dark. As she scanned the street, looking for a cab, a small bistro caught her eye. She wanted something to drink. Perhaps she could get a small glass of wine. That would make her feel properly an adult.
She walked into the dark, crowded interior and realized at once that it was more a bar than a bistro, and very exclusive. She didn’t have much money in her fanny pack, and this environment looked beyond her pocket. With a faint grimace, she turned to go, when a big hand came out of nowhere and shackled her wrist.
She gasped as she looked up into black eyes that narrowed at her start of surprise.
“Chickening out?” he asked. “Aren’t you old enough to drink yet?”
It was L. Pierce Hutton. His voice was deep and crisp, but just a little slurred. A wave of his thick black hair had fallen onto his broad forehead and he was breathing unevenly.
“I’m nineteen today,” she faltered.
“Great. You can be my designated driver. Come on.”
“But I don’t have a car,” she protested.
“Neither do I, come to think of it. Well, in that case, we don’t need a designated driver.”
He led her to a corner table where a square whiskey bottle, half full, sat beside a squat little glass and a taller one with what looked like soda in it. There was a bottle of seltzer beside them and an ashtray where a thick cigar lay smoking.
“I guess you hate cigar smoke,” he muttered as he managed to get into the booth without falling across the table. Obviously he’d been there for a while.
“I don’t hate it outdoors,” she said. “But it bothers my lungs. I had pneumonia in the winter. I’m still not quite back to normal.”
“Neither am I,” he said on a heavy breath. He put out the cigar. “I’m not anywhere near back to normal inside. It’s supposed to get better, didn’t you say that? Well, you’re a damned liar, girl. It doesn’t get better. It grows like a cancer in my heart. I miss her.” His face contorted. He clenched his fists together on the table. “Oh, dear God, I miss her so!”
She slid close to him. They were in a secluded corner, not visible to the other patrons. She reached up and put her arms around him. It didn’t even take much coaxing. In a second, his big arms encircled her slender warmth and crushed it to his chest. His face buried itself hotly in her neck, and his big hands contracted at her shoulder blades. She felt him shudder, felt the wetness of his eyes against her throat. She rocked him as best she could, because he was huge, all the while murmuring soothing nothings in his ear, crooning to him, whispering that everything would be all right, that he was safe.
When she felt him relax, she began to feel uncomfortable and a little embarrassed. He might not appreciate having let her see him so vulnerable.
But apparently he didn’t mind. He lifted his head with a rough sound and propped his big hands on her shoulders, looking at her from unashamedly wet eyes.
“You’re shocked? American, aren’t you, and men don’t cry in America. They bury their feelings behind some macho facade and never give way to emotion.” He laughed as he dashed away the wetness. “Well, I’m Greek. At least, my father was. My mother was French and I have an Argentinian grandmother. I have a Latin temperament and emotion doesn’t embarrass me. I laugh when I’m happy, I cry when I’m sad.”
She reached into her pocket and drew out a tissue. She smiled as she wiped his eyes. “So do I,” she said. “I like your eyes. They’re very, very dark.”
“My father’s were, and so were my grandfather’s. He owned oil tankers.” He leaned closer. “I sold them all and bought bulldozers and cranes.”
She laughed. “Don’t you like oil tankers?”
He shrugged. “I don’t like oil spills. So I build oil drilling platforms and make sure they’re built properly, so they don’t leak.” He picked up his glass and took a long sip. As an afterthought, he passed it to her. “Try it. It’s good Scotch whiskey, imported from Edinburgh. It’s very smooth, and it has enough soda to dilute it.”
She hesitated. “I’ve never had hard liquor,” she confessed.
“There’s a first time for everything,” he told her.
She shrugged. “Okay, then, bottoms up.” She took a big sip and swallowed it and sat like a statue with her eyes bulging as the impact almost choked her. She let out a harsh breath and gaped into the glass. “Good heavens, rocket fuel!”
“Sacrilege!” he chided. “Child, that’s