Alec poured a glass of scotch and turned to Celine. She looked exactly as she had when she left. Her hair was knotted in a loose chignon and her cheeks were lightly powdered and she wore thick mascara. But there was something different. He downed the scotch and tried to put his finger on it.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he demanded. “You’re supposed to be in Australia.”
She brushed brioche crumbs from her slacks and put her demitasse on the porcelain saucer. “It’s an impossible country. They eat black spread on white bread for breakfast, and I couldn’t find L’Occitane Crème Précieuse at any department store. They wouldn’t let me take my jar on the plane and my skin dried out.”
“It’s called marmite, and it’s quite delicious once you get used to it,” he snapped. “And I’m sure they have some kind of decent face lotion at David Jones. You didn’t have to come back to Paris. What about Patrick—did you leave him at the arrivals terminal?”
“Of course not. We spent two nights in his flat in St. Kilda.” She inspected her fingernails. “All his furniture was on the floor. I felt like I was on a yoga retreat.
“It never would have worked out,” she continued. “Apparently he’s not a championship cricket player, he’s in the bush leagues. And his French was terrible; he didn’t understand the concept of personal pronouns. He kept calling a table ‘he.’”
“It seems to be a common problem,” he said and thought of Isabel. “You can’t just show up and order afternoon tea. I’m busy.”
“My father is paying for the suite.” She eyed the box of chocolates and bouquet of tulips. “When did you start shopping at Maison du Chocolat? Their truffles cost as much as gold bouillon.”
“That’s none of your business,” Alec spluttered. “We canceled the ceremony at Cathédrale Notre-Dame and the reception at the George Cinq and the Aston Martin that would have driven us to the airport. You can’t pretend nothing happened.”
“I was only gone for ten days.” She shrugged. “We’ll have a destination wedding; I’m dying to get on the slopes. We’ll get married in St. Moritz and stay at the Palace Hotel.”
“We’re not getting married anywhere,” Alec exclaimed.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt better. He remembered when he was a child and did terribly on a math test. He kept the paper in his pocket and had a stomachache by the time his mother found it. But he didn’t care what Celine said; he just wanted her to leave.
He refilled his scotch glass and realized that was what was different. Celine could have violet eyes and a turned-up nose, but he wasn’t in love with her.
“What do you mean we’re not getting married?” Celine demanded.
Alec wanted to say he was going to marry Isabel, but then he remembered she had walked out of the suite and said she never wanted to see him again.
“You left with your passport and my favorite pair of slippers,” Alec said hotly. “Did you really expect me to be here waiting for you?”
“My feet get cold on the plane.” She looked at Alec. “And I didn’t expect you to wait for me. I expected you to follow me.”
“What did you say?” Alec stammered.
“You turned me over to Patrick like a dog breeder giving away a puppy.” She ate another bite of brioche. “You should have seen your face when you appeared at the café in the Place Vendôme. You gave up in the first round.”
“Was I supposed to draw a pistol like John Wayne in an American Western?” Alec demanded. “And did you see his muscles under that white shirt? David Beckham couldn’t compete.”
“If you loved me you would have booked the first flight to Melbourne,” Celine insisted, “instead of moping in the hotel suite like a wounded animal.”
“I had a wonderful week exploring Paris,” he replied. “I visited the Catacombs and Montmartre and Versailles.”
“You visited the Catacombs?” Celine looked up. “You’re terrified of closed spaces.”
“Maybe I’m not, I just needed my eyes opened,” he snapped. “Relationships might require work, but they’re not supposed to be an ongoing battle with one person claiming to be the victor and the other waving a white flag.” He paused. “If you love someone, you spend every day making them happy.”
Celine stood up and stretched. Even her high breasts and long legs left him cold. She was like a cat that had been declawed.
“I have terrible jet lag.” She walked toward the bedroom. “I’m going to bed, we’ll discuss this tomorrow.”
“You can’t sleep here,” Alec insisted.
“What do you mean I can’t sleep here?” Celine untied her chignon. “My father paid for twelve nights in the honeymoon suite with a private butler and continental breakfast.”
“There’s only one bed and I’m tired of sleeping on your sofa. There are other suites at the Crillon, I’ll tell the valet to move your bag and I’ll pay for the room.”
He wished his shrinking bank account matched his new bravado, but he wasn’t going to let Celine push him out of the suite. He needed one more night to win back Isabel.
“I’ve had enough overripe peaches and bottles of Evian.” She picked up her suitcase and walked to the door. “I’ll go to my apartment.”
“Celine, wait,” Alec called.
“Yes?” She turned around.
God, she was beautiful with her pink mouth and slender cheekbones. He felt like Odysseus staring down the sirens.
He suddenly pictured Isabel’s bright smile, and a warmth spread through his chest.
“You forgot to return my grandmother’s diamond ring.”
* * *
ALEC PACED AROUND the suite like a prizefighter who had scored an unexpected victory. His heart raced and his brow was covered with sweat.
He wished he could replay Celine placing the sapphire-and-diamond ring on the coffee table. He had never seen her linger over a piece of jewelry before.
He thought of what she said about giving up too easily, and an uneasy pit formed in his stomach. Perhaps he should have insisted Patrick didn’t join them for dinner. But Celine and Patrick were like a blond Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. You had to know when to retreat; it was a basic rule of survival.
Should he have followed her to Melbourne? Twenty-four hours on an international flight gave him a backache, and the blanket never stayed in one place.
He remembered the way men looked at her in the street and knew he would have been setting himself up for a life of torture. He had taken the quickest escape route, like a pilot jettisoning himself from a burning plane.
Or perhaps she was right; he didn’t know how to fight for the woman he loved.
But he wasn’t going to lose Isabel. He picked up the bouquet of tulips and hardbound book on Monet’s gardens at Giverny. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. Celine had taken the gold box of chocolate profiteroles.