4
TRISTAN
On a bench at the corner of Chartres and St. Ann, I sat drinking a café au lait and reading the Sunday newspaper. The tourist crowds were heavy, and the Louisiana sun had begun to heat up, making my area in the shade a coveted spot. Checking my watch, I released my shoulders. He was late. Again.
I didn’t look up from the sports section when he began to speak, but when I dropped my newspaper to pick up my coffee, I could see he was struggling with a hangover. Although the staff and performers at the Sanctuary didn’t drink during the parties, I knew after the last guest had gone, they had a debriefing with Wood. Whomever was still up for more would start the sexual escapades all over again. Agent Pete Jones looked as if he’d had his fair share of fun last night.
“You look like shit,” I said, before taking a sip of my coffee.
“I feel like shit.”
“Any idea why my boyfriends didn’t show up last night?”
“Nope.”
I took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. There was no reason for me to divulge my plans for the next forty-eight hours to Pete, other than common curtesy. We wouldn’t speak again until I’d had the chance to make contact with the shadow brokers at the next party. It was the one and only point of contact with them. I told Pete anyway. “I’m going out of town for a couple of days.”
He didn’t look at me. “You got something?”
“No.”
“Unauthorized vacation?”
“I have some family business to attend to. I’ll be gone forty-eight hours at the most.”
“I got no problem with that. It’ll take me that long to figure out where I left my underwear last night.”
I scoffed. “Humpf.”
“I don’t know why you’re laughing. I heard about what the twins had planned for you.”
Embarrassed resignation covered my face. “Yeah. Well. I’ll reprimand Wood for that later.”
“Why, man? As a single guy, I can’t think of a better assignment than this.”
I stood and closed my paper, staring straight ahead and into the flock of tourists on the street. “If you need me…”
“I won’t.”
“If you do. You know how to find me.”
I walked away. When I made it to the next block, I paused to glance over my shoulder. Pete was gone.
At four-thirty in the afternoon, my dusty wreck of a cab pulled aside The Gulfstream G550 emblazoned with the Champagne Lebleu logo consisting of three lions on a shield. I laughed to myself. The folks at Lakefront Private Airfield were used to chauffeured limos and Bentleys delivering their passengers. That wasn’t my style.
Climbing the clamshell door, I hummed my song, taking a look around the cabin. The jet was brand new. Business in Épernay was good. It had been good for centuries. I tossed the one leather satchel I’d stuffed with a clean shirt, a pair of underwear, my dopp kit and gun into the seat across from me. I had no intention of staying in France longer than one night.
“Mr. Lebleu,” the pilot said stepping out of the cockpit to greet me. “I’m Captain Joe Wright.”
“Tristan,” I corrected, shaking his hand. “You’re American.”
“Indeed. Born and raised in Atlanta,” he replied. “We’re ready for takeoff anytime you are, sir. The flight plan’s been filed. We plan on cruising at about forty thousand feet and should have you on the ground in Épernay in about eleven hours.”
I sat, my body engulfed by the cushy white leather.
“The galley has prepared a nice dinner for you, and Kimberly has made your bed.”
I popped a single brow. “Thought of everything, huh?”
Captain Wright let out a small laugh as the flight attendant came into view, patiently standing behind him. When my eyes strayed to the leggy brunette, the captain turned. “Speak of the devil. This is Kimberly. She’ll be taking care of you.”
“What?” I asked, my voice laced with sarcasm. “There’s only one of you?”
A second leggy brunette walked out of the galley to stand beside her.
“No, sir,” Kimberly replied with a smile. “This is Julie.”
“Bon après-midi, comment vas-tu Monsieur Lebleu?” Julie asked with a bow of her head.
Kimberly was American. Julie was French. “Thank you Julie, I am indeed well this afternoon, and ladies, please call me Tristan, if you don’t mind.” I’d not the energy, nor patience to explain why my mother had changed our names to Bleu. Honestly, it didn’t matter.
Kimberly nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Tristan.” I repeated my name again, knitting my brow with a crooked smile to let her know I was kidding—but I wasn’t.
“Shall I pour some Champagne Lebleu, Tristan?” Julie asked, gesturing to the silver tray behind her containing a chilled bottle of the family’s namesake.
I took a deep breath. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, leaving an important case behind to meet with a dying father I’d never known, nor cared about. Still, one thing was certain. Whatever I was doing in Épernay, I needed to do it with a clear head. I still had residual cobwebs from the hit of X—regardless of my workout and nap. “Thank you, no. I’ll take some water whenever you get a moment.”
Kimberly and Julie smiled pleasantly at me and then each other before turning to leave. I reclined the seat, resting my head in the cozy headrest that smelled of new leather while the captain announced we were cleared for takeoff. Already dozing, I heard her. “Tristan, I need you to fasten your seatbelt for departure, please.”
Without opening my eyes, I felt around in the seat for the buckle and metal tab, connecting them. When I smelled perfume, I peeked to find Kimberly’s sexy cleavage in my face as she tightened the strap. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Tristan.”
“Thank you.”
I took a deep breath, fishing one of my phones from my back pocket. Still brewing over being blackmailed, I read the text messages from Tribolet once again. This guy had balls. As much as I hated to seem as if I was bending to his wishes, it gave me an opportunity to finally face my father. If René Lebleu was truly on his deathbed, it wouldn’t matter what he wanted to say to me. It was what I wanted to say to him. If his life would be over soon, I didn’t want to miss the chance to tell him I wasn’t a Lebleu.
The hours on the jet were sluggish and I found it hard to sleep. The closer I got to France, the more I rethought my decision. I tried to still my mind, but it wasn’t working. I wasn’t hungry and I didn’t want to drink so I paced and allowed the anger of thirty years rise up inside me.
Up and down the white carpet, I made a path. I chastised myself for agreeing to make the trip and cursed René for being my father. I’d hopped on the plane without resistance. It wasn’t who I was. I was Tristan Bleu—a rebel. I didn’t take orders, especially from someone across the pond and so inconsequential to my existence. Hell, even the FBI left me alone to work on my own. And now here I was, allowing this Henry guy to dictate my actions. At least that’s what I wanted to believe. I reasoned with myself. I told myself I’d agreed to fly to Épernay for one reason and one reason only: I wanted to look the man who’d abandoned me in the eye but much more than wanting to see him, I didn’t want to regret not meeting my father.
I dropped to the floor around hour nine and pounded out a hundred or so pushups. It was enough to tire my body and fall asleep with an hour to go in the flight. When the jet touched down in Épernay, I awoke with a start, my feet sliding to the end of the bed as the jet hit the brakes. The flight attendants hadn’t bothered to wake me.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sat up, my head buzzing with jetlag. My body said three in the morning. The clock in Épernay said ten. I puffed my cheeks, blowing out a deep breath with purpose.
“Welcome to Épernay, Monsieur Lebleu.” Julie’s sultry voice brought me back to life for a moment. Then the reality of what I was about to do came over me. For years I’d thought of what I wanted to say to my father. There were nights as a kid in boarding school, I would lie in bed and fantasize about bitching him out after the annual Father/Son weekends had passed. When I was older, I thought about punching him out. René Lebleu was seventy-three, on death’s door, and now he wanted to make amends? Did he think he needed my absolution? If expensive parochial schools had drilled anything into my head it was that were all judged in the end by God—not man. I was ready to meet my maker with a clear conscience. Clearly René Lebleu was not. I wasn’t a forgive and forget kind of man—never had been—never would be. I’d listen to what he wanted to say, give him a long overdue fuck you, then leave and get on with it. I’d long ago given up being a part of his life, let alone needing his approval.
The jet rolled to a stop and I lifted the shade. The early morning sun bounced an angry glare off the black tarmac as it gleamed through the window. I shut it again and stood, rifling through my bag for sunglasses. Cranky from lack of sleep, I was in no mood—for anything.
Slopping my arms through my worn leather jacket, I slung my bag over my shoulder and with a quick thank you and tip of the hat to the captain, made my way down the open clamshell door. Adjusting my eyes to the blinding light of the morning sun, a stiff, early summer breeze blew through me. I inhaled the smell of the French countryside—the clarity of the fresh air laced with hints of floral undertones filled my lungs and helped to shake the fuzz from my head. The Champagne region was not only known for its beautiful vineyards, but for being the most flowery part of France. A black four door Bugatti was parked at the end of the red carpet laid out just for me—a Bugatti with the Lebleu family crest identical to the one on the jet. I knew this car came with a million and a half dollar price tag. If anything, René was trying to make a good impression.
The driver stepped out of the vehicle to open the back door. Suddenly I felt as if I was caught off guard. Was René here to meet me? Now?
One at a time, two delicate feet in black stilettos hit the pavement. Attached was a pair of killer legs. I dropped my shades for a closer look before realizing I was gawking. Quickly pushing the glasses up the bridge of my nose, I watched the brunette in a red, tight-ass dress take the driver’s hand and emerge from the car. The heavy-framed sunglasses she wore hid her eyes, but not the fuck off smirk plastered across her face. She was beautifully built—athletic, with arms that looked as if they’d done more than an occasional push up, and an ass that knew squats. Gorgeous, she hadn’t opened her mouth, and yet I just knew she was full of arrogant attitude. Jesus. She was just my type.
Extending her hand, she spoke in English saying only the French words with her true accent. “Mr. Lebleu, I’m Henry Tribolet. Welcome to Épernay.”
I was completely aware of the surprise that showed on my face as I dropped my chin, and narrowed my gaze. “You’re Henry?”
“Henriette.”
“Tristan,” I replied. “Bleu, Henry.”
She shook my hand firmly and raised a single brow from beneath her black sunglasses at my correction. Her skin was soft and the hint of perfume emanating from her long neck hit me like a slap in the face. Suddenly the jetlag was gone. I was awake and fully present.
“As you wish.” Turning, she walked back to the Bugatti purring on the tarmac. “Allow me escort you to Chateau Lebleu, Mr.—I mean, Tristan.” She spoke over her shoulder, her hips swaying with each calculated step in her very high heels. She paused at the door of the expensive car, hanging her hand on the frame. “You can freshen up, although I recommend not napping today. You should retire early and make a fresh start in the morning.”
Joining Henry by the car, I cornered her against the side of the Bugatti and leaned in to lower my voice. “I plan to meet with your boss today and leave in the morning. There’s no need to adjust to the time. I won’t be spending time.”
Without a reply Henry turned and folded her hot body and beautiful legs into the car. I followed knowing the ride, after my statement, would more than likely consist of silence.
Staring straight ahead, I try to avoid eye contact with Henry, but my curiosity got the best of me. This was the closest I’d ever been to René Lebleu. Unexpectedly, I felt exposed and open. I needed to self-protect. I needed to recon. “So you work for René?”
Henry nodded.
“And you what? Look after him?”
She nodded again.
“In what capacity? You take care of business? The house? The old man, his wife? The son?”
Henry shook her head no.
“No to which part?”
“I’m your father’s assistant, Tristan. That is all.”
“Yeah, a blackmailing assistant.”
“You left me no choice.”
“You’re kidding, right? You had a lot of choices. You could’ve treated me exactly as he has. You could’ve left me alone for the next thirty years.”
I finally turned my head to look at Henry. She showed no emotion. She said nothing.
“Why am I here?”
“Because your father wanted to see you.”
“I got that part. But why?”
Henry remained still. Silent.
“You’re not gonna make this easy are you?”
Henry didn’t even glance my way.
“I’ll take that as a sign you’re not interested in helping me.”
“My apologies, Tristan. What is it you need assistance with?”
“Are you serious? You blackmail me into coming to Épernay because René is dying, and now that I’m here you refuse to explain?”
Henry turned to me, taking off her sunglasses. Her brown eyes were hypnotic and laced with the kind of green flecks that make you want to applaud the beauty of genetics. “I assure you, Tristan, your father wants nothing. Only to speak with you. Since Simone’s passing, René has tried to reach out to you.” She placed her sunglasses back on and stared straight ahead. “I tried to reach you on several occasions, but you’ve been—away—so to speak. You’re a hard man to locate, Mr. Lebleu.”
“Tristan,” I corrected. I found myself staring at her legs and not the upturned chin with which she was giving me attitude. “How did you locate me? If I might ask.”
Henry looked at me, her sexy mouth covered in red lipstick. “Let’s just say there’s a certain club you frequent that provided all the information we needed to find you.”
I could feel my face twist in confusion. Did she mean the Sanctuary? “Who the hell gave you that kind of information?”
“Mr. Lebleu—”
“Tristan.”
“Tristan. Your father is a very connected man.”
I sank into the seat of the luxury car, releasing my head into the leather. “Money talks,” I sighed. “So much for a million dollar’s-worth of confidentiality.”
Henry said nothing.
Turning my head into the window, I watched the trees rush by, the sunshine flashing through the window like a strobe light. If Wood was willing to offer up my information to René, who else had he betrayed me to?
The last fifteen minutes of the ride was silent and I was thankful for the quiet. The drive down Avenue de Champagne was as I remembered. Lined with the finest champagne houses in the world, it was the best address to have in all of France—if you made champagne.
The front gates opened before the car had a chance to pull into the driveway and I glanced at the chateau. I’d seen it before in pictures and even driven past it a couple of times as a college kid backpacking through Europe, but I’d never been closer that the front gates marked with the three lions.
The fine pea gravel crunched under the tires of the car as it pulled through the half-moon driveway, stopping at the front door. I took a deep but silent breath and felt my nostrils flare. I’d waited an actual lifetime for this moment. Now that it was upon me, I’d no idea what to say to René. What would I call him? Mr. Lebleu? Father? Mon pere? Sonofabitch?
The driver opened my door and I climbed out and onto the stone steps of the massive home. For a moment I wondered what my life might’ve looked like if my parents hadn’t divorced. What if I’d spent my entire life at this chateau—right here in Épernay? Would I be the man I am now? Or just some snot-nosed rich kid who followed family tradition like a sheep in order to count my money? If I knew anything, my unconventional life had shaped who I was, and I was pretty damn happy to be me. I did what I wanted when I wanted, and where I wanted. I had money and education—two things René had seen to. Underneath that, I would’ve never been the man I was had I stayed in this small town. Perhaps I should thank the old asshole. He never had a chance to ruin me or my life. Or perhaps he’d done exactly that.
“Welcome to Chateau Lebleu.” Henry’s soft voice suddenly didn’t match her bad ass attitude, tight dress and red lips that only meant business. “Welcome home, Tristan.” Henry paused at the main door and stared down at me.
“Listen,” I said taking off my sunglasses to look her in the eye. “Why don’t you tell me what he wants, that way I can save everyone time. Because I have a hard time believing he just wants to apologize.”
I watched Henry swallow. “Monsieur Lebleu—”
I shifted my weight and planted a hand on my hip, watching Henry open the massive front doors I knew were forged when the house was built three hundred years ago—then rebuilt after World War I. “I’m begging you. Call me Tristan.” I stepped out of the morning light and into the main foyer. “And my name isn’t Lebleu. It’s Bleu.”
“Au contraire mon frére. You are indeed a Lebleu.”
It took less than one second for the man I knew only from photographs to greet me. He extended his hand and I gave it an awkward moment to hang in the air before acquiescing with a firm shake. His aftershave burned my nostrils, his grip, weak. When he tried to pull me in for an embrace, I stood my ground. I had boundaries, and his hand was my limit.
“It’s good to see you, my brother,” Pierre said. “I’m only sorry it took our father dying for you to make it here. I’m sure you had your reasons.”
I didn’t flinch but thought to myself, you’re the reason, Pierre. You’re the fucking reason.
“I hope our darling Henriette was hospitable and on time.”
I glanced at Henry as she stared down her nose at Pierre, her gaze narrowing with each passing moment.
“Yes.” I turned to her, stepping in between the two of them. “I believe you were going to show me to my room.”
Henry nodded. “Follow me.”
Taking the left hand side of the imperial staircase carved of stone, I looked down to see where the steps were worn away in in the center of each marble slab—the evidence of a couple hundred years’ worth of climbing.
“Get some rest, brother. I’m anxious to spend time with you this week. We can chat about Champagne Lebleu.”
I stopped at the first landing, staring down on him in silence.
Henry cocked her head to one side, dark hair cascading over her shoulders as the green in her dark eyes flashed with delight. She was just as indifferent as I was, but I knew I’d scored a few points with her. I could read people well, and my instincts told me Henriette Tribolet didn’t care in the slightest for Pierre. He was a man with a shit-load of money and far too full of himself. It was a horrible combination. It meant he was used to getting what he wanted, and my guess was Henry was something he wanted, but never had.
“This way,” she said nodding her head to the right.
Slinging the small duffle over my shoulder I followed in her footsteps. The massive chateau smelled of nights a hundred years past, old parchment and burnt candlewax. Places like this never lost their aromas from the centuries gone by. The smells of Lebleu, like its history, were embedded in its walls. Even though I understood I couldn’t possibly remember being there as a child, I had an odd feeling deep in my soul that I knew the place—or better yet—it knew me.
I glanced out a northern window, spying a group of people working in the gardens.
Henry and I walked the long stone hallway, the floors covered in red carpets and runways. Tables filled with fresh flowers, trinkets and photographs littered the pathway. I glanced at them as we walked past. There were photos of René—photos of René and Pierre. There were no photos of my mother—not that I expected there would be—or of me.
Henry opened the heavy door at the end of the hallway, allowing the morning light once again to blind me. “Jesus,” I said holding my arm in front of my face to block the sunshine. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about me taking that nap.”
She smiled for the first time since I’d met her.
“It was only a suggestion, Tristan.”
“Ah,” I said dropping my chin. “I’m happy to see you’ve finally come around on that one. Please tell me you don’t call Pierre Monsieur Lebleu.”
She took a deep breath and pursed her lips.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“The bed is quite comfortable and your bathroom is through that door,” she said pointing to the corner. “There are fresh towels and the closet is empty.” She looked to the small duffle in my hand. “But it seems you won’t have much use for it.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Welcome home.”
“This isn’t my home.”
Henry took a deep breath and twisted the brass knob of the old wooden door in her palm before looking to the floor. “René only wants you to feel welcome.”
Lowering my head, I caught her downcast gaze. “And you?” I asked, dropping my voice. “Do you want me to feel welcome, Henry?”
“Lunch is at noon,” she replied, ignoring my question. “In the small dining hall.”
I backed up and sat on the edge of the frilly bed linens. “René be in attendance I assume?”
“Tristan, your father has good and bad days, but I promise you they are numbered. My hope is that you will meet with him. Soon.”
“Soon? It better be today.”
She didn’t reply.
“What could René possibly want with me after all these years?”
“Just to listen.”
“Yeah…well…twenty years ago, hell, maybe even ten years ago, I might’ve been ready to listen—anxious even. But I’m here for one reason and one reason only. You blackmailed me, Henry.”
She nodded, her face without expression. “Noon.” She backed out and shut the door.
I picked up my bag, tossing it on the bed. The entire room looked like Marie Antoinette had thrown up. The bed was covered in loud, gold fabric, the furniture gilded to hell and back again. It was a far cry from the small double bed and creaky mattress I frequented at whatever dive hotel I’d chosen for the month. I walked to the bathroom, the ancient rheostat on the wall looking more like an egg timer than a light switch. Twisting the blade knob, the click echoed off the marble walls. The bathroom was fairly modern with a toilet, bidet and tub with rain shower. I turned on the water in the sink, leaning in to rest my elbows on the cold marble slab. Filling my palms with water, I splashed my face, running my hands through my hair before looking at myself in the mirror. Dark circles pooled under my eyes. Between the party at the Sanctuary and the jet lag, I looked like shit. But I wasn’t here to impress anyone. Least of all René.
A shower and shave would do me good. If I was seeing René at noon, I wanted to be at the very least, awake. Turning on the shower, water fell from the head like rain. Kicking off my black motorcycle boots, I dropped my jeans to the floor, wrestling my way out of my white t-shirt. The lion tattoo on my left arm was identical to the three lions that graced every Lebleu label—every family artifact and crest. A souvenir from my eighteenth birthday, the ink was a custom design I took to the artist myself. At the time, I said I did it to piss Simone off, but somewhere on a deeper level, I knew I was desperate to connect with the part of my life I longed for—my father. Kicking my clothes aside, I locked the door from inside.
Turning, a glint from across the room caught my eye as the morning sunshine once again chased me wherever I went. I did a double-take and noticed it was a glass picture frame on the bedside table across the room. I found myself drawn to it. Behind me, steam rolled out of the bathroom. Still, I walked toward the gleaming photo, stopping in my tracks when I recognized my mother’s face. Curled under the arm of a man I assumed was René himself, he also held a towheaded boy in the crux of his arm. Hands high in the air as if I was riding a roller coaster, a smile was plastered across my face.
My heart pounding out of my chest, I found myself taking a deep breath, the air in my lungs hitching every other moment. I moved closer to hold the photo in my hands. I ran my palm over the blonde stubble on my face, staring into the happy expressions of my parents—of me as a baby.
My phone rang at least four times before I walked away from the photograph and back into the hot bathroom, damp with condensation. Digging it out of the front pocket of my jeans on the floor, I didn’t even look to see who was calling before answering. It was four in the morning in the States.
“Bleu.”
“You asshole. You piss me off, Tristan.”
It was Wood.
“You’re pissed?”
“Yes. I’m the one who waited for you an entire afternoon. You stood me up.”
I began pacing the room, the gears of my mind rapidly switching. “You’re gonna be waiting a hell of a long time before you get an apology out of me.”
“Why? Where are you?”
“Where do you think I am? I’m in France. After you ratted me out to my father, his henchwoman tracked me down and threatened me. I didn’t have a choice but to get on a damn plane and come here. So thanks for that. So much for the privacy conditions and blood oath of the Sanctuary contract. Not to mention one of your blondes in my threesome slipped me MDMA during sex. You know I don’t do drugs and for the record, taking it was not consensual. I know you know who they are, Wood. Find them and question them. I want to know why they drugged me,”
“Okay, Tristan. Calm down.” Wood brought his voice down from his original rant. “I don’t know what you think, but I gave your information to no one. No one.”
He was lying. No one else knew I was a part of the Sanctuary. “It had to come from you or the club, Wood. Henry so much as said so.”
“Who is Henry? And why would he think I, or any of my people would ever divulge information on one of our members—not to mention one with the Key to the Rose.”
“My thoughts exactly. But I’ve got news for you. Someone ratted me out.”
“Maybe your friends, Tristan.”
“What friends?” I asked, my tone spiked with distrust. Pete worked for Wood, but Wood had no idea an FBI agent was tending bar at this parties. He had no idea I was FBI.
“I know I’m merely the owner of the Sanctuary, but there’s a reason I don’t wear a mask, Tristan. I’m responsible for everyone who comes and goes through the doors of my parties. It’s my job to make sure each and every one of our members has the experience they came for—including you—including the men you meet in the shadows while you’re enjoying the company of my performers.”
Wood hit on a nerve. How closely had he been watching? “What are you saying, Wood?”
“I think you know exactly what I’m saying, my friend. I stand by my earlier statement. I have never, nor will I ever give out or sell information on my members. Now,” he said quickly changing his tone. “While you’re in France, you should know I’m having a party in Paris.”
“What? When?”
“Tomorrow. I’m flying out of New Orleans tonight. Shall I put you on the list?”
I stared across the room at the photograph of my parents, me in my father’s arms. “No. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“C’mon, Tristan. Surely there’s at least one reason to stay in France.”
“And what might that be?”
“Your friends are on the guest list.”
I paused. “Just because we share an affinity for naked, hairless, leggy brunettes does not make them my friends.”
“Whatever, man. When they cancelled their tryst in the jungle room Saturday night, they requested the champagne room in Paris.”
I dropped my head back in surrender. “Fine. Put me on the list. But I’m going to need transportation from Épernay to Paris.”
“Of course, Tristan. I suggest you take the train—more inconspicuous. I’m sure you’ll agree. How will you explain the trip to your family in Épernay?”
I walked into the bathroom, stopping to wipe the moisture from the large mirror. “I don’t have a family. Especially not in Épernay.”
“Then what, pray tell, are you doing there, my friend?”
“None of your motherfuckin’ business. Just put me on the damn list, Wood. I’ll be there.”
I hung up before he could respond, tossing my phone out the bathroom door and onto the bed. If Wood would rat out my contacts and their plans, who had he told about mine?
I punched the air with a frustrated fist. “Fuck this shit.”