Accidental Heiress. Nancy Thompson Robards

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СКАЧАТЬ him into a corner. He fought the urge to step back, to put some space between them. Instead, he turned back to the painting and studied it.

      “What do you think?” he asked. “Do we want to keep it here or should we move it across the way?”

      He pointed toward the shorter wall on the other side of the room.

      “So, you’re not going to tell me,” she said.

      “Tell you what?” Henri asked.

      “Who this person is who has shanghaied your thoughts?”

      Henri crossed his arms.

      “It’s a family matter. I don’t want to discuss it at work.”

      Sydney’s green eyes darkened a shade, and she shrugged.

      “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was simply concerned about you.”

      She reached up to touch his hand, but he uncrossed his arms and shoved his fists into his trouser pockets, dodging the contact.

      Sydney flinched. “Henri?”

      He lowered his voice. “That’s not what we should do here.”

      She blinked once. Twice.

      “What I mean is we agreed to keep matters strictly platonic at work.”

      “Yes, of course we did.” Suddenly all business, she was the one who took a step backward. Henri sensed the transformation immediately. “I’ll be in my office reviewing the PDF of the show catalogue.” With that, she turned and walked away. He was amazed at how fast her demeanor could change. One minute the flirt, the next the serious businesswoman.

      Henri felt that old familiar inner riptide of uncertainty, which should’ve been reason enough to let her keep walking. Even if Sydney had been pushing the bounds of what was appropriate in the workplace, at least she knew when to rein it in.

      Unlike Margeaux, who had created a reputation for herself as a socialite run amok. She seemed to take pleasure in embarrassing her father with her headline-grabbing antics. Even if she had been lying low for the past couple of years, her reputation preceded her. Fille sauvage, her father had called her for as far back as Henri could remember. As if living up to the label her father had slapped on her, Margeaux Broussard had, indeed, proven herself every bit the wild child.

      Not the type of woman he needed to get involved with if the Crown Council was ever going to take him seriously.

      “Sydney, wait.”

      She stopped underneath the archway that led into the main gallery, but she didn’t turn around.

      Henri knew he’d hurt her feelings. He hadn’t meant to. He was simply skittish about public displays of affection at work, even if it was simply the brush of a hand or an I-want-you pucker of lips. He expected no less of his other employees. He had to lead by example.

      “Please let me know when you hear about the missing pieces for the catalogue,” she said, without looking back at him. “If we don’t get this to the printer by Wednesday, we won’t have the catalogue in time for the opening.”

      He glanced around. They were the only ones in the gallery.

      “If you’re free tonight, perhaps we could have some dinner and proof them…together. Two sets of eyes are always better than one.”

      This time she turned around and faced him, that devilishly sexy left brow of hers rising, a question mark. She crossed her arms over her chest, creating a barrier between them.

      “A business meeting?” she asked. “After hours?”

      She wasn’t going to make this easy.

      Still, he nodded.

      “I suppose that might work,” she said. “But I have one stipulation. I want to go out—to Le Coeur Bleu in the Hotel de St. Michel.”

      The Hotel de St. Michel. Where Margeaux was staying. No doubt she’d read his notes about the Hotel St. Michel. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.

      It was a bad idea to bring Sydney there, even though the chance they’d run into Margeaux and her friends was remote. He should go there alone. He should contact Margeaux and arrange a private meeting….

      Even so, as he opened his mouth to suggest a different restaurant, he heard himself agreeing, “Le Coeur Bleu it is.”

       Chapter Two

      Margeaux paused in the hospital hallway, a death grip on the bouquet of colorful flowers. The door to room 436 was ajar, and classical music drifted through the scant opening. She drew in a steadying breath of antiseptic-smelling hospital air and summoned her strength. On the other side of the door was the man she hadn’t seen in more than sixteen years.

      Her father.

      She was an accomplished photographer. She’d put herself through college and had taken herself all over the world.

      But standing there, about to see her father for the first time after all the years and bad blood that had passed between them, she was suddenly desperate for her father’s approval.

      Sadly, she wasn’t entirely sure he’d be glad to see her.

      She was so nervous she couldn’t get a good breath, and for a heartbeat, she was paralyzed—right there in the hallway as the nurses and orderlies passed by with purpose. One of Margeaux’s hands held the flowers like a torch; the other was frozen in mid-knock as a deluge of emotions and questions rained down on her.

       Run!

       Turn and run!

      But this is your father. He’s sick. He needs you.

       Right, he’s never needed you. What if he doesn’t want to see you? What if he sends you away again?

      Suddenly, she felt sixteen again, awkward and unsure of where she fit into the life of her only living relative. A girl out of control, starving for the acceptance of a self-involved father who was too busy to deal with her antics.

      But she wasn’t a child anymore, and it had been at least three years since the press had skewered her with scandal.

      Knock.

      Her hand did just that. As if on its own, her knuckles sounded a quick tap-tap-tap on the door.

      “Qui?” What? barked a gruff voice from inside. Her breath caught, icy in her chest, and a rush of adrenaline urged her away. Run! Go! Leave now!

      “Papa, it’s me.” The voice sounded as if it came from outside herself, but it was her own. Then for the span of several heartbeats all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. Until the gruff voice softened and asked almost tentatively, “Margeaux? Is it you?”

      Her fingertips grazed the door’s СКАЧАТЬ