When Gina arrived at the Luxembourg Garden at the appointed time, she found Tommy Ledbetter already waiting for her by the Medici Fountain, as arranged. He was sitting on a park bench looking markedly out of place in his three-piece suit and fedora amid a forest of easels and art students bent on capturing the scene. Oblivious to the bohemian atmosphere surrounding him, Tommy was reading through a thick printed document, his black leather briefcase on the ground next to his feet.
Ahead loomed the subject of the artists’ attention, a sculpture of Acis and Galatea, two lovers trysting, their pale marble limbs entwined. The pair were blissfully oblivious of the ominous and powerful figure of Polyphemus in weathered bronze, who glowered down at them from above.
“Working, Tommy?” said Gina as she approached. Why had he called her here without Hal? Maybe Tommy had been talking to Hal’s father. Was he going to warn her off on Joe’s behalf? That wouldn’t work this time.
He looked up. “No rest for the wicked.” He gestured to the space beside him. “Take a seat.”
He set his briefcase on his lap, popped the clasps, and slid the document he’d been reading into it. Snapping the case shut, he returned it to the ground next to his feet. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
Conscious of the fabulous diamond ring that was now back on her finger, Gina said, “I believe it’s customary to congratulate the groom and to wish the bride happy.”
Tommy smiled. He had a charming smile, and she wondered if there was a Mrs. Tommy back in Washington. “I’ll take your word for it. And I do wish you happy. When my man Hal said it was you or no one, that was good enough for me.”
“Oh, he’s your man now, is he?” Gina tilted her head. Was Tommy no longer working for Joe?
“That’s right.” He nodded. “You know the thing I like about you, Miss Winter? You are quick on the uptake. We are about to launch Hal’s campaign for governor.”
“A little premature, isn’t it?” Gina murmured. Why was Tommy telling her all this when Hal hadn’t mentioned a word? “What with Joe’s health in decline, I thought Hal was going back to run the company for a while.”
“Joe wants to see him on the campaign trail before he dies.” Tommy spread his hands. They were large. Quarterback’s hands. He’d played college football with Hal, she seemed to remember. She’d bet he’d played dirty.
“And Hal agreed to this?”
Tommy missed a beat before replying. “Of course.”
Gina noted the small hesitation and thought, Got you. “What’s the problem, Tommy?”
“Frankly, Gina, the problem is you.” He felt in his pocket and took out a cigarette case and lighter. “Want one?”
She shook her head, so he shrugged and helped himself to a cigarette and lit up. His eyes narrowed as he inhaled the smoke and blew it upward in a long stream. “What we need to do is rehabilitate you in the eyes of your peers.”
“Really?” Gina ought to have seen this coming, she supposed. “How do you propose to do that?”
“Hal’s already working on getting your father back on his feet. Looks like he’ll succeed, too. We’ll have Jay coming up roses in no time. Now you, Gina . . .” Cigarette between his fingers, he pointed at her. “You will need a small PR campaign of your own.”
She wasn’t angry . . . yet. Coolly, she said, “I suppose it will be the usual? Puff pieces in women’s magazines, attending charity balls and lunches?” For Hal, she could do that much. Only she hadn’t expected all of that to start so soon. She wasn’t ready to leave Paris. And what about her book?
“Hal has already stayed in Paris too long,” said Tommy, as if reading her thoughts. “But now he’s got what he came for, I’ll have him on the next plane out of here. Oh, don’t worry,” he said, as if anticipating her objections. “We’ll give you a week or two to get everything squared away here, say goodbye to your friends.” He eyed her casual trousers and striped shirt and added, “You might want to shop for a new wardrobe while you’re here. I can set you up with someone from the embassy to advise you on appropriate styles. Pearls and twinsets, that kind of thing.”
Fiercely Gina wrestled with herself. She wanted more than anything to tell Tommy to go to hell, but for Hal’s sake, she kept a lid on her temper. “Pearls and twinsets. Roger that.” She stared down at her hands, at the diamond on her finger winking in the sunshine. “Tell me, Tommy. Does Hal know you’re talking to me about this?”
Laughing, Tommy held up a hand. “You got me. No, he doesn’t. But he agrees with the general strategy. Come on, Gina. You’ve worked in D.C. You know the score.”
Suddenly, she thought she knew all too well. The American. The shadowy figure who’d stepped out of the apartment building doorway when Gina and her friends had returned from the nightclub that evening after they’d helped Margot move. He hadn’t been looking for Margot.
“Are you having me watched, Tommy?”
After only a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. “Hal doesn’t know, or he’d tear me to pieces.”
Wild with fury, Gina said, “I might just do the job myself!” Her voice rose enough to make a few people nearby turn their heads. “How dare you?” She felt violated, dirty, and only wished she’d realized sooner. She would have made sure to give Tommy and his watcher something to worry about.
Tommy looked her in the eye and spoke softly. “There’s no point in getting mad at me, Gina. It was only for a few days. You know I had to be sure there wasn’t any other man in your life, or any new habits you might have acquired in gay Paree that would make things awkward for Hal.”
Gina refused to acknowledge anything of the kind. She was about to make a blistering retort, but Tommy held up a hand. “It’s my job to get Hal Sanders elected, and the methods I use to do that . . . Well, he won’t always like them, and neither will you. But you’ll be thanking me when he’s giving his victory speech come election night.”
Will I? thought Gina. She had no ambition at all that centered on Hal’s wealth or status. All she wanted was to be with him.
As it turned out, that was going to be more of a challenge than she’d dreamed. Even as her anger continued to simmer, she realized there was no point in arguing with Tommy—she might as well try to persuade a scorpion to shed its stinger. She’d worked in Washington and dealt with men like him before. She’d be more vigilant from now on. A good lesson to learn now, rather than later.
Her life with Hal was going to entail sacrifices, that was for sure. But it would all be worth it. She truly believed that. As long as she had Hal’s support, she’d be fine.
Are you still talking to me? If so, I have a suggestion for you about starting your agency. Shall we say, my office at ten tomorrow? And bring a sample of your friend’s manuscript if it’s ready. Ten pages will do for starters.
Andrew
P.S. No funny business, I promise.
She couldn’t help smiling at the last line. She knew without a doubt that if she didn’t want a romantic relationship with Andrew Mountbatten, she should not see him anymore. But she’d just read the polished first half of Gina’s manuscript and she was dying to show him. She knew he’d love it, and surely she could manage to keep things professional between them.
But when she arrived at the address he’d given her, a hôtel particulier near the Bois de Boulogne, she was doubtful and more than a little wary. It was clearly Andrew Mountbatten’s private residence.
Andrew met her at the door, saying, “Don’t be alarmed. I do live here but I haven’t lured you under false pretenses. I have an office upstairs. Come up and you’ll see.”
Margot followed him up the cool marble staircase to the second floor, where double doors opened onto a space that was more like a library in a grand English country home than an office.
However there were two modern-looking telephones on the mahogany desk and a bank of filing cabinets behind it. Even more reassuring was the middle-aged woman who was thumbing through files in one of the deep drawers when they entered. She turned, letting fall her half-moon glasses, suspended by a chain around her neck.
“Miss MacFarlane, this is Mrs. Patterson, my private secretary.”
If the older woman noticed that he’d stumbled a little over the “Miss” part of Margot’s name, she gave no sign of it, but smiled and nodded. “How do you do? I’ll send for tea.” With that prosaic utterance, Mrs. Patterson excused herself and left. Andrew closed the doors behind her, then turned back, dark eyes gleaming with understanding. He knew precisely what wild thoughts had been rioting through Margot’s mind before confronted with the sturdy Mrs. Patterson.
Mountbatten gestured to the comfortable-looking chairs grouped around a fireplace. “Do sit down.”
He inquired politely about Claire and Gina. She asked him whether Charlotte had enjoyed the rest of the party. The whole time, his eyes seemed to burn through her. The expression in them rendered their small talk ridiculous, but before things could become unbearably awkward, Mrs. Patterson came in with the tea tray. “Cook made the macarons fresh this morning,” she said with a smile at Margot.
“Ooh, lovely,” said Margot, thanking her.
“Shall I be mother?” asked the secretary.
“No, I’ll pour,” said Andrew. “Thank you, Mrs. Patterson.” Dismissed, the secretary left the room.
Mountbatten poured their tea and offered Margot the plate of macarons. She wasn’t hungry. Being in the same room with Andrew made her feel on edge, but she chose one of the delicate sweets and set it on her plate.
“I brought Gina’s pages.” She fished out the envelope containing the sample pages of Gina’s manuscript from the satchel she’d brought. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted them loose or . . .” She hadn’t exactly mentioned to Gina that she’d filched these from her desk so she couldn’t ask her how the pages should be presented.
He held out his hand for the envelope. “Give it here.”
She passed over Gina’s manuscript, saying, “You will think I’m biased, but . . .” She trailed off as he frowned over the first page, a coconut macaron suspended halfway to his mouth. He’d told her he usually knew after the first page whether he would buy a manuscript or not. When he put down the macaron without tasting it and turned to the second page, she felt a sense of hope tinged with triumph. Pride glowed deep in her chest at his absorption in her friend’s work.
Margot sipped her tea and waited . . . and waited, while page after page joined the others in the “read” pile. Mountbatten was a fast reader and finished in a few minutes, but Margot suffered through agonies of impatience until he put down the final page.
Laughing, he looked up, shaking his head, staring at Margot in wonder. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.” He sat back. “When you told me about your friend, I expected I’d have to be . . . tactful.”
“You mean you didn’t trust my judgment,” said Margot, narrowing her eyes at him.
“I mean your natural bias might have led you to see your friend’s work as something it’s not.” He tapped through the manuscript pages with his finger. “But she’s every bit as good as you said. If the rest of the book lives up to this sample, I think you have yourself a winner.”
“Really?” Margot wanted to kiss him. “You’re not just saying that?”
“I want to see the full manuscript the second it’s finished,” said Andrew.
“Oh, that’s marvelous! Wait till I tell Gina. Thank you so much!”
“Maybe I ought to be thanking you.” He hesitated. “Are you serious about becoming a literary agent? Really serious? You’d have to move to New York or London, you know.”
She hadn’t considered that, but what was stopping her? Of course, she’d miss Gina and Claire but the idea of setting up her own business, being her own boss, and talking about books all day long would be a dream come true.
“I’m meeting with one of my authors here in Paris next week. A debut novelist. Would you like to sit in?”
“Won’t he mind?”
“I don’t see why he should. He’s on tour at the moment. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Theodore Jones.”
Margot gasped. “Really?”
“You know him?”
“Know him? I’ve read The Rock Garden three times.” She went on to rhapsodize about his subtle use of metaphor, the book’s difficult themes, the spare, evocative prose.
“I hear he’s looking for a new agent,” said Mountbatten. “Talk to him about his book the way you just spoke of it to me, and you might be in with a shot.”
Someone of Jones’s caliber would not look twice at a complete newcomer like Margot. Would he? And if he found out she had no experience . . .
“No, that’s too much,” said Margot.
“You don’t want to represent him?” said Mountbatten. He raised his eyebrows. “Are you afraid?”
How was she supposed to take that? Pride made her say, “I’m not afraid, but if I am to go into business as a literary agent, I would like to stand on my own two feet.”
Andrew laughed and shook his head. “Do you think anyone gets along in this business without help from one quarter or another? I certainly didn’t. My mentor taught me everything I know, and I inherited his list when he retired.” He shrugged. “Of course, one way to learn how to be an agent is to work as a junior for another agency. You would have to make the coffee, run errands, and if you’re very lucky, you might be allowed to sell foreign translation rights . . .”
Margot tilted her head. “That wouldn’t suit me at all.” Part of the challenge and allure of being a literary agent was working for herself, representing only work that she loved, without answering to anyone. But Andrew was right. It was all about who you knew in this world. It was just that she was wary of accepting mentorship from a man who had made no secret of his romantic interest in her.
“I can only make the introduction to Jones,” he warned her. “You would have to do the work of convincing him. And you’d have to come clean about your lack of experience and contacts.”
While she turned that over in her mind, he went on. “The beauty of working with Theodore Jones would be that I’ve already signed him up for another two-book deal. So you won’t have to do any of the negotiation for that first contract. It will give you a couple of years to gain experience before you have to negotiate his next deal. In the meantime, having him on your list will lend you real cachet.”
She narrowed her eyes at Andrew. “I wouldn’t go easy on you as a publisher just because we’re . . . friends, you know.”
His eyebrows lifted, but his eyes gleamed with laughter. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
Margot was elated by the prospect. She might not be able to secure Theodore Jones as a client, but she’d be sure to give it her best shot. What did she have to lose? “When I sell my first novel, I will be sure to take you out to dinner to celebrate.”
Andrew grinned back at her. “I’ll hold you to that.”
When he smiled at her like that, her heart turned somersaults. Her own smile faded. She wished he didn’t have this effect on her! She wanted to remain professional but it wasn’t easy when he looked at her like that.
As if sensing the return of constraint, he said, “Why don’t we take a walk, you and I?”
“All right.” She couldn’t let this awkwardness continue. She needed to explain to him why she was holding back when it was so obvious to them both that she was falling for him.
In the street outside, Margot put on her hat and fumbled with her coat. Andrew took the garment from her and helped her into it, and she felt the fleeting touch of his hands at her shoulders all the way down to her toes.
“This way.” They walked until they came to the gates of the Bois de Boulogne. Eventually Andrew stopped and turned to face her. “What is it? Tell me. Have I done something wrong?”
She didn’t answer him immediately, rendered mute by the inability to put her feelings into words. As a younger woman, she’d worn her heart on her sleeve. But after living through that marriage, attempting to express any kind of emotion left her tongue-tied.
After a long pause, Andrew said, “Shall I give you my story, then?”
That made her look up. “Your story?”
“You needn’t pretend my sister hasn’t told you all about it,” said Andrew dryly.
“She did mention something,” acknowledged Margot. “But I hope you will believe that I didn’t pry, and I didn’t encourage her to divulge your private affairs.”
“No. Well.” He seemed to brace himself, and she knew it must be a difficult subject for him to talk about. “I loved a woman who died, you see.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Margot. This part she knew. “Was it in the war?”
He shook his head. “No, not in the war. She was thrown from a horse. The stupidest, most pointless accident. I was angry about it for a long time. Fleur had been married before. A mistake from the beginning, as it turned out. Her husband ran off with an actress within months of the wedding. I wanted to marry her but my family forbade it.” He pressed his lips together. “You’d think I would have told them all to go to hell, but I’d been brought up steeped in tradition. Defying my family, the King . . . at the time, it was unthinkable. I did everything in my power to persuade them to let me flout that rule against our marrying divorcées, but it made no difference. To my shame, I gave her up.” He smiled mirthlessly. “When she died, I raged at the world, but I blamed myself most of all for my cowardice.” He huffed out a breath. “Believe me, Margot. I would not make the same mistake with you.”
She was silent for a time while she digested this. “Do I remind you of her?” she asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
His somber expression vanished. “God, no!” He laughed. “Not in the least. I suppose I am simply explaining to you why I’ve been so . . . lacking in the usual British reticence, I suppose. Why I can’t let you walk out of my life forever without a very compelling reason.” He halted, and the wind rustled the new leaves above them as he searched her face. “Does that sound conceited? But I know you feel it, too.”
I’m married. It would be simple to insist that was the reason for denying him, to lie and say she loved her husband and was never going to leave him. But it would be dishonest in a way that lying about her marital status never had been. She owed Andrew better than that.
Margot stared into his eyes. Could she possibly trust herself to love this man? She wanted to, quite desperately, but it was too soon. Only months after leaving her marriage, it wasn’t safe for her to love anyone. Not yet, not with his voice still in her head, and the constant vigilance that was still as much a part of her as her blood and bone and breath.
On the bridle path that ran parallel to the footpath where they stood, the clop of horse hooves grew louder, then finally receded again, before she spoke. “I am smitten with you,” she said. “I admit it. But really, that is part of the problem.”
His face had lightened when she’d made the admission but now his expression grew intense. “I don’t understand.”
“I can’t trust my feelings,” said Margot. “Not anymore.” Sadness welled up inside her, along with resentment that her marriage had made it impossible to trust any man—even one who seemed to be so considerate and kind.
She simply wouldn’t survive if Andrew turned out to be just like her husband. If only she could give the man beside her some kind of test. But as she’d learned to her cost, a man could embody her wildest dreams at the beginning. Only time would tell if he would turn into a nightmare. “I thought I loved my husband and that he loved me,” she said softly. “But he nearly destroyed me. I can’t risk that again.”
His expression darkened. She’d never seen the urbane Mountbatten look so forbidding. “What did he do to you?”
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. She was perilously close to tears and she didn’t want his pity. With a deep breath, she forced the emotion down.
“Won’t you give me a chance?” Taking her hand in a gentle hold, he looked down at it for a moment, then, as if it was difficult to admit, he added, “I know it sounds ridiculous and it’s too soon and all the rest of it, but, Margot, I’ve fallen in love with you.”
That made her feel even worse. He sounded so certain while her own emotions were all muddled and askew. If this was real . . . But how could she know?
She knew as well as anyone that there were never any guarantees when it came to love. How would she ever know if she’d be safe with any man if she didn’t take a leap of faith and find out? But giving herself wholeheartedly to a man who took her love and twisted it to his own ends had ruined her. Better to remain alone for the rest of her life than to go through that again.
Gently, she withdrew her hand. “I can’t,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “I’m not strong enough. Not yet.”
“Then I’ll wait,” he said. “However long it takes.”
Hervé continued to make light of his injury, but Claire wasn’t fooled. He couldn’t even hold a knife and fork properly, much less run a restaurant. After a lot of soul-searching, she made her decision. Hervé wouldn’t like it, but that was just too bad.
When she peered into the brasserie kitchen that evening, she knew she’d done the right thing. She found the staff in chaos, with Hervé trying to do everything one-handed and his staff dancing around him like ballerinas avoiding a baited bear.
One careless apprentice knocked Hervé’s injured hand and he swore with such volume and eloquence that the brasserie patrons must have heard him.
Claire forced herself to stay out of the way, but when Hervé recovered somewhat and stomped out to the cold room, she gave him a few moments, then followed him in.
He had plunged his injured hand, bandage and all, into a bucket of half water, half ice chips. His big body gave a shudder—whether from the pain or the cold, she couldn’t tell—and he bent a glare on her as she stepped inside.
“Don’t say it,” he said through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to hear.”
“I’m here to help,” said Claire. “Just till you get back to normal.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want you here.”
“You don’t have much choice,” said Claire. “If you continue this way, you’ll get an infection, and then you’ll be out of commission for even longer. There might even be permanent damage.” She paused. “It’s not just you now, Hervé. You have an entire staff relying on you for their livelihood.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Hervé scowled. “But it doesn’t mean you need to come back.”
“I think it does,” Claire said gently. “You know it, too.”
“No. I don’t,” growled Hervé. “Do you think opportunities like the one with Thibault grow on trees?”
“I know that they don’t,” said Claire. “But family is more important. And now, you’re my family.”
He seemed as astonished at her words as she was. “Claire . . .” He shook his head, tried again. “Sweetheart, caring for your family doesn’t mean you have to give up everything for them. Sure, it will be tough around here for a while, but I’ll figure it out.”
She shoved her hands in her pockets. “If I’m here, you won’t have to.”
“And what if something else happens in a few months, or maybe next year?” asked Hervé. “Are you going to run back to Le Chat to rescue me every time?”
His argument was a good one. She just wasn’t going to admit it. “Well, that’s not going to happen, is it? You hardly ever get injured or sick.”
“But—” He broke off, looking thunderstruck, as if he’d realized something momentous. “You’re scared. You really are.”
“What? No! What do you mean, I’m scared?” Claire’s heart was beating hard and fast.
“I mean, now you’ve got your dream, you’re not sure you want it,” said Hervé. “You’re terrified of failing. And maybe, you’re even more scared you might succeed with Thibault. You’re frightened of what that will mean.”
“I am not!” said Claire. But in the same breath, she whispered, “What if I’m not good enough, after all?”
Hervé threw back his head and laughed. “I’ve never heard such garbage in my life. Not good enough? Do you think Thibault was wrong about you? He wasn’t. All of those other chefs were—they didn’t even have the sense to try your cooking. They questioned your commitment, but they didn’t see you getting up before dawn every day to practice your skills. They didn’t see how much you want this. But I saw it, and Thibault could tell just from tasting that meal the kind of dedication you’ve poured into your work. Don’t blow it now, Claire. You’ve got to go for it, and not let anything hold you back.” His jaw tightened. “I’d rather put Louis in charge than see you back in my kitchen again.”
He was biased. She shouldn’t let his praise mean so much to her. And the fact that he was urging her to put her career first made her even more determined to help him keep the brasserie going. “Well, if I’m so brilliant, then Chef Thibault will wait,” she said, not sure that she believed her own words. “He’s already agreed to let me have time off for your sake, so don’t let’s argue any more about it. I’ll give you two weeks and then I promise I will go back to Thibault.”
Gina was typing as if possessed, although her fingers on the heavy keys couldn’t quite keep up with her racing thoughts. She’d finished rewriting the final pages of Liberty in the early hours of the morning, but she’d been riding on such a tidal wave of creative energy, she couldn’t stop. As she’d stared at the tall stack of pages that made up her story, an idea had burst into her brain that was so blindingly brilliant, she needed to get it down on paper as fast as possible.
Claire had risen early to check on Hervé at the brasserie before going to work. Gina hardly noticed when Margot left for Dior.
What seemed like minutes later, Gina heard the apartment door open and close. Claire must have come back for something, but both Claire and Margot knew not to disturb Gina when she was writing. Then the desk lamp switched on, making her jump. Incredulous, Gina realized it was evening already, but she couldn’t stop. She needed to get as much done now as she could, before—
A hand on her shoulder made her jump again and utter a filthy curse. “Don’t do that!”
“Such language,” said Margot, laughing. “But I forgive you because this . . .” She held up the final pages of Liberty in one hand. “This is perfection.” Gina blinked. When had Margot stolen them from under her nose?
After going through the various stages of denial, anger, and acceptance all writers face when their precious creations are thoroughly critiqued, Gina had ingested Margot’s editorial comments and come up with ways to address her concerns. Once Gina was done, she had seen how much better and more nuanced these changes made the book.
“Perfection?” she repeated. A smile broke over her face. “Really?”
Margot nodded. “Really. I wouldn’t change a single word. I’m going to ask for a week off to start calling publishers and sending out sample pages. I can’t wait to start pitching!” She hesitated. “I wasn’t going to tell you this because I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but I gave Mountbatten a sneak peek at the first ten pages and he is clamoring for more.”
“Really? That’s terrific news,” said Gina, sitting up straight. That an experienced editor with a New York publishing house liked her work was the kind of encouragement she needed right now.
Margot tilted her head to read the page in her typewriter. “But you’re hard at work still? Don’t tell me you’ve started another book already.”
Nodding, Gina said, “As soon as the idea hit me, I had to run with it. Sorry, but I can’t stop.” She started typing again, afraid that if she didn’t get the words down now, they’d leave her forever.
“You’re still in your pajamas,” said Margot. “Have you even eaten today?” When Gina didn’t answer, she added, “Weren’t you supposed to work at the bookstore?”
Gina hit the carriage lever and started a new paragraph. “I quit.” Thank goodness she had, or she couldn’t have taken advantage of this creative frenzy.
“What? Why?” Margot sat on the edge of the desk and peered into Gina’s face. “Gina, will you stop typing and look at me? What’s all this about?”
Sitting back, Gina blew out a breath and shoved her hands through her hair, then kneaded her aching neck. She ran her tongue along the backs of her teeth. Had she even brushed them that morning? “I quit the bookstore because I wanted to get Liberty finished. And once that was done, I had this terrific idea for a new book, and I had to start on that straightaway.”
“What’s the rush?” Margot asked. “You’ve always said writing novels is a marathon, not a sprint.”
“You don’t understand,” said Gina. “I have to do this now, before I leave Paris.”
Margot looked as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. After a long pause, she said, “I suppose we knew that was coming. How soon do you have to go?”
“Hal’s leaving the day after tomorrow. He wants me to join him as soon as possible. I’ve got two weeks at the outside,” said Gina, avoiding Margot’s perceptive gaze. “So last night, I guess I sort of . . . panicked.” She rubbed at her bleary eyes. On the one hand, she wanted to pour all her fears out to Margot. On the other, she was scared of what her friend might say in response.
“Well, even you cannot finish an entire novel in one day,” said Margot. “Why don’t you freshen up and I’ll find us something to eat?”
When Gina came out of the bathroom, dressed and somewhat refreshed, she found Margot in the galley kitchen frowning mightily over a pan of what looked like it might once have been eggs.
“Are they fried or scrambled?” Gina asked doubtfully.
“Frambled?” Margot said. “It was supposed to be an omelet.” She tipped the eggs into the trash. “Such a waste, but even my frugal great-aunt Mildred would not have eaten those.”
“Bread and cheese will do for me,” said Gina. “And wine. I bought a couple of bottles of bordeaux the other day.”
They took their supper out to the drawing room. Gina sat on the sofa, tucking her legs up underneath her. Margot poured the wine and handed a glass to Gina before sitting down beside her. “You seem . . . a little desperate, dearest G. Are you sure marriage to Hal is what you really want?”
“Of course it is,” Gina replied, helping herself to cheese so she didn’t have to see Margot’s doubtful expression. “Hal loves me and I love him. The rest . . . We’ll work it out.” She needed to believe that.
“All this time you’ve been focused on the change in your circumstances, and not being good enough for the position of Hal’s wife anymore,” said Margot. When Gina would have argued, she held up a hand. “Not that I agree with that, but . . . Have you ever stopped to ask yourself if being the wife of an up-and-coming politician is what you want?”
“I have. And it is.” Gina bit off the words as if they were a day-old baguette. The fact that Margot was echoing the fear that had chimed in Gina’s mind during that meeting with Tommy in the Luxembourg Garden only irritated her the more. “It’s just that the timetable has been moved up and I wasn’t quite ready, that’s all. Hal’s father is dying. He wants to see Hal’s feet set on the right path before he goes.”
“And are you fully aware of what’s involved for you in campaigning for office?” asked Margot. “I can’t imagine there’ll be an awful lot of time to write.” Margot seemed to be exercising a lot of restraint. Her tone was so calm and measured, she sounded quite unlike herself. “Hence today’s output, I suppose?”
“I’ve managed to write a novel in Paris while holding down a job and freelancing on the side, haven’t I?” Gina retorted. “I can certainly do it in between charity galas and political rallies.” Restless, Gina got to her feet and paced, hugging herself.
“Will they even let you publish novels at all?” asked Margot. “I’ve never heard of a senator’s wife having a career.”
Stubbornly Gina refused to see what Margot was getting at. “You make it sound like I’ll have no say in the matter. Hal won’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen.” When Margot said nothing, she felt even more under attack, but she understood where Margot’s concerns were coming from. “Look, I know you didn’t have a good experience with marriage, but I’m . . .” She broke off, flushing.
There was an ominous silence. Then, “You’re what, Gina? Different?” The words, soft and low, sounded dangerous. Margot held herself very still.
I’m not like you, Gina wanted to say. I’m tough. “The situation is completely different, is what I mean.”
“You think you’re stronger than I am,” said Margot, rising to face her. “You think that if you’d been in my shoes, married to my husband, you would have put that man in his place, done exactly what you wanted, or left him flat when things got unbearable. Don’t you? You can’t even see that you’re already compromising bits of yourself and you haven’t even married Hal yet!” She crossed to the desk, snatched up the pages Gina had completed that day, and shook them at her. “You know it, too, or you wouldn’t have been so desperate to get this story down before it’s too late.”
“Funny. I thought my literary agent would want me to be productive,” snapped Gina.
“Gina, I want to be your literary agent for the long haul, not for one book,” Margot flashed back. “But that’s all you’re ever going to write if you become Hal’s wife.”
Dimly aware that she was deliberately feeding her own fury, Gina whirled on Margot. “What about you? Andrew Mountbatten’s head over heels for you and I’m pretty sure you love him, too, but you’ve led him on for weeks! And now you’ve broken his heart. Because you’re a coward, Margot. Not during your marriage. I never thought that. But you’re being one now.”
There was a silence. Gina dropped her gaze to her hands, wishing with all her might that she could take back the words she’d just spoken. She didn’t want to see the hurt she knew was written all over Margot’s face.
“What on earth is going on here?” They hadn’t heard Claire come in.
Gina simply stared at her hands, unable to put into words the pain that was in this room, the pain she’d created, the pain she felt. Worse than any accusation that had been hurled at her was the knowledge that she’d said such unforgivable things to Margot. She made herself raise her gaze to look at what she’d done.
Her face white, stripped of its sparkle, Margot sat down and drained the dregs of the glass of wine she’d left on the coffee table. Her hand shook as she poured herself another glass. A hard lump formed in Gina’s throat. Why had she said those things? She hadn’t even realized she’d been thinking them, and then, there they were, spilling like poison from her mouth.
She started to speak, but Margot forestalled her, suddenly demanding of Claire. “Why are you home so early?”
Gina glanced at the clock. It was eight thirty. Not even halfway through the dinner rush. Claire hadn’t been fired, had she? That would set the seal on a truly awful day.
“Oh, I’m not. Home, I mean,” said Claire. “I just popped upstairs to get something.” She bit her lip, then lifted her chin, as if in defiance. “I’m working at the brasserie.”
“What?” said Gina. “Because Hervé’s injured? Can’t someone else step up and support him? He has plenty of staff.”
Claire shrugged. “Someone else didn’t. Things weren’t going so well, so I’m helping out.”
“Isn’t it a bit soon to be taking time off from the restaurant?” Gina pressed. “Was Thibault okay with that?” She was glad to get her mind off her own troubles and on to Claire’s.
“You sound like Hervé.” Claire rolled her eyes. “It’s only for a couple of weeks. It will be fine.”
Gina wasn’t convinced. “During which time one of your underlings steps into your shoes at Thibault’s and you come back to find yourself demoted or without a job.”
“It’s a chance I’ll take.” Claire’s eyes sparked with anger. “Sometimes, we make sacrifices for the people we love.”
Margot spoke. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Gina?” She jerked her head toward Claire. “Tell her what you told me.” But without giving Gina a chance to speak, Margot added, “Gina’s giving up her future as a novelist to become a politician’s handbag.”
“No!” Claire stared at Gina. “But I thought you had all of that sorted out. I thought Hal understood.”
“Just a few wrinkles to iron out,” said Gina coolly. “Nothing I can’t handle.” She’d been on the verge of apologizing to Margot, but that snide remark had reignited her rage.
“And Gina’s going to leave Paris as soon as Governor Charming crooks his little finger.” Margot rose to her feet, setting her empty glass down with a sharp click. “Why don’t you try to talk her out of it, Claire? Although if you’ve been kidding yourself you’re actually doing the right thing by helping out at the brasserie when all you’re really doing is running away from Thibault’s, you’re just as bad.” Dark eyes blazing and filled with angry tears, Margot turned on her heel and headed for the bedroom.
“Well, at least you won’t have to put up with me for much longer!” Gina called after her. She turned back to Claire, expecting an ally after Margot’s attack on them both, but she found no sympathy there.
Claire was shaking her head at her, as if bewildered. “Gina, what have you done?” And it wasn’t clear whether she meant to Margot, to their friendship, or to Gina herself.