you said you’d tell me what brought you to our fashion show. And about your connections in Paris.”
“Your designs brought me to the show.”
She blinked, flattered. “How did you—”
“I saw the spread in the Vermont News about the school and the show listings.”
The article that had appeared at the beginning of the fall term had featured two of her earlier pieces as well as a picture of the graduating class. Her father had been less than pleased. He didn’t like having the Blanchard name bandied about in such a way. His reaction still stung.
“I have a strong contact in the House of Roan in Paris. I would be more than willing to introduce you. You have heard of Roan, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Of course. Who hasn’t? He’s only the leading, most over-the-top designer in the world.” Even the suggestion that she could set a foot in the House of Roan would be beyond her wildest imaginations.
“You would love working in Paris,” he continued. “The Seine and the Louvre. The cafés and the history.”
She stifled a sigh. Her dream of one day living and working in the City of Lights would have to wait until she fulfilled her promise to her family. She didn’t want to let herself entertain the crazy thought of designing for Roan. Better to face her reality and be content than set herself up for disappointment. “That is so kind of you to offer. What do you get out of it?”
“Wow. You don’t pull any punches, do you?”
He didn’t look offended, which she found refreshing. Too often people didn’t take well to the direct approach. Her family surely didn’t. She’d learned to filter her thoughts growing up. But in the real world, she found straightforwardness more effective. “I have to wonder why the interest. You seem to be a man who wouldn’t offer to help for purely altruistic purposes.”
He placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
The twinkle in his eye contradicted his words.
“I think not,” she replied with a smile.
He leaned forward, his expression turning earnest. “You have extraordinary vision. A talent that should be encouraged and fostered.”
She swallowed back the sudden lump in her throat. If only her family thought the same way. “I appreciate your confidence. Now, tell me, where did you get that fabulous suit?”
He sat back and thankfully took the hint that she wanted to change the subject. They talked fashion and finances, art and sports. When the conversation turned to faith, he’d stiffened and she had the distinct impression by the bitter tone in his voice that something dark lurked in his past that kept him from God. That made her sad. Her own past was fraught with drama and heartache, but her faith had been the anchor in her life.
“Where did you grow up?” she asked.
“In Bangor.”
“Are your parents still there?”
A sorrowful look entered his eyes. “No. My parents died in a car accident many years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He quickly veered the conversation to other topics including her family and the factory. He asked question after question about her life in Stoneley, about her siblings and her father. She actually enjoyed regaling him with stories of her more colorful exploits as a child and a teen. She was amazed to discover the time passing without the awkward silences that usually transpired on dates.
But this wasn’t a traditional date, she reminded herself later that evening when he walked her to her car. “Thank you, Brandon. I really had a nice time,” she said as she opened the driver’s side door.
And she had. More so than she had in a very long time. She liked this man. Too bad she didn’t have room in her life at the moment for a relationship.
“I did, too. You’re a very interesting woman. And I hope you will let me know if I can set you up with my contact in Paris. I know the House of Roan would flip to have someone of your caliber.” He pulled a card from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Here’s my card. Call me if you decide to take me up on my offer.”
Beneath the warm glow of the parking lot light, she studied the card. His name and a number were the only information printed in black lettering on the pale blue face.
“Juliet?”
She lifted her gaze and her breath stalled somewhere between her heart and her throat. The way he was looking at her, as if he were memorizing every curve and line of her face, was as intoxicating as if he were touching her. She swallowed. Her whole being tingled with anticipation and a powerful yearning she felt helpless against.
His head dipped until his lips hovered over hers, waiting, inviting. His hesitation was so sweet and so alluring. He was making it clear he wouldn’t proceed without her permission.
Why not? What harm could come from one kiss?
Standing on tiptoe, she closed the distance. Their lips touched. His were firm, yet molding to hers effortlessly. A delicious sensation coursed over her, melting her bones and turning her to mush.
Sure that at any moment her legs would give out, she clasped his arms. His big, strong hands closed around her and slowly eased her back. He gentled the kiss and slid his mouth across her jaw to just below her ear.
“Good night, Juliet,” he whispered as he disengaged from her, steadying her. “‘Parting is such sweet sorrow.’” He smiled then turned to leave.
Leaning against the car with a dreamy sigh, she watched him walk away. She bit her lip to keep from calling him back. She wasn’t ready for him to leave, but she knew she couldn’t ask him to stay. Yes, he’d made her feel special, and yes, she was attracted to him, but both were temporary.
She had a goal, a focus, and it certainly didn’t include a romance. Proving herself capable had to stay her priority.
And no matter what, she would ignore the wistful voice in her head that hoped she’d see Brandon De Witte again one day.
Talk about a dark and stormy night, Juliet thought as she pulled up to the ornate iron gate of Blanchard Manor. Perched high on the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean just outside of Stoneley, Maine, the huge, ominous house seemed to have been built for nights such as this. She lowered the window and leaned out of her orange Honda Element to reach the security keypad.
A blast of icy March wind and sleet hit her face, stinging her eyes and whipping her hair in a frenzied dance. Her gloved hands fumbled on the pad. With a frustrated yank, she ripped off her right glove and tried again. While fighting against the stiffness the cold air caused in her fingers, she finally managed to punch in her code to release the gate.
Shivering, she powered the window up and waited for the slow-moving hunk of metal to get out of the way. Before the gate was fully opened, she sped through the gap, her tires spinning slightly on the slick agate pavement.
The long, winding drive up the hill usually provided a lush and beautiful view of the gardens through the trees.
