Harlequin Superromance February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: His Forever Girl\Moonlight in Paris\Wife by Design (50 page)

“Tara, if you get this message before you get to Jacques Martin's address, please don't go in. I'll explain everything. Just wait for me outside. I love you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T
ARA
STOOD
IN
FRONT
OF
the imposing building, trying to bring her breathing down to something that resembled normal rate.

The taxi ride had taken longer than she'd anticipated with a couple of fast sprints through harrowing tunnels that had her clutching her seat and thinking of Princess Di.

Amazingly, several times the fact that she was headed to meet Jacques Martin slipped from her mind as she feared for her life. Then, the purpose of the taxi ride would pop back into her mind and she would clench her teeth and hope that meeting her father would still remain an option in this lifetime.

She should probably spend some time in contemplation of the fabulous architecture of the building, but later seemed like a better time for that activity. Right then, she needed to get on with the task at hand before she lost her nerve...or her chance.

And she had no guarantee Jacques Martin would even be in, or that he would welcome her unannounced visit.

She opened the massive door and stepped into a huge corridor whose pink granite floors cast a rosy hue to the ivory walls—an effect she found both charming and soothing. What appeared to be suites of offices lined the sides of the wide hallway. A large lobby opened up the center of the first floor, and beyond it was another corridor, identical to the one she was standing in.

She felt as if she'd just fallen down the hole with Alice and needed one of those mushrooms that made her larger—and more significant.

At least one breath came easier when she located the directory on the wall, but when she came to the name, it went erratic again.
Jacques Martin, le concessionnaire, 137
. She touched her finger to the glass, leaving a smudge after she removed it.

She began walking, checking the numbers on the doors. All lower one hundreds. When she reached the lobby, dismay brought her to a halt. Seven more identical corridors. Three continued toward the back of the building. Two came into the lobby on her left, and two on her right.

She stood there for a minute, not sure which way to go next, wishing she'd waited till Garrett could have come with her and divided up the territory. Then her eyes fell on the ornate golden numbers above each corner of the hallways.

On her left, 190 and 180. On the right, 120 and 130. She walked with a purposeful gait down the right-hand 130 corridor until she stood before 137.

Jacques Martin, le concessionnaire.

She had no idea what that meant, and it made not one iota of difference to her.

The coolness of the suite hit her, as did the coolness of the drop-dead gorgeous receptionist whose crisp welcome held the warmth of a freshly dug radish.

“Bonjour, madame.”

“Bonjour, madame,”
Tara answered, hoping
madame
was okay to use even though she was pretty sure the woman was younger than she. “Um.” Tension closed her throat and her mouth went dry, causing her to pause. “
Je m'appelle
Tara O'Malley.
Je...uh...
crap!
”
She forgot the words. Closing her eyes, she “read” them from her frontal lobe.
“Je cherche Jacques Martin. Est-il ici?”
She opened her eyes and smiled in relief.

The receptionist, who may have been younger but had a much older air about her, didn't smile, but looked Tara up and down thoroughly, pausing at the missing fingers long enough to wrinkle her nose in distaste. Tara had seen it happen before, but coming from the embodiment of feminine perfection, the gesture made her flush. “And do you have an appointment, Ms. O'Malley?” The young woman's English pushed through a thick accent.

“No. I just decided to pop in.”
Seriously? Pop in?
“Monsieur Martin is an old friend of my family's. I was in town, and I promised my mother I would stop in and say hello. They were friends in college.” Tara fought the urge to cover her mouth with her hand to stop her talking.

“Jacques is very busy.” The use of the man's first name, and the way she said it, made Tara think this was more than a boss-receptionist relationship. “I will see if he wants to take time for you.” Her tone said he wouldn't.

The young woman rose from her seat like Venus in a red peplum halter over a black-and-white polka-dotted pencil skirt. Tara gawked at her red patent leather five-inch stilettos as she walked away from the desk.

Who dressed like that for work? Even in Paris.

The sound of a door opening stopped the young woman's forward movement, but Tara's eyes continued to where François Martin appeared in an office doorway.

“Yvette.” He took a couple of steps in the woman's direction before his eyes landed on Tara.

“François?” Tara felt her face break into a smile at this happy coincidence.

For the second time since she'd entered the suite, her smile wasn't returned. François's face turned hard and cold, the look in his eyes even colder.

Tara gave a little wave and took a couple of steps in his direction. “It's me. Tara O'Malley. We met at the park Saturday. The Place des Vosges?
We shared a bench and I played with Attila.”

The receptionist swung around to glare at her. “You met Jacques at Place des Vosges
Saturday
?
And why do you call him François?” Her icy stare jerked toward François and she said something Tara wouldn't have understood even if her consciousness hadn't stalled on the first part of what the woman had said.

She'd called him Jacques.

“Your name is Jacques?” Tara's brain was slow to download the meaning behind this discrepancy, but her heart heard the message loud and clear and took off faster than the taxi she'd arrived in. She pointed a quivering finger. “You're Jacques Martin?”

“I want you to leave. Now.” He bit the words out.

Tara's mind whirred, trying to make sense of what was happening while protecting her psyche from the encroaching attack. Comprehension breached the barrier quickly. “Meeting you was no coincidence, was it? You knew who I was Saturday...knew I was your daughter.”

The young woman's face contorted into a mask of disgust. “Your daughter
?
” She pointed to Tara's hand and barked a mean laugh.
“This...this freak?
”

Tara recoiled from the blow as the ice queen melted into a puddle of condemnation, French words spitting out like poison from a cobra.

Temporarily forgotten by the woman and the man, whose placating words seemed to be falling on deaf ears, Tara took a moment to rise from the verbal punch that had knocked the wind out of her and take stock of what she knew.

François Martin, the man she'd had such a lovely conversation with in the park...the man with the precious, well-behaved dog...was her father,
Jacques Martin
. He'd lied about his name because he didn't want her to know who he was.

But how did he know who
she
was? How did he find out she even existed? How did it happen that
he
found
her
when the number of people who knew of their relationship could be counted on her fingers—even with some of them gone?

Someone had alerted him.

Someone arranged the meeting in the park without her knowledge.

Someone wanted to give
him
the opportunity, but not her.

Her stomach drew into a hard knot, making her queasy.
Please don't let me throw up now.

Who would do such a thing? Who would make such a cruel, heartless arrangement when she'd come so far and gone to such lengths?

The door of the suite opened, and the place went quiet as her companions' squabble was sidetracked by someone's entrance.

Tara swung around to face the door.

“Garrett?”

She hadn't given him the address in her voice mail, had she?

“Get out of my office.” The words spewed from Jacques Martin's lips. “Both of you. Get out, and never let me see your faces again.”

Tara heard the command, yet her feet stood firmly planted to the spot. Any movement was going to take her over an emotional abyss, and so she stood motionless, listening to the growl and the shrieks from the couple behind her, unable to tear her eyes from Garrett's face.

He didn't have to say a word. The answers to her questions were all there in the grim set of his mouth.

A pain unlike anything she'd ever experienced sliced through her and lodged in her chest.

* * *

“N
O
.”

Garrett read the word on Tara's lips, and watched the question in her eyes dissolve into anguish. Her look speared him from across the room, but he ignored the warning and moved closer.

“Monsieur Hughes,
I advise you to leave, and take your girlfriend with you.” The threat was evident in Martin's tone. “I have lost my patience with you both.”

“Give me a minute, will you?” Garrett shot a look the man's way, but continued moving toward Tara, needing to touch her, hold her. Her look chilled him and, with every step, the wall of ice between them grew thicker.

“Tara,” he said gently. “I can explain. You just need to hear me out.” He held out his hand, but she stepped around him, out of reach.

“You...both—” her eyes darted from him to her father “—should be ashamed.”

The words brought an eerie moment of silence to the room, and then Martin sneered. “Her mother spread her legs easily,” he said in French. “The daughter of the whore should be ashamed. And you have had your minute. Now go say goodbye to your Soulard
beer.”

A double helix of anger and frustration spiraled through Garrett, twisting everything in its path. “I didn't tell her. I kept my word.” He bit out the words through clenched teeth. “Tara, tell him how you found him.”

“Mama got your address from one of her sorority sisters at Murray.” Tara addressed Martin with her chin lifted, but the defiant pose couldn't mask the hurt brimming in her eyes. “I should've listened to her. Coming here was a mistake.” With a dismissive toss of her head, she stalked toward the door.

“Wait, Tara,” Garrett called after her, but she ignored him. He would run to catch up in a minute, but first he would have his say.

Garrett locked gazes with Martin and dared him to look away. “You've just thrown away what would've been the best thing to ever happen to you, Monsieur Martin
.
Something that would've given depth to your shallow existence.” He pointed to the closing door. “And you may think you're all big and powerful because you can crush Soulard
for no reason
.
But nothing you have makes you deserving of Tara. She was a gift of love, and unlike that one—” he nodded toward Yvette “—wanted nothing but love in return.”

He left, keeping his dignity until the office door closed. Then he broke into a jog.

Tara wasn't in the corridor, as he'd expected, nor was she anywhere in sight. He ran through the lobby, looking this way and that. People stared at him as he jostled past groups and bumped into those standing in his way.

Where was she? His gut clenched into a knot. How could she have disappeared so quickly?

He exited the building at full speed and spotted her standing at the curb. “Tara!”

She ignored him and waved at an approaching taxi. It swept by her, giving him a chance to catch up.

He touched her shoulder and felt her flinch. When she spun around, he could see the wetness on her cheeks, and the accusation in her eyes made him flinch in return.

“How could you, Garrett?” She ran her hand through the top of her hair, sweeping off the band that was keeping the curls back. They sprang loose in a wild riot around her face that animated her speech as she punched a finger in his direction. “How could you do this to me?”

He caught her hand in midair. “I didn't mean for it to turn out like this.” She winced, and he realized he'd squeezed her injured hand. He loosened his grip, and she jerked her hand from his. “When I found Martin, he didn't want to meet you. In fact, he threatened to ruin Soulard
if I didn't keep you away.”

“And you didn't tell me? Why?” She pinned him with narrowed eyes.

“I should have.”

“But you didn't. Why?”

“I was concerned, if we ever broke up, you might retaliate by going to him anyway....” He shrugged, refusing to dig himself any deeper into the ridiculous hole he'd started.

Her look was incredulous. “You really think I could ever be
that
vindictive? That I would try to ruin your career over a failed relationship? What kind of person do you think I am?”

“I didn't think. I reacted like I would've with Angie.”

“Because Angie and I are so much alike...with the tattoos and piercings and all.” She shook her head in disgust and a deep breath shook her chest.

Garrett pressed on, wanting to get the whole story out so she'd have a clear picture. “Martin refused to see you, but I thought, if he could just meet you, he'd fall in love with you like I have.” Her eyes filled with tears again, but she didn't say anything. “So I arranged for him to meet us in the park, and I gave him my word I would leave it up to him to contact you.”

Her chin quivered and Garrett felt the tremor deep inside. “But he didn't contact me.” She sniffed, fighting the tears. “And he wasn't going to, was he? Why? Would I be so terrible to claim as a daughter?”

“It's not you, baby.” Garrett laid his hands on her shoulders and leaned down until his eyes and hers were even. “It's his wife. The receptionist.” Tara frowned, but understanding dawned through the shimmer of her tears. “He's giving money to two other out-of-wedlock children. His wife, who is his third and younger than you, by the way, is jealous the kids are taking too much of his wealth. She threatened divorce if it happened again.”