32
HENRIETTE
Tristan took my hand as we rode the elevator up to the top floor of the J. Edgar Hoover building in Washington, D.C. When the doors opened, I felt him take a deep breath and squeeze my fingers. Dressed in a blue suit that matched his eyes, he was so very handsome to me.
A perky woman with a pleasant smile waited for us in the hallway. “Agent Bleu?”
“Agent Lebleu. Please.”
“Yes sir.” She blushed. How could she not. Tristan was a beautiful man and just opening his mouth was sexy. “She’s waiting in her office for you. It’s the last door on the right.”
Tristan gave her a nod. “Thank you…. Stephanie,” he said reading the badge around her neck.
Her face flushed all the more. “Yes, sir.”
Tristan knocked on the corner of the open door frame. Dropping our threaded fingers, he placed his warm hand in the small of my back as he presented me.
“Director Miller? I’m pleased to introduce to you, Henriette Tribolet of Épernay, France.”
“Henry,” I said, shaking her hand.
The woman was slight, but had a commanding authority about her. I loved being in the presence of powerful women, it gave me all the more confidence to be exactly who I was. And it was always the most powerful women who wanted to empower even more women.
She motioned for us to sit and Tristan took my hand once more.
“Well,” Miller began. “You seem to be a man of your word, Agent Bleu.”
“Lebleu, if you don’t mind, ma’am.”
She cocked her head. “Lebleu.”
Tristan nodded and smiled.
“It’s quite a shit show to clean up, Tristan.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“You’ve tidied up a lot. We have a double-agent with the CIA now recovering from a gunshot wound and two dead FBI agents.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“You cleaned house. I suppose I should be thanking you, but I still have some questions.”
Tristan didn’t say anything.
“Agent Nazimi has said he didn’t give up any information to you or anyone else about Agents Jones or Daniels. As you know, our neighbors at the CIA don’t always share their intelligence with us due to what they determine to be extenuating circumstances.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tristan replied.
“My question to you, Agent Lebleu, is where did you happen upon your information?”
“I have a very well-connected…” Tristan looked to me and then back to Director Miller. “Family, Director Miller. Both here and abroad.”
“I see. Well, the problem is we still have a dead body in Paris with your DNA. We’ve asked Woodhurst Tinsley for the video. He’s showed us what he has and for some reason, none of it is usable. His equipment, surprisingly faulty for both the murder in Paris and the showdown in New Orleans.”
“Anonymity is the hallmark of Mr. Tinsley’s business, Director Miller. I can understand why he wouldn’t want to give anything or anyone up.”
“That’s admirable in the world today—a world where people will sell each other out for little to nothing.”
Tristan nodded to me and I took his second phone from my small handbag. Queuing up the video, I handed the phone over the desk to the Director of the FBI.
“What’s this?”
“While Tristan was…working on bad guys…I, ah…filmed from the corner. Apparently if you aren’t a member of the Sanctuary and haven’t signed the confidentiality agreement, you can film whatever you want.”
Tristan tossed a smile my way as Miller watched the twenty-minute long video where Pete Jones confessed to working with Daniels and Pierre to set up Tristan in Paris.
“This is wonderful, but why would your brother want to set you up?”
“Lucette André was pregnant, ma’am. If you match that DNA, I think you’ll find that the child belongs to my half-brother, Pierre Lebleu.”
“Well damn, son. You have been busy.”
Tristan and I looked to each other.
Miller took a deep breath. “What do you want from me?”
“I need my name cleared. Interpol off my back. Assistance with the authorities in Paris to charge Pierre with Lucette’s murder. And, I want to go home.”
Director Miller looked to her hands and back to Tristan. “I heard about the death of your father, Tristan. On behalf of the Bureau, you have our deepest sympathies.”
I squeezed his fingers tightly.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Miller looked at me. “And thank you, Ms. Tribolet. Tristan tells me you were an integral part of this mission. I understand you identified Agent Daniels.”
“Oui. Well, Agent Daniels hated France.”
A huge grin broke out across Tristan’s face as he looked to me and nodded. “Agent Daniels did indeed hate France.”
Director Miller suppressed a smile. “Okay, kids. Out of my office. The adults have work to do while the kids are on the playground.”
Tristan shook her hand as did I. “Thank you, ma’am,” Tristan said.
“You’re a good agent, Tristan. Take as much time as you need. We’ll be here when you’re ready for your next adventure.”
He nodded. “Thank you, but I think I might try a new adventure for a while,” he said giving me a wink.
“I understand completely.”
I lounged on the overstuffed couch at Maison de Vignes and sipped champagne. Tristan and I were still in New Orleans. It would be at least three to four days before Interpol worked out their paperwork with the Préfecture de police de Paris. Pierre had already been arrested and Tristan couldn’t wait to get back so forensics could be run on the bloody shirt he’d placed in an evidence bag.
The memorial service for René had been delayed until Tristan and I could make it back to Épernay.
Tristan came in the back door—hot and sweaty from a long run.
Dropping a package in my lap, he shouted at me—his headphones still in and too loud to hear himself. “You’re already getting mail.”
I shook my head and made a face at his loud voice.
He pulled the plug on his earbuds and smiled. “Sorry.”
I turned the package over. It was from France. The corners of the large manila envelope were taped to insure it made it to America without a tear. “It’s from Épernay,” I whispered. “My papers.”
Tristan grabbed a towel from the powder room, tossing it around his sweaty neck. “What? Your passport?”
I nodded.
Opening the envelope, Tristan took a seat on the floor at my feet. Inside was my passport, the contract I’d signed with René—the five shares of Champagne Lebleu I’d purchased for one euro each, and another document—the last will and testament of René Pierre Lebleu along with a Pacte de Familie.
When I began to read the will, I gasped.
“What’s wrong?” Tristan asked.
Staring off beyond him, I thought of my beloved René. Tristan took the papers from my frozen hand and began to read aloud in French.
“Wait….” Tristan said. “He willed his vote to you. Apparently you bought shares of family stock…which now allows him to will his voting privileges to you.”
“I had no idea this is what he was doing when he asked me to buy five shares at one euro each.”
Tristan smiled, leaning up to give me a sweaty kiss. “You know this means you’re stuck with me.”
“This means Pierre can’t sell anything.”
“Let’s be honest,” Tristan said. “Pierre wasn’t selling shit. Besides,” he said wiping the sweat from his face, “He’s gonna have a hard time doing anything from prison.”
I hitched my brows. “True.”
“What’s this?” Tristan asked, reading the Pacte de Familie or Family Inheritance pact.
I stared at René’s Will, still amazed at his generosity.
“Ummmm…”
“What?” I asked, looking to Tristin, his lips in a tight line.
“It seems in order for the Will to be in accord with the Family Inheritance Pact, you must be a Lebleu.”
My eyes widened and my heart sank. “A what?”
Tristan looked up at me over the contract and nodded. “Yep.”
I knitted my shoulders with a heavy breath. “Well, with Pierre not in the picture, it shouldn’t matter anyway. Right?”
Tristan dropped the contract on the coffee table in front of me, pulling me to him by my hips.
“What are you doing?” I asked laughing.
“Exactly what my father wanted.”