The Billionaire's Desire (6 page)

But it was a friend, Constance, calling during her break.

“Ally? Is that you on the cover of Tattle Tale?” she asked without preamble.

“What do you think?”

“I think it looks like you and I recognize that dress but…what would you be doing with Luc Jeneau?”

“I have asked myself that question for the past couple of weeks now,” Ally said, rising to pad toward her kitchen and put on a kettle of tea.

“Ohmigod. You’re not serious? That’s you? That’s – that’s
him
? Ally! How?”

She turned the front burner on and the kettle began to hum. “We met at St. Tropez, when I was there to acquire a piece for the gallery. The party was at his house
of all places, this huge chateau straight out of a fairy tale. I was looking at an Albert painting and he just walked right up to me and offered it to me.”

“No shit. Oh my God. And then what?”

“And then…”Ally prevaricated. “Well, I guess there was some chemistry. But that model, Catherine Fedoroff, saw us together and freaked out…he got me back to my hotel and I thought it was the last I’d seen of him. Then he started sending gifts to my place and then I saw him at the Met Ball on Friday and…I guess someone had a camera.”

The kettle shrieked. Ally poured herself some tea and settled back on the couch in her living room.

“Catherine…she’s the face of Gemme, right?”

“Yes. I suppose she is.”

“Well…I heard they’re actually
married
. Catherine and Luc, I mean. A few years back. Where did I read that? It was online. And then recently, they separated, or he filed for divorce, and she just totally lost it and likes to pretend they’re still together and in love…I don’t know. Don’t quote me on it, but that’s what I heard. From somewhere.”

Married
? Ally felt sick. She set her mug on the coffee table lest she drop it.

“Hey, Con? I’m not feeling great…I think I’m going to go lie down.”

“Are you at home?”

“Yeah, I…I went home sick.” Not a lie.

“Okay, well, babe, take care of yourself. I’ll talk to you soon. Love.”

“Bye, Con.” Ally hung up and tossed the phone to the floor.
Married
?
And to that beautiful psychopath
?

She checked the clock on the cable box. 1:45. Five hours until dinner with Luc. She wasn’t sure if she was up to it.

*

“You look ravishing,” Luc greeted her
as she scooted into the cab with him. He was dressed down, an easy gray suit, no tie, unshaven. The stubble was sexy. Ally had to keep herself from stroking his cheek.

“Thanks.” She had thrown on a summery strapless dress with a pretty floral pattern and a pair of wedge sandals, having changed her outfit at least a dozen times.

This felt good, though, comfortable. She didn’t feel as obliged to impress him with something designer or designer-looking. Though he was looking at her as if he wanted to tear the dress right off.

“Where to?” she asked, keeping it light.

“A little place I love, not far. The food is divine, traditional French fare, but it is a small, casual place.”

The cab pulled up to Marcel’s, just two blocks away from Ally’s apartment.

“Luc,” she chided him, laughing. “We could have walked.”

“Well, perhaps we can walk back after.”

After…

“You have seen my home. I would love to see yours.” His words contained a wealth of meaning.

Ally smiled and said nothing. They were seated outdoors, in lovely bistro-style chairs, their table lit by a beautiful candle centerpiece.

“Marcel!” Luc said with delight as the portly head chef and owner spilled out into the al fresco dining area to greet his friend. Luc spoke rapid French and was responded to in kind.

“And this is Ah-
lee
. Ah-
lee
, my dear friend and all the brains and brawn behind this little gem: Marcel d’Avignon.”

“Enchanté,” Marcel murmured, taking Ally’s hand to kiss it. She blushed.

“Tonight, only the best for my old friend and my new one.
Bon appétit, mes amis
.”

“This is lovely,” Ally said, the dread as heavy as an anvil in her throat.

“I have known Marcel since, eh, we were no bigger than piss ants. His father was cook in my home growing up and now, he has three international restaurants. He is as a brother to me.”

A waiter arrived with a bottle of red wine. They fell silent as he uncorked it and poured two glasses. Ally knocked back half the glass for courage and nerve.

“How do you like it? You seem to be, eh, quite the fan?”

“Oh, it’s…it’s lovely,” Ally said. She coughed discreetly into her hand; her eyes were watering. “Luc, I…I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and everything you have given me. The gifts are exquisite, and of course, you are an incredible man and I’m sure any woman would be lucky to have you in her life…”

“Where I come from, Ah-
lee
, this is something a woman says before she tells a man she no longer wishes to see him.” Luc’s dark eyes searched hers.

Ally broke the connection and looked down at the white linen table cloth. It would be so easy to just tell him to forget it and enjoy a beautiful meal with this beautiful, powerful and erotic man – who had, Ally realized with bittersweet regret, made her feel more alive than she had in years. But she thought about what Mr. Roberts had said to her. In five years, she would have a top position in the art gallery and museum world, a position she had sacrificed for in countless ways. Could she count on Luc to still be there in five years? She never saw him five
hours
after their encounters.

“Luc, let me just be honest. I can’t see you anymore. Please, stop pursuing me. You don’t seem to understand that what’s been – I don’t know – a casual
fling
for you, has almost destroyed my professional career. I’m sorry. This is just our first date and I’ve already been threatened by your – by Catherine, whatever she is to you.” Ally stumbled over her words, though they came spilling out now that she’d begun to say what needed to be said.

“I think you are incredible, a true artist, a visionary, everything they say. But I have worked too hard to build this career, put in too many hours at work when my girlfriends were at the beach or on vacation or even seeing their families at Thanksgiving, to let a fling destroy my future. My future career and my future happiness, I mean – this job is everything to me.”

“What do you speak of when you say Catherine has threatened you?” Luc asked, avoiding the topic of her relationship to him. “How can you not think I am not serious about you?”

Ally chortled, an involuntary reaction. “How can I think you
are
? We’ve had two very passionate meetings, and you have sent me some beautiful gifts and flowers and shared maybe a few hours’ worth of conversation. What do you call that?”

“Connection,” Luc shot back. “Forgive me for saying so, but as a man who has indulged in every type of brittle pleasure there is, I have finally found something – someone – who has made me realize how empty it all really was. You are the light, Ah-
lee
…and I don’t care how long it takes for me to prove my feelings for you. I will do so.”

“What about Catherine?”

Luc shifted in his sit. “She doesn’t matter.”

“She does,” Ally insisted. “Is it true? Are you married?”

He made a fist on the table in impotent frustration. “A stupid mistake one night when we had first met. It was supposed to be annulled. We agreed long ago that we made no demands of each other and we do not speak of it. The tabloids print what they want. It is as nothing.”

Ally went rigid. “You are married. You are married to Catherine.”

“I have been photographed many times with other women, she with other men. Never has she been so furious. Why, you might wonder? Because you are a true threat to something which is not hers to begin with.”

“But you are,” Ally said, rising from the table, her eyes starting to water. “You belong to each other. That’s what marriage is. I’m sorry. I have to go, Luc. My job is more important to me than you. Please don’t contact me again.”

She fast-walked the three blocks home, managed a smile for the doorman and broke down in the elevator. He hadn’t followed her. Surely that meant something? In any case, he was a scoundrel, an adulterer and probably a liar to boot. Ally wasn’t sure what about, but something. What had she expected, anyway? Every reason she’d flung at him for stopping his pursuit of her was sound. But to hear him admit he was a married man…and to that…that
demon
, of all people.

She checked her phone a dozen times, waiting for a text, a call, ev
en hoping for an email. Nothing.

At midnight Ally finally changed into he
r pajamas and slipped into bed, filled with unbearable sadness.

Chapter 6

Luc watched Ally go in a haze of pain and confusion. He was a firm believer in following a woman’s wishes…so did that mean he shouldn’t follow her? What did she want? Did Ally even know what she wanted herself?

He felt – what was this? Re
jection? It was horrible, made even worse when the waiter returned to their table and almost comically did a double take when he saw Ally’s seat, empty and pushed back from her sudden departure.

“Has the lady gone to use the necessary room?” he asked with polite concern.

Luc shook his head. “She’s just gone.”

He needed a walk to clear his mind. He threw down a few hundred dollar bills to cover the expense of the meal and trudged down the crowded sidewalk, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.

Think, man. Think. How to win her back
?

He would honor her wishes – for tonight, at least. But tomorrow was another day. Such was his way; he had grown up learning to persist at all costs. He would persist in his pursuit of Ally not only because he wanted her. He knew, in his bones, she wanted him, too. And for him, it was as simple as that. What other ex
planations were necessary? The vain, soulless women of his usual social stratosphere threw themselves at him and he played along – it was part of the game, the fleeting amusement, each party getting what they wanted from the other. But Ally was something finer, something more precious, that perfect, luminous bloom on a bush with so many roses all rotted away from the inside.

He hailed a cab and took it to Catherine’s penthouse hotel suite.

*

Luc didn’t call or text for the entire week and on Thursday Ally removed his number from her phone. So it was just as she thought. He could be back in France for all she knew; she convinced herself she did not care.

“No more dramatics,” she had promised Mr. Roberts, who nodded, grim-faced.

But the days had seemed endless and the nights more so. She found herself daydreaming, fantasizing, not just about those sweet and sexy incidents with Luc, but about the future that would never be – not now, clearly.

It would have never worked
, she consoled herself.
My life is so much here. His work is just as important to him, and that is among the couturiers in France
.

It was more than painful to think about what might have been now; it was heartbreaking. She spent the entire week in a slump of joyless motion, finishing her work without pleasure and going home to eat microwavable dinners while watching TV shows on her laptop. She could never have imagined that finding someone and losing them in a matter of weeks would so affect her. Gradually it dawned on her that Luc might have been on to something.

At six p.m. Friday evening Mr. Roberts popped his head into Ally’s office.

“Still here?” he asked. “What are you doing?”

“Still here,” she confirmed. “Just running over this paperwork for the Beatty piece transfer.”

“Go home, Al.” Mr. Roberts studied her with concern. “Take it with you, by all means, but get out of here. Don’t you have a – night clubhouse or some such thing to go to? Dancing with your friends?”

Ally managed a savage smile. “Not tonight. There
is
a frozen pizza waiting at home with my name on it, though.” It was a testament to her obvious depression that even Mr. Roberts was looking at her with pity.

“Well, I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Text if you need anything,” Ally called to his retreating figure. She knew he’d probably have something for her to take care of within the hour, for all they both pretended it was just a 9-5 job.

As she shuffled through the entrance of her apartment building, the doorman, Bruce, gave her an exceptionally broad grin.

Without the energy to ask, Ally boarded the empty, waiting elevator and stared at her pale reflection in the closed doors.

She’d applied red lipstick as a simple addition to her cat-eye eyeliner for a classic, vintage look. But the red hue, without the usual flush of color in her cheeks, made her look wan, washed out. Instead of brushing her blonde locks out to a shimmery sheen, she’d simply pulled her hair back into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. But she had a headache now,
on top of the sadness, regret and guilt.