666 Park Avenue (2 page)

Chapter Two

B
y that evening,
J
ane’s confidence had completely evaporated
. She looked doubtfully at the address in her hands for what had to be the thousandth time before stepping out of the taxi in front of 25 Avenue Montaigne, which just so happened to be the iconic Plaza Athénée.
Thank God I’m dressed right.
She took a deep lungful of the humid winter air, and smiled at the uniformed doorman who ushered her deferentially into the impossibly magnificent five-star hotel. The lobby was a sumptuous mixture of marble, velvet, and crystal that set her teeth on edge, and Jane felt a pang of longing for the clean lines and simple track lighting of her studio apartment.

She fought the urge to panic and instead focused on her image in the mirror across the lobby. Her pale blond hair was swept loosely into a low knot, and she’d opted for minimal makeup. Her gray eyes looked wide and innocent; the blue of the dress set them off nicely—and showed a tantalizing stretch of creamy décolletage. She looked sexy, but tasteful . . . almost as though she belonged here.

Of course, she also looked a bit vain, since standing there, over her reflection’s shoulder, was Malcolm. Watching her watch herself. Perfect.

She turned and pressed her lips to his, wiping the amused smile off his face. She inhaled deeply; she had forgotten how delicious he smelled. His spiced-champagne scent made her feel half-drunk already.

“You look good enough to eat,” he whispered in her ear when they broke apart, and she had to fight off a sudden impulse to point out that he could easily skip dinner and do just that.

A real date. Like civilized people. In chairs.

As if he had read her thoughts—the second, less scandalous set of them, anyway—he took her arm and led her into the restaurant. He held a white-silk-cushioned chair for her, and she sat carefully, scooping and arranging the full skirt of her dress in a futile attempt to keep it from creasing or pulling.

“God, I missed you,” Malcolm’s deep voice rumbled, and she forgot all about the chiffon. The candle at their table flickered, making his deep, dark eyes glow orange. “Those were the six longest days of my life.”

“I missed you, too,” she told him softly, and she meant it. She couldn’t quite explain it, but whenever she was around Malcolm, every part of her body hummed, desperate to be touching him. But at the same time, her mind felt peaceful, calm, as if it were perfectly happy to step out of the way and let her body take over. She was glad that their table was tucked in a private corner of the room, at least ten feet from the nearest other couple; an entire meal in public suddenly seemed like an awfully long time to avoid doing or saying something embarrassingly intimate.

“The auction house delivered my vase today,” Malcolm told her conversationally, unfolding his crème-colored napkin and placing it on his lap. She smiled automatically—of course he would make this easier with small talk. She felt her mind adjust itself to match the lightness of his tone.

“They did?” Jane said teasingly. His carbon-dated tastes had been their very first topic of conversation. “Let me guess: you’ll put it in some corner where no one will bump into it by accident, and then go tell all your friends how yours is two centuries older than theirs?”

He laughed. “You know, I didn’t think France gave passports to people who weren’t fanatical about preserving history. We’re surrounded by people who haven’t changed their traffic laws since horse-drawn carriages were the cool new hybrids. How did a serial renovator ever manage to slip through airport security?”

“I looked surprisingly innocent as a baby,” she answered. On their second date (they’d made it as far as her tiny kitchen table), she’d confessed that she was actually an American citizen, too, although she had lived in France with her grandmother since she was ten months old.

A white-jacketed waiter appeared just then with glistening flutes of champagne and two small glass bowls of radish foam with caramelized leeks.

Jane cocked a suspicious eyebrow. It smelled good, but it looked like shaving cream. “You know, they don’t eat foam in Alsace. This is strictly a pretentious Parisian thing,” she joked as the waiter glided off.

“Tell me more about your farm,” he suggested, taking a sip of the effervescing wine.

“You mean my own personal juvenile detention center?” She poked her bottom lip with the prongs of her fork. Malcolm’s eyes shifted for the briefest moment. “You don’t want to know about that.”

“I want to know everything about you.” His toe touched hers under the table, and a shiver ran from her pearl-painted toenails all the way up to her spine. She thought about all the luxury rooms in the floors above and had to clutch her chair to keep from dragging Malcolm upstairs. But that was the whole point of the evening, she reminded herself: to stay out of bed long enough to exchange more than pillow talk.

“Well, Gran keeps a fully stocked bomb shelter,” Jane admitted with a wry grin, feeling the warmth of the champagne begin to spread outward from her stomach. Six years away from her childhood home had given her the ability to see some humor in her unusual upbringing . . . as long as she didn’t linger on it for too long. “She was convinced we would one day be under siege.”

Malcolm laughed. “That sounds a little paranoid.”

Jane smiled and took another sip of champagne. Her grandmother was more than paranoid, but it wasn’t entirely without merit. Her daughter—Jane’s mother—and son-in-law had died in a car crash in North Carolina just ten months after Jane was born. The woman was so petrified of losing her granddaughter, too, that she’d moved her to her home in a tiny village in France and barely let Jane out of her sight. And when that had been completely unavoidable, Gran had sent her faithful dog, Honey, along to watch over her. “She was very . . . protective of me.”

The delicate sounds of a Mozart sonata filtered down from hidden speakers, and the waiter wordlessly refilled her water glass.

“Well I guess we have that in common then,” Malcolm said. A few tables over, a couple dug into goat cheese salads and fresh bread. “What’s your grandmother’s stand on antique art?” he teased, wriggling an eyebrow comically.

Jane smirked. “The woman has the absolute worst taste—even worse than yours, Mr. Quaint-French-Whatever. She has all these awful china plates on the wall and everything’s huge and floral and heavy. She can’t hang her hideous knickknacks and depressing oil paintings to save her life, so they’re constantly slipping and falling and breaking, and she was convinced that I was going around knocking them down myself. It didn’t even matter that I was in my room or outside; she always thought it was me. Let me tell you, though: if just hating those things was enough, then I broke every last one just by looking at them.”

“Now that’s quite a talent,” Malcolm said, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“Wouldn’t it be? I could redecorate without lifting a finger.” Jane chuckled, lifting a polished fingernail in demonstration. “It would certainly make my job a lot easier. Madame Godinaux has me running all over the city to pick up light fixtures and furniture. I don’t know how she thinks it’ll all fit into one house. I’d love to be able to get rid of a display nook or six without leaving fingerprints.”

Malcolm leaned forward, his gaze suddenly intent. His abrupt intensity made her breath catch in her throat. “You’re amazing, Jane. Do you know that?” He reached across the table and grasped her hand. “I had this whole plan in place, but . . .” he trailed off, shaking his head ruefully.

Jane’s heart started pounding, and her skin sizzled at his touch.

“Jane, I’ve always believed that when you meet the one, you know it.”

Jane glanced around, sure that her heartbeat must be echoing through the whole room.

“I’m not a patient man,” Malcolm continued, “and a month is already too long.” He set a small box covered in deep blue velvet on the table between them like a challenge, and gave her one last long look before snapping it open. Set on a platinum band, the diamond—an emerald-cut solitaire of at least five carats—sparkled fiercely in the candlelight. “Jane,” Malcolm said, his voice throbbing with passion, “you’re the one. I don’t want to spend another day away from you, and I don’t want to wait. Please,” he added, but there was no pleading in his tone, “Jane, say you’ll be my wife.”

The room spun fast. Jane’s heart was in her throat and her cheeks flamed, as though the heat had been turned up full-blast. Marrying Malcolm would mean leaving France behind: her job at Atelier Antoine, her adorable apartment in the fifth arrondissement with its charming view of Notre Dame from the fire escape, her friends, her entire life . . .

The choice was easy.

“Of course. Of course I will.” She held out her left hand so he could slip the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.

Chapter Three

J
ane sank lower in the bathtub, the bubbles tickling her
collarbone. She lifted one lazy hand out of the water and turned it over: her engagement ring sparkled wildly even in the muted light. She stared at it, trying to convince herself that the evening had really happened. There was the evidence, certainly: the ring itself, for one thing, and then also the fact that she was lounging in a massive marble tub with a panoramic view of the Eiffel Tower, for another. But as soon as Malcolm had left the suite to pick up a quart of salted-caramel ice cream—Jane’s favorite—a feeling of unreality had set in.

She glanced involuntarily toward the door; it was too soon for Malcolm to be back yet, but she couldn’t help hoping anyway. She had objected to his going out—wasn’t that what the hotel staff was there for?—but he had been too intent to talk down. He had insisted that this was the sort of thing that fiancés did, and Jane, who had never had a fiancé before, had been hard-pressed to argue otherwise.

A curl of steam rose off the water, and outside a crow landed on the roof across the street. Jane wondered if it should bother her that she seemed to be adjusting to Malcolm’s lavish lifestyle of concierges and penthouse suites so quickly, but she inhaled the steam and brushed the worry aside. Why shouldn’t she be comfortable? It was her lifestyle now, too.

There would be loose ends to tie up, of course. She had an apartment lease to terminate, and friends to say good-bye to. She began mentally tallying her projects at work, all in various stages of completion.
And my very first solo client,
she thought, feeling a tiny pang of regret, but she was a talented architect, and New York was a perfectly good place to be that . . . especially with some newly acquired family connections to smooth the way.
I’ll have a family,
she thought happily, and wiggled her toes to watch the ripples spread.

Even when she had lived with Gran, she’d felt alone. Gran loved her, certainly, but in the old woman’s nervous mind, “love” seemed to mean “worry,” pretty much to the exclusion of anything else. Even if the standoffish villagers in their Alsatian town had wanted to be friends, Jane wouldn’t have been allowed to spend time with them unchaperoned. She hadn’t even been allowed to attend the half-timbered school in the center of town, and Gran would come looking for her if her market shopping took five minutes longer than usual. Gran had never been willing or able to explain what it was that she thought was so dangerous in the outside world, but her determination that Jane should never encounter it had formed a wedge between them, and every passing year had driven it deeper. Jane, beside herself with frustration, had left the little gray farmhouse nestled at the base of the foothills the day she’d received her letter of acceptance to the university. She had not gone back once in the six years since.

The sconces lining the bathroom wall flickered, the shadows shifting like the branches of ancient trees. She’d have to tell Gran she was leaving, Jane realized, shivering a little in spite of the steam. They had exchanged a few stiff and awkward letters over the years, but the farmhouse didn’t have a phone. A visit felt more appropriate now—and, of course, Gran would want to meet her fiancé. But it would be so cold and dark this time of year . . .

Gran might be happy for her, she reflected; stranger things had surely happened. She wouldn’t be thrilled about Jane moving all the way across an ocean. She had never even approved of Jane’s move to Paris, referring to it unfailingly as “when you ran away,” and Jane really wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news that she planned to leave the country entirely. But Gran’s main concern had always been Jane’s safety, and no parent (or grandparent) could ask for a better protector than Malcolm Doran. He was kind, caring, attentive, and had the resources to take very, very good care of her. All that aside, he was madly, desperately, head-over-heels in love with her, just as she was with him.

As soon as Jane lowered her hand back under the water, a low, scratching sound snagged through the silence, interrupting her reverie. It was a small noise: a scrape of metal on metal, but in the silence it sounded hard . . . and close. The bathroom lights abruptly flashed and died. Water splashed around her, and moonlight streamed in through the windows, turning the room as flat and cold as Alsace’s landscape in wintertime. It took a few moments of listening to her heart pounding before she noticed that no light was coming in under the door. Somehow, the entire suite had gone dark.

Then she heard another sound. It was soft at first, but as it drew closer, the steady fall of shoes on carpet became unmistakable.

Someone’s here.

Jane felt panic bubble up in her throat. There was no way Malcolm could be back yet. He’d only been gone ten minutes. She had just enough time to wonder if the panoramic windows behind her could be opened before the door of the bathroom swung toward her. In the deep shadows on the other side, there was an even deeper shadow in the unmistakable shape of a very tall man.

Jane shrieked, and tried to stand up, but her feet skidded on the slick bottom of the tub. She fell back heavily into the bath, smashing her elbow hard on the marble and sending soapy water racing across the floor.

“Jane?”

She froze.

The Eiffel Tower’s festive hourly sparkling lit up the sky, as well as the face of the intruder. “Malcolm, you scared me!” She sighed and cradled her elbow, feeling too foolish for words. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

“Clearly.” He chuckled. “The power went out right after I came in. No wonder you’re jumpy.” He moved quickly to the side of the tub, offering a hand to help her up. She noticed a frosted carton of ice cream in his other hand. “There’s nothing to be scared of,” he told her gently. He folded her tightly against him, and her shivering subsided in his warmth.

“There is one thing, actually,” she murmured against his chest, remembering the wide, gray landscape that had invaded the room just ahead of Malcolm’s steadying presence.

He drew away sharply. “Did something happen? Are you hurt?”

Her heart melted at his immediate concern. “Nothing like that,” she assured him quickly. “I was just thinking that I’d like to see my grandmother before I leave France. And I’d really like you to meet her.” She held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers meaningfully; the diamond threw the glittering tower lights around the room like merry, blue fireflies.

She had expected him to relax a little at her explanation, but he remained in the same posture: holding her stiffly away, a line of worry creasing his forehead. They stayed that way for a few tense moments, and then he seemed to finally register that she was truly okay.

“Of course,” he agreed hastily. “We could go for Christmas, if you’d like.” With that, he pressed his lips to hers and slid his hands lightly across the slick, wet skin of her breasts. She moaned softly. “I feel overdressed,” he added, smiling into her cheek.

Agreeing wholeheartedly, she unbuttoned his shirt with the speed of frequent practice. His perfectly creased black pants followed easily to the floor while Jane kissed the golden skin of his chest, inhaling his spiced scent the way a drowning woman would inhale air.
Maybe I
should
be scared,
a tiny part of her brain told her.
This can’t be normal.

Then his fingers found her, stroking expertly, and she could feel him hard and ready in the darkness between them, and she shut off the thinking, worrying part of her brain entirely. With a wolfish grin, Malcolm lifted her by the hips and set her down on the counter next to the sink. She dug her nails into his back as he entered her, and wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to pull him as deeply inside as she could. He braced himself with one hand against the mirror, and with the other he began to stroke her again, so when they climaxed, it was together.

The lights came back on as he carried her to the bed, kissing her sore elbow tenderly. It seemed as though every lamp in the suite was glowing—far more than she remembered turning on before—but Malcolm tapped the master switch beside the bed, and she was asleep almost as soon as the room was dark again.