Heirs Book Two: American Lady (14 page)

“How about Ramboldi’s as the next best
thing?” Thiérry suggested. “It’s got a great Italian ambience.”

Maix looked hesitantly at Henri, who was a
stickler for protocol. “You young people go on for a nightcap,” he
said, obviously too tired tonight to take umbrage. “We old fogies
will head back to bed.”

Leigh bristled at his remarks. Charley and
Aurelie exchanged anxious looks. Charley could not imagine Leigh
classifying herself as an old fogy.

“How many of us can you squeeze into your
car, Maix?” Leigh asked archly. “I could do with some supper.”

Maixent looked at Charley ruefully. “So much
for our romantic getaway,” he grumbled in her ear.

As Maixent escorted King Henri and Father
Emile to the waiting Rolls Royce, Henri said in a low voice, “I
quite like your young lady, Maix. She has what the Americans call
spunk.” Exhileration raced through Maix’s body like bubbling soda
pop, or more like popping champagne bubbles since Henri’s approval
meant one less impediment to the engagement. “Did you say her name
was Cassidy? I used to know the Patrick Cassidys a long time
ago.”

“Dis donc, papa! She is the daughter of
President Cassidy who died in 1964, which makes her Paddy Cassidy’s
granddaughter.”

Henri gave a chuckle. “That Paddy Cassidy is
no fool. Cunning as a fox. He was the brains behind his son’s
election. I only met Alex Cassidy once, at his wedding. And with
his reputation I felt sorry for his young bride. Still, if Paddy
hadn’t invited me I wouldn’t have met your mother.”

“What do you mean, sir? I thought you and
maman met at a modeling shoot at the Spring Palace?” Maixent tamped
down his annoyance at Henri’s rambling digression away from the
topic dearest to his heart.

“Yes, that’s when we got to know each other.
But I was first introduced to her at the Cassidy wedding. Well,
well, well. If your young lady has Paddy’s genes she’s bound to
have a sensible and ambitious head. But you know there are
protocols if you want this relationship to proceed more formally.”
He shook an admonishing finger at Maixent’s chest.

Maixent bowed his head in acknowledgement,
overwhelmed at the warm response from his father.

“Have a word with Alain Verhave,” Henri
said. Verhave was Altobello’s Minister of State and head of the
National Council. His position relative to the royal family was
often to act as a sounding board between the Marchessinis and the
Council. “We must try to avoid any hint of scandal so there can be
no surprises with your young lady. He’s diplomatic, alert him to
the situation and let him arrange the requisite background
checks.”

Maixent could barely suppress his excitement
when he returned to her side.

“Why do you look like the cat who swallowed
the canary?” Charley asked.

“My father approves of you. He’s very
impressed that Paddy Cassidy is your grandfather.”

Charley twisted around so quickly to face
him, Maixent thought she might give herself whiplash. His toothy
grin wide enough to light up Ramboldi’s dim interior. “That’s a
tacit approval of our engagement. There’s just the formality of the
background checks and requesting Council approval.”

Charley welcomed Maixent’s gentlemanly arm
around her waist, escorting her to the front of his Audi.

As the royal limousine pulled away, Thiérry
wedged himself into the back seat between Leigh and Aurelie. “I am
a preek between two bushes,” he announced in English.

Charley burst into laughter. “I think you
mean you’re a thorn between two roses,” she corrected him.

Maixent drove expertly through the winding
streets and soon had them doubleparked in front of Ramboldi’s. He
threw the keys to one of his bodyguards and joined the group on the
pavement.

Charley was enchanted by the nighttime
façade, helmeted by green and white awnings peeking like a fringe
from beneath a balcony covered in overflowing red geraniums. A
brash Ramboldi Restaurant sign was neon-lighted above the awning.
The long ribbon of pavement was strung with white table-clothed
settings like a pearl necklace. The group moved through the French
windows into the noisy, smoke-filled bar.

Charley had been worried that they might be
overdressed in their evening clothes, but Ramboldi’s was such a
highend evening and late night supper spot that casually dressed
meant designer jeans teamed with diamonds.

A few heads turned as they walked between
tables to cram into a booth at the back while a roar of
conversation washed around them. A tactful waiter came to take
their order, politely ignoring their identities. After all at
Ramboldi’s famous faces were a centime a dozen.

Aurelie ordered tortellini with lashings of
cream and white truffle sauce, Maixent ordered veal kidneys in
Madeira sauce, Leigh and Charley ordered ravioli stuffed with
lobster and Thiérry ordered sea bass roasted in a salt crust.

Ignoring Maixent’s caution about the
possibility of paparazzi materializing at inappropriate moments to
snap intimate shots of the royal family, Charley happily forked
marinated kidneys into his mouth one at a time.

In her eyes they were as good as engaged.
She had no qualms about the background check. After all if the
Altobesques could accept Leigh Taylor, American model, they were
sure to love the daughter of a former President of the United
States. Besides, in a few hours she would be flying back to New
York because Maix thought it was a good idea to test their feelings
for each other, so she wasn’t about to waste a moment of their time
together.

* * *

Seated some distance away a man in his
middle fifties with thick silver hair, swept off his high forehead,
a swarthy complexion and deep sunk eyes sat staring at their table,
watching the four young people with Queen Leigh.

The young blond man with the broad shoulders
was obviously in love with the dark haired girl sitting beside him.
She was not classically beautiful but she was striking with
hauntingly luminous gray eyes and had the radiant smile of a woman
in love. Opposite them sat a sulky young girl, who looked to be
still in her late teens. Beneath the baby fat of her face he could
see the well-formed bone structure of her cheeks. Her creamy
complexion, Roman nose and wide forehead all gave an attractive
cast to her features. She glanced continually at the young man
beside her who was in turn sneaking furtive glances at Queen Leigh,
seated opposite him and beside the dark-haired girl. Queen Leigh,
despite being the oldest member of the group, was easily the most
beautiful woman there, in a white broderie anglais dress that
fitted her sleek figure like a glove.

When the waiter delivered his order he
asked, “That booth at the back of the restaurant. Isn’t that Queen
Leigh?” Despite his age, the man’s body was still well toned, his
arms resting on the table top were thick with muscle.

“Peut-être,” the waiter shrugged his
shoulders with Gallic indifference. The Altobesques were protective
of their royal family. The man reached into his jacket and pulled
out a hefty wallet. “Does this jog your memory?” Suavely, he
flipped a wad of francs over with his thumb and slid it along the
table.

The waiter hastily pocketed the money. “That
is Queen Leigh with her children Prince Maixent and Princess
Aurelie. The other man is Count Thiérry de Renrocher, son of the
Chairman of the Societé de Banque Territoriale. The dark-haired
woman I do not know. She is not Altobesque.”

The man smiled, satisfied. Unobtrusively he
continued to watch them as two waiters brought out their flaming
Crêpes Suzette. The man knew he should slip away, but he felt
compelled to watch as the flames flickered over their faces like a
still-life tableau. He felt mesmerized, hardly touching his food,
keeping himself in the shadows as the crowds began thinning.

* * *

“I think we are going to have to call it a
night.” Maixent looked at his watch. “Or rather a morning.” He
squeezed Charley’s hand under the table. He wanted to snatch a few
brief moments alone with her before she flew home.

Yawning, Aurelie nodded agreement. “I’ve
still got an assignment to finalize before heading back to the
Sorbonne tomorrow. No, I mean today.”

Thiérry slid out of the booth first,
following a Swiss guard out of the restaurant while Maixent brought
up the rear with Bruno close on his heels. He passed a cursory
glance around the almost empty room, noting the only occupied table
near them had a single diner nursing a brandy snifter. Abruptly
Maixent stiffened, his attention captured by the gleam of lamplight
on hair as thick, coiffed and luminously silver as Charlie
Rich’s.

Adrenaline kicked tiredness out of his body
and he slowed his approach to get a better view. The man’s face was
obscured by shadow, only his hair betrayed him. Drawing level with
the mystery man, Maixent went down on one knee like a routed
bowling pin, deliberately knocking heavily against the table. Drops
of cognac splattered across the man’s white shirt and he
momentarily lifted his eyes to Maixent’s just as the table lamp
rocked on its base, tipped and smashed out.

As Bruno and two waiters immediately leapt
forward to help, the stranger instantly bowed his head, ducking
back into the darkness. Maixent peered futilely through the gloom
as he muttered an apology, before hotfooting it down the
walkway.

Shaken by the unexpected encounter, Maixent
caught up with the others, who had noticed nothing, and took the
driver’s seat. Placing his fists on the steering wheel he found his
hands trembling. Even though he had only seen his face for a split
second, it was impossible to forget his stare.

He recognized him from the photo Beaucopas
had shown him earlier. The man sitting near them in Ramboldi’s had
been Cesare Cabrini.

When Nikki arrived home from Lorenzo’s polo ranch in
Palm Beach, Rosedale was deserted apart from Oscar who joyfully
leapt up to greet her, pleased to have company. Nikki was less
pleased with his and pushed him away with the flat of her hand as
Charley had taught her. “Down, Oscar. Go and eat, or do whatever
dogs do,” she shooed him back to the kitchen.

After towing her suitcase to the hallway and
kicking off her shoes, Nikki wandered into her office and poured
herself a large vodka soda. Since Charley’s return from Altobello
Nikki had been unable to stop sniping at her and the tension had
got so bad she had finally taken herself out of the picture to
spend a few days in Palm Beach.

She didn’t particularly like the polo
circuit that Lorenzo inhabited between January to April, but, at
Griffin’s urging, she had made the most of the networking
opportunities to flog her designs as she rubbed shoulders with the
wives of corporate CEOs, television producers, real estate
developers and financiers who were patrons on many of the polo
teams. The circuit had culminated in the US Open Polo Championship
where Lorenzo’s team, the Flying Angels, had narrowly missed out on
the cup to Carter Ranch.

Lorenzo had flown straight on to Barcelona
and Nikki and Charley were going to join him in Cannes in ten days
for the Film Festival.

Sighing tiredly, Nikki sat down at her desk,
gingerly easing her glass into the only clear space she could find
next to the phone. And it was only then she noticed a neat pile of
sketches on her blotter, a bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water
and a note, written in large scrawling writing. It was from Griffin
Capizichi whose free week of work had extended into two and who had
continually been popping into Rosedale with questions, samples of
material and tidbits to feed Oscar, whom he was, amazingly, as fond
of as Charley. Nikki had been running a losing campaign against
finding black dog hairs throughout the house.

Here are the sketches as promised. I’ve
changed your tickets to an earlier flight to Paris so we can view
the collections before you head out to Cannes. Not so much for
inspiration but to know what NOT to design for American women and
to search for next season’s materials. I have lots of ideas to
discuss with you.

I have also left you a bottle of mineral
water. It looks the same as vodka so you can make the substitution
without ruining your alcoholic reputation and still maintain a
clear head. People will be impressed.

Matt Dillon

PS Let me see the designs for your wedding
gown before you approve them. We can take the opportunity to
showcase American Lady.

PPS Remember I’m one of the good guys.

Rage, awe and amusement at his audacity
struggled for ascendency in her as she read over his note a second
time. What an impertinent, arrogant, insufferably cocky bastard he
was! How dare he make nasty innuendos about her alcoholic habits –
did she really drink enough for people to notice? Then he declared
himself the fashion arbiter of whether or not she would be dressed
suitably for her own wedding, and booked tickets not only for her
but for himself as well to fly to Paris!

The man certainly had balls. He reminded her
more and more of Gunsmoke’s moral sheriff. Matt Dillon indeed! She
smiled.

She relocated to a sofa and settled herself
comfortably, for once forsaking the vodka glass, as she flipped
through the half dozen sketches he had left for her.

The first drawing she picked up was of a
cerise fake Persion lamb coat teamed with black lycra pants. She
shuddered at the idea of fake fur and threw the sketch aside.

The next one featured a ballgown formed from
a strapless sheath of silver lamé, with the body hugging lines
accentuated by sequin-spangled bouffant netting. Tacky, she
thought. It was not something she would be caught dead in. She
threw the sketch aside.