12
HENRIETTE
Jumping from my seat, I knocked a stem of crystal to the floor. The crash took the staff off guard. My attention was focused on René. Staring off, his face was blank, his breathing rapid and shallow. “Pierre! Help me! Your father’s not well!”
Jacques rushed into the dining hall. “Call Dr. Millet,” he shouted over the flurry of activity. David, the main butler, hurried to a phone nestled in the corner of the room. Staring into René’s eyes, I took both of his hands into mine. “René. Look at me.” No response. “René!” My voice escalated. At last, he noticed me. Confusion masked his pale cheeks. I knew it was the beginning of the end. He could only tolerate so much pain medication and he was at the max. The stress of meeting Tristan tonight coupled with Pierre’s unwelcomed and unexpected intrusion was more than he could bear.
Holding his hand, I swallowed down the tears that were welling up in my eyes—the emotion in my throat. The end was coming for René, but unlike Pierre, who couldn’t wait, and Tristan, who no longer seemed to care, I was not prepared for him to die. I wanted him to make peace with himself—with Tristan.
“What happened?” Dr. Millet rushed into the room as quickly as he was capable—the two old men staring into each other’s faces. I knew René trusted very few people in his life. His best friend, Garan, was one of them.
“He was doing fine,” I began. “He and Tristan were talking—it was civil, if not necessarily amicable. Then Pierre came into the room unannounced. I think René was so filled with anxiety in that moment, his heart rate soared.”
I glanced across the room and found Pierre speaking with David the butler. I wanted to leave René’s side to punch him square in the face. He knew exactly what he was doing tonight by barging in on the dinner. He had no intention of allowing René and Tristan the few moments they needed as a father and son. Pierre was too insecure—too jealous of Tristan to ever permit a bond between them. Even on René’s deathbed, Pierre was going to be the prick he’d always been.
“I must get him to his room. He needs his oxygen and I need to monitor his heart.”
Jacques was on the spot with a wheelchair. René waved me off as I tried to assist moving him. I knew he was angry—his ego bruised—his plan shattered. Pierre had ruined the night he’d waited for—the night he’d planned for years. René had never had the opportunity to be a father to Tristan. And now, if Pierre had anything to do with it, he never would.
Sticking by René’s side, I followed Dr. Millet and Jacques to his master suite, only to be shooed out when they needed to undress him and put him in bed.
“We’ll take it from here, Henry,” Dr. Millet said over his shoulder as Jacques closed the door.
“Wait!”
“Henry,” Dr. Millet called out. “I will call you later tonight. I promise you, he’s fine. You should check on Tristan.”
I stared at the closed door. I felt helpless yet teemed with rage. The dichotomy of the two emotions took over any semblance of decorum I could ever hope to maintain. Storming down the hallway and up the staircase I stomped, my hands balled into fists at my side. When I found my way to Tristan’s suite, I opened it, throwing back the door and entering without knocking—without a welcome.
Barging over the threshold, I heard the distinct double click of a gun slide. Tristan was locked and loaded—the cold barrel suddenly in my ribs. Standing behind me, he held me tightly against him, his rock solid arm across my throat. I’d not even had a moment to think.
“What are you doing?” I asked, keeping my voice calm.
Tristan kicked the door shut with his foot, bringing me farther into the room. “What are you doing, Henry?”
“I came to talk. That’s all.”
He released me with a friendly shove, stepping away and keeping his distance. Fury knitted his brow and a single bead of sweat rolled from his temple.
“What do you want now?” he asked.
“I want to explain.”
“How you set me up?”
I shook my head in violent protest. “No! Of course not. You think because Pierre barged in on your dinner meeting, you were set up?”
“Is this some sort of joke to you and René?” He stared at me, his nostrils flaring with each shallow breath.
“Tristan. You have my word. Pierre wasn’t invited. I’m sure he learned of the dinner from the butler, David. The two of them have been chummy since René’s illness has worsened. Pierre barged in on purpose. He wanted to disrupt the discussion between you and your father.”
Tristan stared at me and said nothing.
I sat in a chair in the corner and dropped my head into my hands. “And he did a fine job. He played you like a cheap suit.”
Tristan remained quiet and I looked up from the floor to find him blank-faced. “What?”
“He played me like a fiddle.”
“Whatever, Tristan. Don’t you understand? You allowed him to get into your skin.”
“Jesus,” he sighed. “Under my skin. I let him get under my skin. And I didn’t.”
“Whatever.”
“Stop saying whatever. That’s what petulant teenage girls say in America, not grown women…who—”
“Who what?”
“I don’t know!” Tristan shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “Who look like you. Act like you…most of the time. A grown-ass woman.”
I narrowed my gaze and shook my head in confusion. “Growing ass? What does this mean?”
“It means, I think you and René set me up to look like a fool. I came all this way to—”
“To what, Tristan? Why did you come to Épernay?”
He pulled the tie from his neck and threw it on the bed. “Because, dammit. You fucking blackmailed me.”
I couldn’t control the mocking nature of my short laugh. “Ha! Really? You think your buddies at the American FBI would ever allow me to get away with making your identity public? I was lying, Tristan. You got on that plane to Épernay because you wanted to meet your father. You wanted to say fuck you to his face.”
His tone softened. “Yeah. You’re right. And I did. And now I’m out of here.”
Tristan unzipped the small leather bag he’d arrived with and began walking around the room.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for my clothes. Where the hell are all my clothes?”
I shrugged. “I’m sure the staff cleaned your room and took your wet things to the laundry. If you’d finished your dinner with René, you would’ve found them washed and folded on your bed upon your return. But now…”
He stopped his pacing and hung his hands low on his hips. In his anger, the tendrils of his blonde hair had begun to fall from the chignon on his head. “You mean I don’t have any of my clothes to get the hell out of here?”
I pursed my lips and stood at his statement. “You can leave, Tristan. No one is stopping you. And you are, I believe, wearing a perfectly respectable suit.”
He rolled his eyes, clutching the nearly empty bag in his firm grasp. “This is bullshit. Bullshit!”
I’d had enough and seen enough. My blood boiled at his childish behavior. “No. You want to know what is bullshit? The fact that your father had another episode tonight—in the dining room.” I was raw after watching René suffer. My voice cracked and I felt the wave of emotion I’d put on hold for so long bubble to the surface. “He’s going to be dead soon. And you won’t listen to what he has to say.”
“Call me crazy, Henry. But you drag my ass all the way to Épernay, give me a suit to wear and a time to meet my father. And guess what? I show up. I want to hear what he has to say. I’ve been waiting my whole fucking life to hear what René Lebleu has to say. But all I get is a fuck-tard of a half-brother horning in on the one dinner I’ll ever have with my father! Now I’m sure you won’t believe me, nor do you care, but I have a life—a life and a job I need to get back to. God!” he shouted turning in a furious circle. “I can’t believe I put everything on hold for this bullshit! I should’ve known better. Simone was right. Pierre is the chosen one.”
I listened to his rant. It seemed as if more than anything, he needed to get his feelings out in the open. When there was an entire five seconds of silence, I spoke. “Is this what you truly believe?” I asked in a near whisper. “Pierre is the chosen son?”
He nodded. “All those pictures in the house—how much did you have to pay to have them Photoshopped?”
I took a step closer to him. “The photos are real, Tristan. And if you’d shut that big American mouth of yours for only a minute, you will hear what I have to say. Your father has waited his entire adult life to see you again in person. And you walked away tonight when connard—sorry—shithead—Pierre crashed your dinner party.”
“I can speak French, Henry.”
“Then listen to me,” I said placing my hands on his arms. “Your father is downstairs on oxygen and a heart monitor. You nearly killed him tonight when you walked out of the dining room. And all because Pierre is a little bitch.”
A tiny smile graced Tristan’s lips. Pulling away, he turned his back on me to sit in a chair across the room. “You’re telling me he wasn’t invited.”
“No.”
“No he wasn’t invited? Or no, I’m wrong?”
“You Americans are so difficult. Pierre wasn’t invited. Your father would never do anything to jeopardize this evening.”
“And René didn’t chastise Pierre by saying, get the fuck out, because he was suffering from an…”
“Episode.”
“Episode,” he repeated. “But he’s fine now.”
I began to pace the length of his room, then stopped. “He’s not fine, Tristan. He’s never going to be fine. He’s dying. And tonight you made it worse by walking out on him.”
I watched his muscular shoulders hitch before he came out of his suit jacket, unbuttoning his dress shirt nearly to the waist. “Look lady, the only person who’s ever walked out on me was my father, so don’t stand there and lecture me about walking out on someone.”
“Fine. No one has ever walked out on you, besides René?” I asked, storming away from him. “Add me to the list.”
Rushing behind me, Tristan slammed the door shut as quickly as I opened it, pinning me to the wall. “You know you don’t want to walk out that door.”
Turning to face him, I pretended not to hear the pounding of his heart in perfect rhythm with mine. “You don’t know what I want.” The words seethed through my clenched teeth.
He undressed me with his blue eyes and I pushed him away, the warmth of his tight chest under my splayed fingers. I felt my nostrils flare as I rolled my shoulders and walked in a tight circle, my eyes leaving his for only a split-second. If he wanted a fight, I’d give him one.
His jaw clenched, his voice dropped. “Don’t I?”
I answered on the heel of his question. “No.” I was lying. He knew exactly what I wanted. He wanted it too.
Grabbing me around the waist, he pulled me to him in a rush, our hips colliding, our lips a breath apart. “Don’t lie, Henry. It’s not your style.”
I stared into his eyes. His warm breath raking across my neck. “Unlike some people, my job doesn’t entail lying.”
Placing my hands at his waist, I pushed with force. But instead of moving him away from my body, I pulled his shirt from his pants, ripping away the remaining two buttons to fully expose his muscular chest.
Grabbing me by the shoulders, he turned me, unzipping my dress from the top to the dimples of my back, before circling me to face him again. “Who says you’re on the job?” He paused to look me in the eye. “Are you?”
There was no good way to answer his question. If I said yes, he would be hurt and I would be lying. If I said no, he would take it as an open invitation. I diverted. Pushing him backwards, he stumbled to sit on the bed. “What do you think?”
Back on his feet in an instant, my throat tightened as Tristan took me into his arms. “I don’t think I give a damn.”
I kissed him hard then pulled away. “I think you should stop talking.”
“I think I should shut you up.”
Running his open mouth across the straining tendons of my neck, his lips danced on my skin.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I gasped then closed my eyes, giving into the rush surging through my core.
Tristan caught my earlobe with his teeth, then whispered. “What would you like me to do?”
I opened my mouth to speak. Before I could utter a word, he shut me up with a kiss so wild and wet—his lips slanting over mine. It was erotic and fast, his tongue filling my mouth with hard deep plunges. His arms on either side of me against the wall, I leaned into him, my body relaxing as I reached out, my greedy fingers digging into the deep muscular V of his tight core. He wrapped his strong arms around me and I moaned, pressing myself alongside him as he frantically shoved me against the wall. A nearby oil painting rattled off, crashing onto the floor. We didn’t even notice.
Stopping for only a moment, Tristan stood back. The simple black dress was no match for his desire. Hooking his hands into the shoulders, he pulled it toward him, allowing it to puddle in the floor at my feet.
He gazed at my body still clothed in a black lace bra and matching panties, eyeing me from head to toe like a predator. Tristan took a full and deep breath. He looked at me as if he was ready to devour my flesh. I wanted to be the main course.
Moving into me, his warm breath raking across my neck, I could think of nothing but what he wanted and how I wanted to give it to him. Every single tiny bit of it and myself.
Brushing his mouth over mine, he touched me without kissing, teasing me before placing his wet lips on my exposed collarbone to trace the line of a pulsing vein with his tongue.
Picking me up, he carried me to his bed. Standing back, he stared down at me as I pushed my way to the center. I watched as he rolled the shirt over his shoulders, his eyes never leaving mine.
I blinked furiously as I stared at his tight chest. It heaved with excitement and I found it hard to catch my own breath. When he unhooked his belt and slid it off, I sat up on my arms for a better view. I felt my face heat and my lips curl into a smile, waiting for him to drop his trousers. He’d seen me naked. I’d not yet had the pleasure.
Moving to the edge of the bed, I kicked off my heels and folded my legs under my body to sit on my feet. Tristan smiled, moving his hips into my hands—waiting.
“What would you like me to do?” I asked, repeating his question.
I looked up and into his blue eyes with a mischievous grin. Tristan cupped my face with his strong hands, then one by one, began take the pins from my hair. It took only a few before the pile on my head cascaded around my shoulders.
“I want your hair down.”
Standing on my knees at the edge of the bed, I ran my hands through his blond locks, slipping the hair band from the nape of his neck. His hair fell about his bare shoulders. Tristan Lebleu looked like a warrior from another time in history, when the Gauls inhabited the region and kings were crowned just down the road in Reims. “I want your hair down.”
Taking the lead, I did what I’d wanted to do since watching him exit the jet. Shoving my hands in his hair, I kissed him. As I sucked on his tongue, he moaned into my mouth and pressed his body into mine. The prod of his erection was hard against my hip and without asking, I unbuttoned his pants, sliding the zipper down, not taking my lips from his.
Tristan’s pants hit the ground and he pulled away from me for only a moment to step out of them, tossing his socks to the side.
“Henry,” he said, lifting my hand to his mouth for a kiss.
“Oui?”
“You need to understand something about me.”
I nodded.
“I don’t do…relationships.”
I gave him a crooked smile, tilting my head to examine his face and brush his hair from his shoulder. “That’s what you need me to understand?”
He nodded, running the back of his fingers across the thin lace of my bra, teasing my hard nipple.
I dropped my hand to cup his manhood, stroking him through the black material of his underwear. “I don’t do love. So be careful, Tristan. If you fall in love with me, there’s nothing I can do to help you.”
I pushed his tight boxer briefs over his hips, dropping them to the ground. Kissing him, I wanted to please him. I wanted to give him the greatest pleasure he’d ever known. I wanted him inside me and in turn I wanted to get inside the head of the mysterious man I’d known and watched from afar all my life.