She felt the warmth of his body at her back…
“I’ve been trying to forget Paris,” Pierce said after a minute.
“You and Humphrey Bogart?” Brianne replied dryly.
“What? Oh. Oh!” He chuckled, then his eyes narrowed. “Local gossip says that there’s a move to involve you with your stepfather’s brand-new business partner, a sort of family merger.”
She lost all color, but she didn’t blink an eyelash. “Really?”
“Don’t prevaricate,” he said impatiently. “I know everything that goes on in this town.”
“I can take care of myself.” She straightened her shoulders.
“At nineteen?”
“Twenty,” she corrected. “I had a birthday last week.”
He made a rough sound. “Honey, you’re fighting city hall when you tangle with your stepfather, much less with his shady partners.”
“Something you know from experience?”
He smiled at Brianne. “I didn’t say I couldn’t win. I said you couldn’t.”
“Nobody tops Diana Palmer…I love her stories.”
—Jayne Ann Krentz
Once in Paris
Diana Palmer
To all the wonderful people at MIRA Books,
with love.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter One
A woman in red, very blond and chic, stood before the Mona Lisa with a much taller, dark man and made a sharp comment in French. The man laughed. They seemed inclined to linger, but there was a very long line of tourists impatient to see the da Vinci masterpiece in the Louvre, and very vocal about having to wait so long for their turn. One of the visitors had a flash camera aimed at the timeless masterpiece, which had been placed behind layers of bulletproof glass, until a guard spotted him.
Brianne Martin, from her vantage point on a nearby bench, found the visitors as interesting as the works of art. In her shorts and tank top, with her green eyes sparkling, her blond hair in a French braid and a backpack slung over one thin shoulder, she looked what she was—a student. She was almost nineteen, a pupil at an exclusive girls’ school on the Left Bank in Paris. She didn’t mix well with most of the other students, because her background was not one of wealth and power.
She came from middle-class parents, and only her mother’s second marriage to international oil magnate Kurt Brauer had given Brianne the opportunity to sample this luxurious lifestyle. Not that it was by choice. Kurt Brauer didn’t like his stepdaughter, and now that his new wife Eve was pregnant, he wanted Brianne out of the way. A boarding school in Paris seemed the ideal choice.
It had hurt that her mother hadn’t protested.
“You’ll enjoy it, dear,” Eve had said hopefully, smiling. “And you’ll have plenty of money to spend, won’t that be a change? Your father never made more than minimum wage. He really had no inclination to better himself.”
Comments like that made the strained relationship between Brianne and her petite, blond mother worse. Eve was a sweet but selfish creature, always with an eye to the main chance. She’d gone after Brauer like a soldier on campaign, complete with frilly battle plan. To Brianne’s astonishment, her mother was married and pregnant within five months of her adored father’s death. From their nice but small apartment in Atlanta, the Martin women had been transplanted to a villa in Nassau.
Kurt Brauer was wealthy, although Brianne had never been able to discover the exact source of his wealth. He seemed to be involved in oil exploration, but strange, dangerous-looking men came and went at the Nassau office he infrequently occupied. He had a home in Nassau and beach houses in Barcelona and on the Riviera, and a yacht to sail between them. Chauffeur-driven limousines and meals that cost three figures were commonplace to him. Eve was in her element, rich for the first time in her life. Brianne was miserable. Very quickly Kurt sized her up as a threat and got her out of the way.
She looked around the Louvre with great interest, as always. It had been her favorite haunt since she’d arrived in Paris, and she was in love with the old converted palace. It had only just gone through a major renovation. Although some of the changes were not to her liking—especially those gigantic modern-looking pyramids—she loved the exhibits, and she was young enough not to mind showing her enthusiasm for new places and experiences. What she lacked in sophistication she made up for with spirited enjoyment.
A man caught her eye. He was staring at one of the Italian paintings, but not with much enthusiasm. In fact, he didn’t seem to see it. His eyes were dark and quiet and his face was heavily lined, as if he were in pain.
There was something very familiar about him. He had thick, dark wavy hair with threads of silver in it. He was a big man, broad in the shoulders and narrow-hipped. She noticed that he was holding a cigar in one hand, even though it wasn’t lit. Perhaps he knew better than to smoke in here with all these exquisite treasures but couldn’t do without something in his hand. She often picked at her fingernails, sometimes tearing them off at the quick when she was upset. Maybe the cigar kept him from biting his nails.
The thought amused her and she smiled. He looked very prosperous. He was wearing a cream-striped sport coat with white slacks and a beige shirt. No tie. He had a thin gold watch on his right wrist and a wedding ring on his left ring finger. He was holding the cigar in his left hand, so presumably he was left-handed.
He turned, and she got a glimpse of a broad, darkly tanned face. His mouth was firm and thin and wide, and his nose had a crook in it. There was a faint cleft in his chin. He had heavy dark eyebrows over large black eyes. He looked fascinating. He also looked familiar. She couldn’t quite remember…oh, yes. Her stepfather had given a party after the wedding for some business associates, and this man had been there. He was something big in construction. Hutton. That was it. L. Pierce Hutton. He headed up Hutton Construction Corporation, which specialized in building transatlantic oil drilling platforms and also high-rise, high-tech buildings. He was an architect of some note, especially in ecological circles, and conservative politicians didn’t like him because he opposed slipshod conservation methods. Yes. She remembered him. His wife had just died. That was three months ago, but he didn’t look as if he’d done much healing.
She approached him, drawn by the look of him. He was still staring at the painting as if he’d like to set a match to it.
“It’s very famous. Don’t you like it?” she asked at his side, fascinated by his height. She only came to his shoulder, and she was fairly tall.
He looked