Accidental Heiress (8 page)

She checked the time on her cell phone: seven-thirty. Just enough time to eat, shower and get over to the orphanage to meet Père Steven for their nine-o'clock appointment. No time for anything else that might tempt her to spend the morning in bed.

She made her way into the kitchen where Henri was putting the bread and pastries out on a plate.

“Well, good morning.” He sounded cheerful. “Did you rest well?”

There didn't seem to be any traces of resentment or weirdness in his voice. Relief flooded over her.

“I did, thank you. How about you?”

“Like a baby.” He smiled. “Coffee?”

“You're my hero.” She accepted the cup he offered, and their hands brushed. The skin on skin contact made it suddenly very hard to breathe. Yet she didn't know why. They'd held
hands last night and, well, they'd been much more intimate than that all those years ago.

Suddenly it was very clear to her that she didn't want to be just his friend. She didn't want to walk the same line between friends and lovers and have him not want to venture far past friendship.

She was forming the words to say
About last night
…when he looked at his watch and said, “We'll need to leave here in about forty-five minutes to make it to St. Mary's by nine.”

He was right.

No sense in bringing it up now. Especially not before an appointment with the priest. Somehow it seemed improper.

 

St. Mary's of the Universe was a gorgeous, rambling shambles of a sixteenth-century castle situated on the outskirts of Avignon on acres of rolling land. From a distance it looked fairy-tale perfect. Or, at least that's how it looked through the viewfinder of Margeaux's camera.

In the direct sunshine when the wind wasn't blowing, it was warm, and she was tempted to stay outside and hide behind the lens of her
camera. This was such a photogenic old ruin. She could easily give up an afternoon photographing it.

“I don't mean to rush you,” Henri said, apologetically, “but it's nine o'clock right now.”

The two of them approached the large wooden doors, each adorned with an open-mouthed lion's head.

Margeaux snapped one last shot of the brass guardians of the door, before she stepped over the threshold into the world where her father had sent her. The castlelike atmosphere made it look like a scene from a
Harry Potter
book. Teenagers hurried past, presumably on their way to class since most of them carried notebooks and backpacks.

These poor kids were here because they were unwanted; they didn't have anyone else in the world to claim them. Her heart clenched, and she felt a sudden kinship with them, even though they didn't notice her. They just hurried on by.

She wanted to take photographs, but now wasn't the time. She drew in a deep breath, and smelled nutmeg, eucalyptus, decay and something she recognized, but couldn't quite
put her finger on…maybe it was the smell of despair.

They followed the directional signs to the administrative offices, where they were met by a woman who seemed too harried and frazzled to have time to help them.

“We have a nine-o'clock appointment with Père Steven,” said Margeaux.

The woman glanced up at them, then at her watch.

“Please, have a seat.” She pointed to a row of chairs along the wall where a boy waited. He balanced his elbows on his knees and hung his head as if he shouldered the weight of the world. His body language screamed that he was in trouble and he knew it.

As they approached the chairs, he scowled up at them, not really connecting with either of them. He looked about fifteen, dark curly hair and penetrating chocolate eyes. Something about the kid made Margeaux's breath hitch. Then she realized, if she squinted her eyes, he resembled Henri as a boy. The same tall, lanky build, similar coloring.

Her heart ached. This was what their son might've looked like.

When the boy's gaze met Margeaux's directly, he looked away and resumed the too-cool-for-school posture he'd had when they walked in.

Margeaux couldn't stop staring at the kid. She knew she should be more discreet, but she couldn't help it. Especially since the boy wasn't paying any attention. He seemed to be caught up in his own problems, which seemed to be significant once a man wearing a priest's collar opened the door to an office and glanced out. He had a kind face and thinning hair. He was significantly older than Margeaux and Henri but younger than her father.

The stern secretary gestured toward Margeaux and Henri with an obviously irritated flick of her wrist.

“Père Steven, there is your nine-o'clock appointment. But I must insist that you deal with this situation first.” She pointed at the boy with her nose.

“Matieu?” The priest's voice was gentle compared to the woman's. “Is there a problem?”

When the boy didn't answer, Père Steven looked at Margeaux and Henri and said in an equally pleasant tone, “Good morning, I'm
terribly sorry to keep you waiting, but will you please pardon me for another moment?”

Margeaux smiled, and Henri said, “That's not a problem. Take all the time you need.”

While Henri was speaking, Margeaux angled the camera which was in her lap ever so slightly so that it pointed toward the boy, whose face was visible in profile. She pressed the shutter release button.

The boy's head whipped toward her, shooting a dubious glare first at her and then at the camera. He must have heard the camera's click when she snapped the photo.

Her heart thudded. If he asked she'd simply tell him it was an accident and she'd delete the image if he was really bothered by it. But before he could say or do anything, Père Steven said. “Matieu, please step into my office.”

As the boy stood, he kept his suspicious gaze on Margeaux's camera. She wondered what he'd do if she snapped another—because this was the angle at which he most resembled Henri—but the boy seemed to already be in enough trouble. She didn't want to add to his problems by antagonizing him.

Ten minutes later the boy and Père Steven
emerged from the office. Matieu lifted his gaze to give Margeaux and her camera one last glare before exiting.

“Did you deal with him sufficiently?” the woman demanded.

“Mrs. Cole, that will do. We have guests.” Père Steven's tone was commanding enough to get his point across, but gentle enough to not be severe. The woman checked her posture then pursed her lips as she busied herself at her desk.

Margeaux and Henri got to their feet. Père Steven smiled at them. “You must be Margeaux Broussard. I've been expecting you.”

A
s Père Steven gave them a tour of St. Mary's, Henri was struck by his compassion and enthusiasm for the children. He truly was their champion.

“I am responsible for about two hundred children,” he said with obvious pride. “We get by the best we can.”

As they returned to the office, it floored Henri that so many children were alone—well, not really alone, because they had Père Steven—but without at least one of their natural parents. It struck him that technically, he and
Margeaux were orphans—adult orphans who had lost both of their parents. Henri's father had passed away about seven years ago; before that, Henri's mother had been tragically killed by a criminal that Henri's father had helped bring to justice. While it was sad, at least his parents had wanted him. It was hard to look at these kids and think no one wanted them.

Even though Margeaux and her father had been estranged, it was becoming clear that Colbert regretted the years they'd been apart and was making it clear that the family bond was important.

Since they'd arrived at the orphanage, Henri had been analyzing everything, trying to figure out why Colbert had sent Margeaux here. Maybe the
family bond
issue was what he hoped Margeaux would take away from her time at St. Mary's.

They still had a week to try and discover Colbert's purpose. Who knew…it might even be spelled out in the letters Margeaux was supposed to read tonight.

In the meantime, he intended to keep his eyes and ears open for clues.

 

Later that afternoon when they returned to the house after spending the morning at St. Mary's, Margeaux's cell phone rang, and Pepper's name popped up on the LCD screen. She was glad to hear her friend's voice and was eager for a talk. Henri must have understood this, because he volunteered to go to the market to fetch supplies for their dinner, leaving Margeaux alone to talk to Pepper.

“Hello, darling. I'm calling to wish you an early happy Thanksgiving.”

Thanksgiving? Oh, my gosh!

Wait… It was Monday…Monday of Thanks giving week! How could she have forgotten? She'd been so busy. Sure, it wasn't a traditional French holiday, but it was one of Margeaux's favorites—it was her father's favorite, too—and now that she remembered, she fully intended for Henri and herself to enjoy a traditional meal. Although, without A.J. to prepare the feast, this year might be interesting.

Margeaux took the phone into her bedroom and stretched out on the bed, settling in for a good catch-up session with her chatty friend.

“You'll never guess who's spending the holiday with us,” Pepper said.

“Who?”

“Guess! Oh, you'll never guess. So, I'll tell you. Your good friend Sydney.”

“
My
good friend? I wouldn't say that. I don't think she likes me very much.”

“Oh, well, there was the tiny matter of Henri being in love with you. But you really should give her a chance. She kind of grows on you. And you know I don't make friends easily. She's fitting in wonderfully at Texron. But enough about her. What are your plans for the holiday?”

“Technically, it's not really a holiday over here, but we do intend to feast on turkey.”

Suddenly, she was overcome with a fabulous idea. Even if she didn't fully grasp the reason her father had sent her to St. Mary's, she was touched by the place, nonetheless. The troubled look in Matieu's eyes haunted her. She glanced at the stack of still unopened letters resting on the dressing table. Her camera sat right next to them. She got up and retrieved it, flipping back through the shots she'd snapped that day until she came to the one of the boy in profile.

“You do know we're in Avignon now, right?” she asked Pepper.

Pepper made noises that indicated she understood.

“My father has sent me here to see St. Mary's orphanage. I still haven't quite figured out why. But you just gave me a brilliant idea.”

Pepper laughed. “Yes, I do tend to have that effect on people. Or so I've been told.”

“I have some money saved up, and I want to use it provide a Thanksgiving dinner for the kids in the orphanage.”

“Oh, like a dinner party.”

“A very large dinner party,” Margeaux qualified.

“How large, hon?”

“Two hundred-ish, counting the kids and the staff.”

Pepper gasped. “Are you out of your ever-loving mind?”

“Yes, actually, I'm beginning to believe I am. Do you think A.J. can send me some recipes?”

When she and Pepper hung up, Henri still wasn't back. Margeaux got up and walked over to the letters. She picked them up and held
them, but her instincts told her to put them down. She wasn't sure if she was dreading the actual reading part or what she might learn after she began the arduous task. Her gut told her it was the latter. Reading had always been a chore, but it wasn't as if she was illiterate. She could read and read well when she concentrated.

Since it was so quiet in the house, she decided that now would be as good a time as any to find out what her father hadn't been able to tell her face-to-face.

 

The first couple of letters were dated around the time that she'd run away from the French boarding school—around the time that she'd miscarried. Her soul gave a little twist at the memory.

When she broke the seal on the first letter, she saw that it was hand-written and she caught a whiff of the unmistakable scent of orange blossoms. Or at least she thought she did.

But orange blossoms in November? She didn't realize orange trees grew in Avignon. Even if they did, this was hardly the season for them.

She held the envelope up to her nose, but the paper smelled slightly of her father's pipe tobacco. There wasn't a trace of the floral fragrance that had been her mother's favorite scent.

She wondered if perhaps she'd just imagined it and settled back on the bed to read by the natural light filtering in through the windows.

The tone of the first couple of her father's letters was slightly reprimanding, explaining how badly she'd not only hurt him, but how she was also hurting her own future.

But gradually as the dates on the letters progressed to the time that she graduated from the American boarding school—the time when she and her father lost contact—the letters became more conversational.

He wrote: “These are the things I would say to you if I could talk to you….”

In the midst of reading, Margeaux heard Henri come in and vaguely recalled him sticking his head in the bedroom door, only to quietly leave her to her reading.

That was a good thing because what she learned gave her pause. She needed time to digest it.

 

“So, let me get this straight,” Henri said as he and Margeaux worked side by side in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a salad niçoise. “Your father lived at St. Mary's as a boy? It was his home?”

Margeaux nodded. “I'll show you the letter.”

“Your father was an orphan and you never knew this?”

“My father barely spoke to me, Henri. All he ever said was that his parents were dead. He didn't like to talk about them, so I never pressed him. I suppose to him they'd never been alive since he'd never known them. However, in the
last letter he said his mother was a teenager when she got pregnant, and she was forced to give him up for adoption at St. Mary's.”

Colbert Broussard was a very proud man. Henri had never heard anything about the man's past, but given the circumstances Margeaux had outlined, he wasn't surprised Broussard had kept everything quiet.

He was such a well-respected “family man.” While his wife was alive, his heritage had never come up. Crown Council members were appointed, not elected. While it was very important to the St. Michel government that all Crown Council members be above reproach, Broussard was the epitome of respectable.

But the more Henri thought about it, being put up for adoption was no reason that a person should be disqualified from making a life for himself—especially a life that involved public service. A man had no control over the circumstances of his birth.

Even so, Colbert had guarded his past with a jealous vengeance. Probably driven by the same instinct that had him protecting his future by sending his daughter away.

When Margeaux went through her “phase,”
as certain members of the Council referred to it, Colbert was already ensconced in government. He was a respected public figure and a widower to boot. Sympathy was on his side. Margeaux was the hellion. When Colbert sent her away, he'd done what was expected of him. He'd cleaned up the mess, silenced the hullabaloo.

Despite how he understood the drive that made Colbert do what he had to do, Henri also understood how this revelation might come as a shock to Margeaux.

“How do you feel about all this?” he asked.

She stopped chopping and pressed her hip into the counter, looking thoughtful.

“It's really strange. Discovering my perfect father, who sent me away for being less than perfect, felt like he had something to hide.”

She looked at him for a moment, unsaid words hanging pregnant in the air. “Do you remember the night that started it all?”

Did he remember? That day had set the gold standard for all lovemaking to come. It was a hot August. The kind that seems like it will drag on into forever. They'd been lying in the
grass by the lake behind the orchard. The two of them had no place to be and no one to report to.

“It was your idea to skinny dip,” he said, the memory of it making him hot. He set down the knife and turned to face her.

“It most definitely was.” She was looking at him in a way that had him gripping the edge of the counter to keep from reaching for her. “My idea. But I seem to remember you being a willing participant.”

“Are you kidding me? It must have been one hundred and ten degrees outside that day.”

She took a step toward him.

Henri wrapped his arms around Margeaux and dusted her lips with kisses that trailed down her throat.

“Oh, you have no idea the things I remember.” His voice was a horse rasp.

Her sultry smile teased him, invited him, and unleashed a need that had him searching for what they'd shared all those years ago. He longed to tell her exactly how he'd imagined kissing her mouth…reacquainting himself with her body…burying himself deep inside
her, exactly the way he'd done it that day at the lake.

But before the words could find their way past his lips, she took his hand and led him to the bed where they'd slept last night, where he'd held her, breathed her in, loved her with his mind and heart as she slept.

His hands locked on her waist, taking possession of her body.

She tucked herself into his chest. He buried his face in her hair, breathed in the scent of her—that delicious smell of flowers, amber and the green of the vegetables they'd been prepping. A scent that was so familiar, yet new, that it hit him in a certain place that rendered him weak in the knees.

He breathed her in and melted with the heat of her body.

“Make love to me, Henri.”

Smoothing a lock of hair off her forehead, he kissed the skin he uncovered, then searched her eyes. She answered him with a kiss, a silent
Yes, I want this.

Relishing the warmth of her, and the way she was clinging to him, he cradled her face in his palms and kissed her softly, gently, until
her fingers found his. She laced their fingers together. Their hands lingered a moment, gripping, flexing, hesitating, as he silently gave her one last chance to object, to escape, to run away from what was about to happen.

 

But she wanted it to happen. She'd been waiting for this to happen again since the last time she'd kissed him. Her lips parted on a sigh and gave him full permission to take possession of every inch of her.

A rush of red-hot need spiraled through her. He must have read it in her face because he let go of her hands and his arms encircled her. In a fevered rush, he claimed her mouth, her thoughts, her sanity. Her fingers slipped into his hair and pulled him close, closer until they were kissing with a need so furious it was all consuming.

She clung to him, relishing the closeness. There was no mistaking his need or his desire, as his hands swept down the outer edge of her body to claim her bottom.

Then somehow, in a heated whirl of passion they tugged away their clothes—her blouse, her skirt, his shirt, his jeans—until they'd gotten
rid of every barrier between them so that they stood naked and wanting.

Together.

He held her so close that she could hear his heartbeat. She felt safe and at home for the first time in years. With every fiber of her being she concentrated on the moment, shoving away the dark curtain of the past that threatened to close between them. The voice that chattered about how there was too much water under the bridge. About the things she hadn't told him.

But all she wanted was
this.

Right now.

Not the past.

Not the future.

The present.

Right now.

His lips found hers again, and she shut out everything else but the need that was driving both of them to the brink of insanity.

He kissed her neck, and her fingers swept over his broad shoulders and muscled arms, before reacquainting her touch with the curve of his derriere. She pulled him even closer so that the hardness of him pressed into her, urging her legs apart, searching, proving his need.

He eased her down onto the bed. It was crazy how much she wanted him. Utter madness.