10
TRISTAN
I turned off my waterlogged phone, disassembling the damn thing. Removing the SIM card, I dried it and unzipped my overnight bag to retrieve my second phone. I tossed it all on the bed, frustrated as hell. I couldn’t catch a break. Not with my weird family, and certainly not with Henry.
Pulling my hair away from my face, I looked at the gash on my forehead in the bathroom mirror. I was unaware Henry had placed a butterfly bandage across the raw edge of my skin. Peeling the wet jeans from my body, I threw them into the floor with force—the excess water fanning through the air and splashing across the mirror. “Shit!”
Naked, I paced the room like a caged animal. Everything I had was wet or smelled like twenty-four hours of travel. I had absolutely nothing to wear to dinner. Not to mention Henry. What in the hell must she be thinking? What even happened back in the pool house? “Fuck!” I shouted, running my hands through my hair.
A soft knock at the door stopped my tantrum, and for a moment, I told myself it was her. I reached for the towel by the bathroom sink, wrapping it low around my hips. “Who’s there?” I asked, hoping to God it was her. We either needed to finish what we’d started, or at the very least talk about it.
“Jacques Duval, monsieur Lebleu. I am your father’s valet de chambre.”
Letting out a frustrated sigh, I opened the door. “Oui?”
In one hand Jacques held a suit bag, the Lebleu crest embroidered at the top. In the other, a Berluti shopping bag with what I assumed to be men’s dress shoes.
“May I enter, monsieur Lebleu?”
I stepped away from the door.
“Rène thought perhaps you’d be needing a suit for dinner.”
“Jesus. Did everyone see me fall ass over tit into the hot tub?”
“Non, monsieur,” Jacques replied, toneless. “Ass over tit? What does this mean?”
I waved him off. “Ça ne fait rien. Never mind.”
He nodded. “Oui, monsieur. The clothes will be your correct size.”
I raised a playful eyebrow. “The shoes?”
“Oui. The same.”
“No offense, Jacques. But how in the hell did you know my shoe and suit size?”
“Your father knows very much about you, monsieur Lebleu,” he replied, laying both bags across the bed.
“Tristan.”
Jacques nodded. “Very well. Tristan.”
“Merci, Jacques.” I said, as he opened the door to leave.
“C’est un plaisir! It was my pleasure, Tristan. Dinner at eight.”
I nodded. “Oui. Merci.”
Shutting the door behind him, I leaned my back against the ancient wood. With the exception of Pierre, everyone at Chateau Lebleu had proven to be more than kind. It seemed as if René surrounded himself with good people. It was the telltale sign of something I didn’t want to admit. I’d profiled thousands of people while working for the FBI and one thing I knew to be true—people surrounded themselves with like minds. Assholes worked for and with assholes, breeding even more assholes. But kindness? Kindness such as this came from the heart. And stuff like that trickled down from the very top.
I unzipped the suit bag to find a hand-tailored, black pinstripe three piece suit. Forty-four long. There was a robin’s egg blue shirt and matching tie as well. “I’ll be damned.”
Opening the Berluti bag, I found socks and a pair of black Oxfords—size forty-eight, or fourteen in the U.S. “Maybe all Lebleus have big feet,” I muttered under my breath.
Setting it all aside, I picked up my spare phone, taking my untraceable card out to slip the SIM into the tray and began digging through my bag for the European charger.
I plugged it in at the desk by the window and looked down over the grounds and toward the pool house, wondering what happened to Henry after she left.
Losing the towel, I headed for the shower. My second of the day.
As I stepped in to turn on the water, a swarm of questions flooded my mind. Why had René watched me only from afar—if that’s what happened? Why was Pierre so hell-bent on selling a very successful three hundred year old business? And what the hell happened with Henry in the pool house? How did we go from witty banter to getting naked? I knew better than to shit where I ate. If I waltzed into Chateau Lebleu acting like an asshole, I should fully expect to be treated like one.
Steam rolled out of the white marble and in the distance I could hear the faint ring of my phone. Pulling my outstretched hand from the waterfall, I grumbled, making my way to the desk to answer. “Bleu.”
“Tristan.”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Daniels.”
Fuck. It was my boss. Had they tracked my phone to France? “Agent Daniels.” I repeated his name, trying to hide the surprise in my voice. For the most part Nick Daniels left me alone, never calling while I was in the field unless absolutely necessary.
“You’re in France. Épernay to be exact.”
It wasn’t a question. He was calling me out.
“I am.”
“Wanna explain why?”
“Not especially.”
“Look, Tristan. I trust you know what you’re doing, but when you leave the damn country without getting word to me, then we’ve got a problem.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, causing the new shoes to slide to the floor. “Yes sir. I understand. I didn’t say anything because the plan was to be stateside late tomorrow. I wasn’t staying.”
“And now?”
I let out the deep breath I’d been holding. My leash was long, but only because I’d never given the FBI a reason to pull me back. One screw-up like this, and every move I make would be scrutinized. Being deep cover meant very little contact. If Daniels no longer trusted me, he’d tell his own boss, Kathryn Miller, which, in turn, would prompt a phone call to General Michaels. The groundwork I’d laid would be lost forever. I gave in, letting Daniels in on my plan of action. Something I never did. “I’m staying in France for a few more days—leaving Épernay for Paris tomorrow. I’ll be stateside by Thursday.”
“What’s in Paris?”
“Sir…”
“Tristan, I know you like to keep the ways you accomplish your objectives to yourself, but this time, I’m going over your head. I don’t know what you’re working on, but it’s best you come clean with me, son. Your life may depend on it.”
I couldn’t divulge my plans to Daniels. It wasn’t his operation. I needed to follow protocol. I needed to follow orders, especially if they were handed down from over Daniels’ head. “Sir, I don’t know quite how to say this.”
“You’re in France to see your dying father.”
“If you knew that, sir—”
“I realize you’re Tristan Bleu, but this is the FBI, son. We watch your ass like a hawk. With everything that’s been leaked around here in the past few years, I watch everyone like a damn hawk. Now, why are you going to Paris? Is this something for your family?”
I bit my lip. As much as I wanted to tell Agent Daniels what I was doing, I couldn’t. “Yes, sir. I need to tie up some loose ends. My half-brother is in the middle of selling Champagne Lebleu. I’ll need to stick around a few days. I don’t give a shit about these people, but there will be papers to sign. I’d rather do it here than come back to the States and drag it out for months.”
A long silence filled the space between Agent Daniels and me. I waited.
“Back Thursday?”
“Oui,” I said in French before thinking. “I mean, yes.”
“Jesus,” he sighed. “I hate France. Keep your phone on and on you.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, knowing that now he planned on tracking my every move for the rest of my career.
At seven forty-five, I straightened the dimple in my tie before brushing my hair back, securing it in a man-bun. I had to admit, whomever picked out my suit did a damn fine job. It fit me perfectly. The shoes were a little tight, but they were new and I wasn’t going to be wearing them long. I brushed a thread from my shoulder and opened the door into the hallway.
“Bonsoir.”
I blinked hard, taken aback not only by the shock of someone outside my door, but by her beauty. In black, her sleeveless dress hugged every curve of her perfectly fit body. Short, it showed off the legs that had seduced me from the moment she stepped out of the car onto the tarmac. Her stilettos were even taller than the pair she wore earlier in the day. I was six three and in her come-screw-me heels, she was at least six feet tall. Her long dark hair was up. She too had a bun—hers a sleeker and more cohesive look than mine, with not a hair out of place. With very little make up, her dark eyes sparkled at me, her red lips beckoning me to taste them once more. Slipping my hand into the pocket of my trousers, I adjusted myself, talking my hard-on out of what he was thinking. What I was thinking. What we’d left unfinished.
“Tristan?”
I blinked again, realizing all the compliments I had for her were only in my mind. “Bonsoir, Henry.”
She cocked her head, narrowing her eyes in disbelief. “Are you okay? Did you give yourself ah… how do you say it?”
“Concussion?”
“Oui. A concussion. When you hit your head? Are you con-cussed?”
I couldn’t stop my short laugh from erupting. Shaking my head, I touched my fingers to the butterfly bandage on my forehead, finally finding my words. “I’m—I’m fine. You look—”
“Shall we?” she asked.
“Ah…yeah. Sure.”
Reaching behind me, Henry closed the door to my room and I silently willed myself to pull it together. “Tu est belle” I said, telling her how beautiful she was.
“Your French is very good, Tristan.”
“Merci. Your English is better.”
Bringing her hand to her face, she hid her smile and dropped her chin. “Except for Bob Sponge.”
I nodded, giving her a genuine smile. “What’s a little word dyslexia between…ah…” I didn’t want to call her my friend. I didn’t desire friends, and that’s exactly how I felt about Henry. I’d not stopped thinking about her, our quick tryst at the forefront of my mind.
“Between friends?”
Shit.
I placed my palm in the small of her back as we descended the staircase to the main floor. I loved the feel of her strong body beneath my hand—the warmth of her skin radiating through the black dress. She didn’t flinch, leaning into my gesture. Finally, I replied. “Sure. Friends.”
Did she think friends recklessly tore at each other’s clothes to get at what was underneath? Was it a fleeting moment of passion? Or had she felt it too? The connection. It was like finding a favorite passage in a book or a poem—words so relatable you think perhaps they were meant for you and you alone. Words you could read or speak over and over, never tiring of hearing or thinking of them. Henry spoke to me from somewhere beyond a physical existence. It was as if she could peer into my soul with those eyes of hers.
“René is feeling much better, and is eagerly awaiting your arrival for dinner.”
Lost in my thoughts of Henry, I’d forgotten to be angry or anxious. I bristled at the thought, dropping my hand from her waist.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
I slowed my pace and deepened my breathing. “Sure. I just…well my mind’s been preoccupied this afternoon and into tonight.” I suddenly felt as if I’d not prepared mentally for what was waiting down the long hallway in the massive formal dining room.
Henry took my hand in hers, kissing my knuckles. It was my move. She’d stolen my move. At every turn this woman disarmed me. My shoulders relaxed and I continued walking.
“Everything is going to be fine, Tristan. He only wants to talk.”
“What if I get angry?” I shook my head. “You don’t know me, Henry. I have a temper. I get pissed—quick. And this guy,” I said pointing toward the dining room. “Well, he’s been on my shit list for a very long time. I have a lot of pent up—”
“Anger?”
I looked to her and shook my head again. “Rage.”
Henry stopped us both, pulling back on our threaded fingers. I stared down the hallway at my ultimate destination, feeling like a hurt child—a livid kid. Pulling me into a close embrace her lips brushed my ear as she whispered. “I’ll be right here. I have your sex.”
I cupped her face, pressing my lips against her beautiful red mouth, careful not to muss her lipstick. Then pressing my lips to her brow, I whispered. “It’s six. I’ve got your six. Not sex, gorgeous. But from you, I’ll take both.”
She looked up at me, her eyes sparkling in the soft light—her symmetrically cut bangs twitching with each blink of her long lashes. Pressing her lips to my jaw, she murmured, “My English needs improvement.”
Pulling away I looked deep into her eyes. “Baby, nothing about you needs improvement.”
A burst of confidence overcame me. Whatever René had to say to me, it damn well better come with the best apology of his life. I was giving him points for Henry by proxy, but nothing more. “Let’s get this over with.”
She nodded, clasping my hand in hers once more to give it a squeeze.
I led her down the hall, pulling her back before she had the chance to open the door to the dining hall. “When this is over—when he’s finished with me—I won’t be finished with you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Good,” she whispered. “I’m not finished with you.”