Love Redesigned (2 page)

He’d first met Constance at Christmas when he decided he couldn’t stand another holiday without family, and he’d spent several weeks at the chateau. Seeing Francois so happy with his new family had been a driving factor in Roman’s decision to return home and settle down in the village where he’d grown up.

It was time to put his ghosts to rest and have a family of his own.

Standing up, he crossed the marble floor, unable to keep still. So much history in this cavernous ballroom. The aged silk covering the walls had held up well through the years. Francois had recently had the panels on the lower half of the wall restored in preparation for the wedding.

He just wanted to finish the wedding dress and four attendant gowns, and be done with everything. He rubbed a hand over the pang in his chest. He was truly happy for his cousin, but all the love in the air reminded him of what he had found, and lost, so long ago.

“Roman? Hellooo.”

Constance’s voice wrenched him from his reverie and he looked up at the bride-to-be standing on the dressmaker’s platform. Shoulder-length, honey blonde hair, upturned nose, sweet smile, and sweeter disposition. She was the classic American girl-next-door he had once read about. But as the marketing director for his cousin’s winery, she was a force to be reckoned with, using charm to get what she wanted accomplished.

“You okay? I don’t think you heard a word I’ve said.”

“
Je suis désolé
, Constance. What did you say?”

“I’ve just been yammerin’ on about this dress. It’s exquisite! I’m so excited you’re designing my wedding dress. I couldn’t believe it when my sweetie told me his cousin was the world-famous designer Roman Duchaine. Thank you for doing this for us.” She grinned. “Okay, for me. I know you don’t want anyone to know you’re designing the dresses for us, but I can’t help feeling extra special.”

“It has been my pleasure,
Mademoiselle
,” he said, and kissed the back of her hand, making her giggle.

Glancing behind her, she said, “The only thing I’m worried about is the long train. I’m scared to death I’ll trip and ruin it.” She turned around to face the mirror. “Why is the mirror covered up?”

“Because I want to make sure everything is perfect before you see the full effect.”

The door to the ballroom opened and Mignon slipped back into the room. She carried a long delicate veil.

“Ah, the
pièce de résistance
. This is why I insisted the dress have a long train.” He took the veil from Mignon and stepped on the platform next to the beaming bride. Using pins, he secured it in her hair, then stepped down to adjust the folds as it caressed the back of the dress.

“This is your ‘old’ and ‘borrowed’ piece for the tradition. The veil has been in my family for two hundred years. Every bride in our family, or marrying into our family, has worn it. Francois asked me to design your dress to complement it.”

“Hurry, please!” She looked down at the dress. “I’m dyin’ to see what I look like!”

He stepped around the platform and pulled the cloth off the antique mirror. “Then wait no more. What do you think of your dress?”

She gasped, staring at her reflection. He kept his eyes on her face, mentally crossing his fingers, and hoping she was pleased with his design.

The pale ecru satin and overlay of tulle enhanced her rosy skin and blonde hair. Jeweled spaghetti straps gave way to a plunging v-neckline. Intricate silver beading on the bodice continued down the waist, and into the skirt. The seamstress had followed his pattern exactly, and he thought it was well-worth all the revisions he had gone through on the design.

Only a tall woman could carry off such a dress, and it was perfect for Constance, emphasizing her height and slender figure.

He met her gaze in the mirror in time to see tears well in her eyes.

“Do not dare cry—I forbid it!
Tu es belle
. You are beautiful, and supposed to be full of joy.” The last thing he needed was a weepy woman on his hands.

She gave him a watery smile. “This is the most stunning gown I’ve ever seen in my life.” She angled to see the veil flowing down her back. “It’s exquisite! You’re an absolute genius. Thank you so much for my dress. I may have to cry after all.”

She sniffed, and he whisked a handkerchief out of the pocket of his jeans, handed it to her.

She mopped up her tears, and fingered the veil. “I can’t wait for Gigi to see this veil. She loves anything vintage, and this definitely qualifies.”

“Which one is she?”

“She’s my cousin from back home in Georgia. You’ll love her. Their plane landed in Paris early this morning, and they’re on the way here. I just hope the measurements she sent me are right so you won’t have much more to do on her dress.”

“When do the other bridesmaids arrive?”

“In a couple of days. Gigi’s coming early to get ready for the showers and the party in the village.”

“They are all staying here?”

“Yes. I wish you would stay here, too, at least through the wedding. You’ve just moved back home and I know Francois is happy you’re here for good. There’s plenty of room for you so you don’t have to go back and forth between our place and yours.”

“
Oui
, there is. But I am getting used to my new house. Besides, the chateau is about to be overrun with women,” he said, grinning.

“You should be warned I’m a born matchmaker. I’ll find a woman—the right woman—for you one of these days.”

He sighed. There had been plenty of women in his life over the years. But none of them were
her
. “I’m afraid the right woman does not exist for me anymore.”

“What do you mean ‘anymore’? Was there someone once?”

“Yes, a long time ago.”

“What happened?”

“She left Paris to marry someone else, and broke my heart. So now I am . . . as you Americans say . . . playing the field, perhaps?” He shrugged, hoping she would leave the subject, and his single life, alone. He would find the right woman on his own terms, and would not be subjected to the machinations of others.

“We’ll just see about that,” she drawled, batting her green eyes at him.

He and Mignon helped Constance off the platform. Mignon guided her behind the screen, carefully holding the train and veil off the ground. He walked into the small study off the ballroom to make notes on the alterations needed for the wedding gown. Sitting at the desk, he opened his notebook. A few moments later he heard Constance squeal.

“You’re here!”

It must be the cousin
. He grinned, listening to their excited chatter.

Fifteen minutes later, Constance stuck her head into the study. “My cousin is here! Mignon is helping her put the dress on, so come on out and meet her. I think you two might just hit it off.” She grinned at him.

Already beginning to play matchmaker
?

He rolled his eyes and stood, then walked back into the ballroom. Opening the notebook again, he looked for his notes on the cousin’s dress. He stopped behind the platform, and glanced up at the woman wearing the blush pink bridesmaid gown. Her curves were accented perfectly by his design. A good start. Now to check the fit of the material.

“
Bonjour
, Gigi. I am . . .” His words trailed off as he beheld the woman reflected in the mirror. A delicate heart-shaped face, delectable lips, olive green eyes widening as they met his in the mirror. Long wavy blonde hair spilled down her back.

Golden hair he had once gloried in as it spread across his pillow.

“Genevieve . . .” he whispered, his voice like gravel.

Chapter 2

It can’t be.
Genevieve stared at him in the mirror. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear anything but a strange roaring in her ears. Her head spun.

She slowly turned around, willing herself not to collapse in a heap.

It was him. This time it really
was
him.

Eyes the color of her favorite chocolate truffle glared at her from beneath thick black brows. His silky black hair was shorter now, and he’d grown a beard. His full lips . . . the same that had once explored every inch of her body . . . were pressed so tightly together they were almost white. Had he always been so big, so broad? He seemed even more imposing now.

And damned if he wasn’t even more ruggedly handsome than he was before.

“What are
you
doing here?” she croaked.

He turned on her cousin. “
This
is your cousin?”

Connie Sue flinched and stepped back, the smile slipping from her face as she looked at the two of them. “Yes. Why?”

He glared at Genevieve. “You lied about your name as well?” he ground out.

Lied? Lied about what? Her muscles tensed.
What the hell is he talking about?
He had a lot of nerve calling her a liar when he’s the one who had kept things from her, stomped all over her heart. Dumped her for someone else. Someone who could further his career.

“I never lied to you. It’s my nickname, short for Genevieve Grace. When we were little, Connie Sue couldn’t pronounce my name, so she started calling me Gigi, and it stuck.”

You’re babbling, you idiot. Shut up!

She’d loved the way he said her name in his French accent too much to mention her nickname. So romantic. She’d even told him once, in the heat of the moment, how much she loved the way he said her name.

“Who is Connie Sue?”

She pointed at her cousin who stood next to the platform, her mouth gaping open in shock.

Connie Sue raised her hand. “I am.”

“Isn’t your name Constance?”

“It is. Constance Suzanne Rayburn. We’re from the South. You know—Jim Bob, John Boy, Connie Sue . . .” Her voice dwindled down and she looked at Genevieve. “How do you two know each other?”

“It was a long time ago. She is
nothing
to me now.” He stalked across the room and walked out, slamming the door. The chandelier clanked from the force of his anger.

Gigi stepped off the platform, her knees wobbling.
I need to sit down.
She sank down in the chair next to the antique folding screen. Black spots danced in front of her eyes, and she bent over, put her head between her knees.

“What crawled up his butt and died? I’ve never seen him act like that,” Connie Sue huffed.

“
Why
didn’t you tell me
Roman Duchaine
was the designer you hired to design the clothes for the wedding?”

“He’s Francois’ cousin. Roman asked us not to tell anyone—he doesn’t want the paparazzi to find out and swarm the chateau. This is our day, and he wants the focus to be on
us
. Besides, you’ve never been much into fashion, so I didn’t think it would’ve mattered to you.”

Francois’ cousin? Oh, Lord.

She sat up slowly, memories of a picnic they’d once gone on flooding her mind. Lying under a tree in a field of sunflowers, he had told her about his mother, and how she’d walked out when he was eight. His father had plunged headfirst into a bottle and resurfaced five years later only to be buried. His father’s sister had taken Roman in, more out of a sense of duty than anything, and he’d grown up with a cousin.

But he’d never said they lived in a chateau or where it was.

Dropping her head into her hands, Genevieve muttered, “I
knew
I shouldn’t have come.”

Connie Sue touched her shoulder. “Will you
please
tell me what’s going on? I can’t imagine where you two could have met. Or when.”

“Remember when I was studying in Paris at
Le Cordon Bleu
in ‘98? And Dad had his heart attack?”

Connie Sue nodded. “You had to rush home.” Realization dawned. “
Merde
. Don’t tell me
Roman
was the one you were seeing.”

Genevieve nodded.

“In all these years, you never told me anything more.”

“I was nineteen and heartbroken. Not something you confide in a fourteen year old cousin.”
Or what happened afterward
. “Besides, I had my hands full between dad, the car accident, and having to go to work.”

“He may be related to Francois, but nobody treats my cousin like that and gets away with it.”

Scrambling out of the chair, Genevieve’s feet tangled in the long skirt. She grabbed Connie Sue’s arm before she could follow him. “No! Leave it. There’s too much water under
that
bridge.”

Connie Sue pulled her into a hug. “I’m so sorry. I never had any idea you two knew each other.”

“I never told anyone. Then, when he started making a name for himself in the fashion world, I
really
didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Do you want to go back to Atlanta?”

“No. I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m committed to making the pastries for your parties, and the wedding cake. I want to do it for you and Francois.” She squeezed Connie Sue and stepped back. “Y’all went through too much to get to your wedding day. I want to see you married to your Prince Charming in your fairytale wedding.”

“Besides . . .” Genevieve forced a smile and held the skirt out, gently swishing it back and forth. “I love this dress! I’d never be able to afford an original Roman Duchaine dress on my own.” She needed to keep things light—no way would she ruin this joyful time for her cousin.

Connie Sue brightened. “I can’t wait for you to see my wedding dress. And the dresses for the twins! They look just like little fairies.”

“You’re going to be a great mom. I’m thrilled for you. When do I get to meet the girls and Francois?”

“Tonight. Melly and Bella are napping right now, and Francois couldn’t move his meeting this afternoon.” She turned Genevieve toward the mirror.

“Do you really like the dress? They’re all the same blush color, but I had him design a different one for each attendant.”

Genevieve looked at herself in the large mirror, fighting the urge to squirm. “It’s truly exquisite. Almost as if he’d known it was for me . . .” Her voice trailed off. He had once promised her he would design a dress for her only, something no other woman would ever wear.

“Well, don’t you look purty,” Daniel drawled, walking into the room. “Careful, Gigi, or you’ll outshine the bride.”

“No way. Look at her. Peaches is radiant.”

The bride-to-be rolled her eyes. “Are you ever going to stop calling me that silly nickname? I am marrying Count Francois Bertrand Gaillard. I’m going to be Countess Constance Gaillard.” She tilted her nose in the air and struck an affected pose.

Genevieve snatched a pillow off the settee and tossed it at her cousin.

“You’re Connie Sue Rayburn, Miss Georgia Peach 2004, and you always will be.”

She ducked as Connie Sue threw the pillow back at her, but her foot caught in the long skirt. She tried to right herself but heard fabric rip.

“Must you be so careless?” said a deep voice from the doorway.

Roman stalked across the room. He loomed over her, invading her space.

She cringed inwardly, caught a subtle whiff of his scent and shrank back.

Something flashed in his eyes, a storm of emotions rioted through their depths until shutters closed her out. Kept her from looking too closely.

Hurt?

He squatted down and sifted through the hem of the blush-colored organza.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tear this gorgeous dress.”

He glanced up at her, an inscrutable look on his face. “It can be repaired.”

He stood up and turned around.

She glanced at Daniel. He stepped forward, hands clenching into fists, his face red as a stop sign.

Crap.

“You’re Roman Duchaine,” Daniel said through gritted teeth, contempt dripping from his voice.

Oh, no
.

Roman inclined his head. “And you are?”

Daniel strode forward. “You sonuvabitch.” His fist flew forward, hitting Roman in the jaw.

Roman’s head snapped back from the force of the punch.

She froze. Her eyes opened wide. Had he really just
punched
Roman?

By the stunned look on his face, Daniel couldn’t believe he’d done it either.

“What the hell?” Roman yelled.

Tension filled the room, and she was afraid a fight would escalate. She forced herself between the two angry men, facing Daniel, and backed into Roman.

His hands gripped her waist, fingers digging into her flesh. A wave of longing swept through her at his touch.

God help her, she still wanted him.

Desperately.

I am so screwed.

Daniel pushed forward, and she put her hands on his shoulders, lightly rubbing them. “Stop it.”

He tried to pull from her grasp, but she tightened her grip. “Daniel, look at me. It’s okay.”

He met her eyes and stepped back. Lifting his arm, he pointed at Roman. “You stay away from her, or you’ll answer to me.”

“Not a problem. I have no interest in
her
.” He shoved her aside and stalked across the room, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous ballroom.

Her heart sank.

“Crazy
Américains
. Always think violence is the way to solve things.” He turned to Genevieve but pointed at Daniel. “Does he raise a hand to you? Does he hurt you?”

She shook her head, bewildered.

He opened the door but didn’t turn around. “Leave the dress with my assistant, and take care not to further destroy it.”

She watched him walk out the door, this time closing it quietly.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God. That
hurts!
” Daniel cradled his hand.

“I
cannot
believe you just punched him.”

“Me either. He was here, in person, and I remembered what he did to you, and I got pissed off. I don’t care if he is some big shot designer. No one disses my girl.” He cupped her chin and tilted her face up. “You okay, Sugar?”

She nodded. “Let’s go get some ice for your hand.”