steady himself, Henri doodled on the legal pad in the cordovan leather folio that lay open on the table.
“Yes, she is. She and three friends arrived today around eleven and they checked into a suite at the Hotel de St. Michel.”
As Henri wrote the words Margeaux—Hotel de St. Michel, he sensed someone reading over his shoulder. He looked up and there was Sydney staring down at his notes.
“Hold on a moment, Luc.” Henri closed the folio and took the phone away from his ear. “I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’m finished.”
She regarded him for a moment. Her predatory gaze meandered the length of his body. She bit her bottom lip.
“I’ll wait for you in the Ferdinand Gallery.”
Her proper British accent was a strange juxtaposition to the seductive glint in her wide-set green eyes, which stirred an uncomfortable, not-at-work reaction in Henri that made him want to retreat.
But he didn’t. He simply frowned and shook his head—trying to remind her that he was the boss. Games like this were not okay. They’d had that discussion more than once in the month since he’d allowed the lines of propriety to blur.
True to form, Sydney winked and turned away, her snug black pencil skirt—wasn’t that what they called those body-hugging contraptions that accentuated all the right curves in all the right places?—an animated reminder of why he’d made an exception to his no-fraternizing rule for Sydney James.
She was a beautiful woman and a force to be reckoned with. There was no doubt about that. Normally, he went to great lengths to keep his personal and professional lives separate—especially when it came to getting involved with subordinates. But Sydney had a way of pushing the envelope and crossing lines—if she wasn’t so damn good at her job Henri might consider having her relocated to a department not under his watch.
That would make matters so much simpler.
But the truth was he needed her. In more than one way. Certain members of the Crown Council had been breathing down his neck, suggesting it was time for him to settle down, to tidy up his personal life so that the other, more traditional, council members—namely Colbert Broussard—would take him seriously as a future Crown Council candidate.
Sydney was professional enough to bolster his reputation, sexy enough to hold his attention and smart enough to know when to turn up the heat or tone it down.
Henri resumed his phone call.
As Sydney turned the corner at the end of the long corridor that led away from the boardroom, she glanced back over her shoulder and gave Henri that look. He might not be in love with her. But he sure did appreciate her…assets. What was even better was his lust was tempered by a healthy dose of respect for her. The woman had style, an Oxford education, and a way of gracefully walking that fine line between vaah-vaah-vaah-voom and put-you-in-your-place business smarts.
What more could he want?
“Margeaux Broussard.”
Yes, Margeaux. Wait— “What?”
“We were talking about Margeaux,” said Luc.
Henri cleared his throat and raked a hand through his hair.
“Yes, we were.”
It had been a long time since that heady August sixteen years ago when Margeaux had left. She’d taken his heart and never looked back. They’d been teenagers. Their heads had been full of idealistic notions and their hearts had been ruled by hormones.
It had been a long time ago, and just because she was back—well, now they were twice the age they’d been when they’d last seen each other. Surely, they were different people who’d grown in different directions.
“Will you see her?” Luc asked.
Henri drew a three-dimensional box around the words he’d written on the yellow legal pad. Then he retraced the letters M-A-R-G-E-A-U-X.
She was back in St. Michel. And sooner than he’d expected, considering he’d had his doubts about whether she’d show up at all. Honestly, the last thing he needed was Margeaux Broussard dropping their weighty baggage in the middle of his already chaotic life.
“Henri, are you there?” His brother Luc asked.
“Yes, I’m here. Of course I’ll try to contact her. But that doesn’t mean she wants to see me.”
Henri didn’t mean to sound so testy. After all, his brother had done him a favor by directing the chief of the Bureau of Customs to alert him when Margeaux arrived.
“But I’m going to try,” Henri added, purposely shaving the edge off his tone.
Luc had been in charge of St. Michel’s national security before he married Sophie Baldwin, the woman who was the newly crowned queen of St. Michel. Despite stepping into a head-of-state position, Luc still had his fingers on the pulse of the country’s security, and had happily helped out his brother when he’d been asked.
“I’m sure Colbert will be happy Margeaux’s home,” Luc said. “It sounds like he’s going to need some help once he gets out of the hospital.”
Henri blew out a breath.
A lot had changed, but a lot remained the same—such as the way his heart beat a faster cadence at the mention of her name.
Even so he reminded himself that Margeaux hadn’t come home for him.
That was a thought that was oddly more disappointing than helpful.
After finishing the call with Luc, Henri made his way to the Ferdinand Gallery where Sydney had said she’d be waiting for him. He glanced around, but she wasn’t there.
He contemplated telling her to behave herself—to quit flirting. However, knowing Sydney, that would only encourage her. Instead, he decided to leave well enough alone and focus on more pressing matters such as how to expedite the rest of the paintings through French customs. They’d been on loan to a museum in Brussels and the orders to have them shipped straight to St. Michel should’ve been clear, but the paintings had mistakenly been returned to Paris. Henri was beginning to think that it might have been faster to pick them up at the Musée d’Orsay and bring them to St. Michel himself rather than wait for a bunch of bureaucrats to unravel the unnecessary red tape binding the priceless works of art.
He walked over and straightened one of the Monets already in place—a landscape of a house and overgrown garden that reminded him of the Broussards’ home with the sprawling terrace and thick, wild orchard where he’d spent so much of his youth. His thoughts flew to Margeaux, and her father’s situation.
Colbert could’ve hired home healthcare, and he had friends and staff who would’ve ensured that he was cared for. The man wouldn’t have been left high and dry. Still, Henri was one-quarter surprised Margeaux had come home and three-quarters relieved. It was nice to know that she’d come when her father needed her.
Because he wasn’t so sure the woman he’d read about in the tabloids over the past sixteen years would have made the trip. That tabloid heiress, who’d
