Love Redesigned (3 page)

Chapter 3

Connie Sue opened the door to the guestroom. “This is your room.”

Genevieve walked into the small guestroom and looked around at the pale violet walls and elegant furnishings. “I don’t believe it. There’s a crown over the bed!” A small golden canopy hung on the wall, and grayish-purple fabric draped down to frame the bed.

Connie Sue giggled. “Makes you feel like a princess, doesn’t it?

“This is the most elegant room I’ve ever seen. I’m almost afraid to touch anything.” She walked over to Connie Sue and hugged her. “You’ve come a long way from a farmhouse outside Atlanta, baby.”

“Sometimes I have to pinch myself to believe this is really happening.”

“All funnin’ aside. I have to ask, since your folks aren’t around anymore. Does he treat you right? Make you happy?”

Connie Sue sat down on the bed. “Absolutely. He totally makes me happy. He completes me. Took us awhile to smooth things out, but we made it. And I adore Melly and Bella. I think I’m going to love being a mom.”

Genevieve opened the suitcase waiting for her on the luggage bench by the closet. “Good, because I might have to let Daniel loose on him if he doesn’t treat you right.” She picked up her robe and toiletry bag, shook out the dress she would wear for dinner later.

“I cannot believe he punched Roman! I didn’t know he had it in him. I always thought of him more as a lover than a fighter,” Connie Sue remarked.

“He learned to defend himself growing up. He told me once it was hard growing up in a small town in the South, knowing he was different. I guess he got to be kinda scrappy in fights. I’m so sorry it caused a scene. This is a happy time for you, and I don’t want anything to interfere with that.”

“It’s not your fault. I just wish I’d known.” Connie Sue twitched at the duvet on the bed. “Sooo . . .”

“What?”

“I assume by Daniel’s reaction he knew about Roman. How come you never told me? Did your dad know?”

Genevieve shook her head. “No, I never told Dad. It was long over by the time he was in recovery, and I didn’t feel comfortable telling him about my broken heart.” She stroked a hand over Connie Sue’s hair. “I’m sorry I never told you about it. Like I said, you were too young, and I really didn’t want to talk about it. To anyone. Daniel knows because he’d called me once and Roman answered the phone. So he bullied it out of me when I got home. You know how he can be.” She pulled her boots off, and curled her toes in the luxuriously thick gray carpet. She sighed.
How do women wear heels every day?

“So, are you going to tell me how you met him?”

“I’m dying to take a shower after that long flight. Can we talk later?”

“Sure. I’ll be right here waiting.” Connie Sue leaned back against the bank of pillows and crossed her legs.

Shoot. Doesn’t she ever give up? I just want to be alone to process all of this.
Maybe have a good cry while I’m at it.

She walked into the bathroom and shut the door. Hoped if she dawdled long enough, her cousin would get tired of waiting and leave. Her mind was still reeling over seeing Roman again.
Why does the world have to be such a small place?

Sliding the shower curtain back, she almost whimpered. She’d always wanted a showerhead that hung from the ceiling and disbursed water like rain. She turned the faucets on to let the water get hot, and glanced at her reflection in the antique mirror hanging on the wall.

She peered closer, noticing the faint lines fanning from her eyes.
Why is it men age so well, and women just age? It’s not fair he’s only gotten better looking the older he gets. Even the gray sprinkled in his hair and beard make him look distinguished.

She straightened up, mentally slapping herself.
Stop thinking about him! You’re over him. You are!

His voice . . . it still had that velvety texture, deep and delicious, smooth as the finest dark chocolate she preferred for baking. He’d literally had her at ‘
bonjour
’ the day they met.

If I’m so over him, then why do his words echo in my brain?

She huffed out a breath, undressed, and got in the shower. The warm water cascaded over her, washing away the tiredness from the long plane ride. She took her time and relaxed for the first time that day, letting the hot water soothe her tired muscles. Her stomach growled and she realized she was actually hungry. And if she was hungry, Daniel would be starving.

Getting out of the shower, she dried off and put her thick robe on. Opening the door to let the steam escape, she sighed in exasperation.

Connie Sue sat on a small sofa in front of the window.

“You still here? I figured you would have gotten bored waiting for me.” She walked out of the bathroom to get her hairbrush, then noticed her suitcase was missing. “What did you do?”

“I put everything away for you. I also had a snack brought up since I’m sure you’re starving.” Connie Sue pointed at a tray of cheese and crackers, then poured a glass of wine and handed it to her. “This is the new sparkling wine Francois has been experimenting on.”

Genevieve sipped, and the bubbles burst on her tongue. “Mmm, yummy.”

Connie Sue rolled her eyes. “Oh for God’s sake. Don’t you know you’re supposed to sniff the bouquet first? Then sip it, and savor the flavor.”

“Well la-dee-da. Look at you becoming a wine snob.”

“Honey, by the time you go home, you’ll be as knowledgeable as I am.”

“I doubt it. This is
your
business. Cakes are my area of expertise.” She walked back to the bathroom and picked up her face moisturizer. Might as well try to battle back some of those lines.

Connie Sue leaned against the door frame. “I’ve been patient, so would you please tell me how you met Roman? This is kind of freaking me out. You’ve done everything you can to avoid talking about this, but I can tell you’re hurting.”

“You aren’t going to leave me alone until I do, are you?”

“Nope. Now spill.” She checked her watch. “There’s not much time before dinner.”

“Is he eating here tonight?”

Connie Sue shook her head. “No, he said he had things to take care of at home when I asked.”

She should have been relieved—they’d be thrown together enough over the next few days.

“So come on, out with it. Tell me how you met.”

“I’d been in Paris about three weeks, and was into the first intensive course, Basic Patisserie. One afternoon I was heading back to my flat when it started to rain. Money was tight, so I usually walked to and from my classes. Rain is the norm in Paris, but this was a real thunderstorm. By the time I crossed the street, I was almost soaked. All of a sudden, someone held an umbrella over my head.”

She still remembered the thrill that had rushed through her when she looked up at him for the first time. “I’ve never told anyone this, much less admitted it to myself, but when I looked at him, I thought ‘Oh, there you are. Where’ve you been?’
It was like I’d been waiting for him all my life, but didn’t realize it.”

“That’s kind of how I felt the first time I met my Francois. We just clicked,” Connie Sue said.

Genevieve met her cousin’s eyes, full of empathy. She did understand.

“What did he look like when he was younger?”

“His hair was a just a little longer, but he didn’t have a beard back then. He was real lean, and so tall he made even me feel short. He was wearing a black leather jacket—the ultimate in bad-boy wear. I was a little afraid of him, but only because he just seemed so . . . right. I mean, he sheltered me from the rain, and took me to the outdoor café right there, so there were other people around. But then he smiled at me . . .”

That smile warmed me from head to toe, the heat lingering in certain areas.

“
Venez
abri de la pluie," he said, handing her a linen napkin.

She shrugged and wiped the rain off her face. “My French is not so good yet.”

“You are Americáin?” he asked in English, his voice a deep, delicious rumble in a French accent.

A shiver of awareness trembled through her. “Yes, I am.”

“I said to come in out of the rain.”

“Oh. Thanks for rescuing me.” She gestured to his jacket. “I guess you’re my knight in black leather.” Did I really just say that?

He slowly smiled, full sensual lips framed even, white teeth. Black hair, chiseled cheekbones, a broad forehead. The way his cocoa brown eyes looked her up and down appreciatively made her feel all woman.

“It does not look like the rain will stop anytime soon. Would you care to join me for a café au láit?” He pulled a chair out from the table for her, and she sank into it.

A waiter appeared, and he ordered coffee for them both.

She’d fallen for him from the moment he smiled his devastating smile at her.

Something hit her head and Genevieve jumped. She picked up the wadded napkin her cousin had thrown at her and tossed it in the trash.

“Must have been some good memory.”

“We talked for hours that day. He got some towels from a waiter at the café so I could dry off, and he let me wear his jacket.”

“I’m assuming you continued seeing him?”

“We were almost inseparable from then on. When he wasn’t at work, and I was out of school, we were together. He showed me all of Paris, and when he could borrow a car, we’d take long drives to the country . . .” She broke off, picked up the hair dryer and faced the mirror.

“Did you love him?”

She met her cousin’s eyes in the reflection.

“Desperately.”

“Did he love you?”

“He never said it, but I hoped he did. I guess I was wrong.”

“What happened when you had to come home?”

Talking about Roman was hard enough. But talking about that, after she’d come home, the accident . . . There were some things best left alone. She plastered a smile and dodged, saying, “If we’re going to get to dinner, I need to finish getting ready.”

Her cousin sighed and pushed off the door frame, squeezed Genevieve’s shoulders. “You can talk to me anytime, sweetie. I hope you know that.”

“I do, thanks. But . . . even though it’s been over for fifteen years . . . it’s still hard to talk about.”

Chapter 4

Roman slouched in the overstuffed chair in front of his fireplace, bare feet propped up on the coffee table. He sat in the near-dark, brooding, watching the flames dance in the old stone fireplace. Shadows writhed and twisted on the pale walls. He thought he’d done so well blocking
that girl
from his memory.

“Hell,” he muttered. Girl nothing.
She’s a stunning woman
. Now all he could think about was her, and the way she had embraced Paris, and him, on her adventure in the City of Love.

She once told him it had been her mother’s dream to study in Paris at the famed cooking school herself, but it never happened. She had married young, and Genevieve was born nine months later. The love of baking passed from mother to daughter, and Genevieve talked about the many hours they had spent in the kitchen together.

He sank further into the leather chair, sipping the whiskey, wishing it would make him forget the memories washing over him. He’d held her as she cried, told him about the cancer that had eaten away at her mother for a year. Genevieve had been thirteen years old at the time, and charged with being the caregiver since her father worked long hours. Upon her death, she had left a small insurance policy and savings account designated for Genevieve to one day study in Paris. Her father had been livid when he found out, but she had stood up to him to achieve her dream, and her mother’s, to study in Paris.

Her determination was one of the many things that drew her to Roman, and he’d been stunned at how quickly he’d fallen in love with her. She had quieted his demons, made him feel loved and cherished.

Like he finally mattered to someone.

How could he have not seen Constance’s resemblance to his lost love? Why had he never connected it when Francois introduced them and said she was from Georgia?

The years had not detracted from Genevieve’s quiet beauty. But what were the shadows beneath her expressive eyes? What was her life like?
Are she and the husband content? Happy? Do they have children?
Maybe a little girl with Genevieve’s green eyes and bouncy blonde hair. And the infectious laugh that had always charmed him.

The hot spurt of jealousy surprised him.

He sipped the whiskey and swallowed, savoring the burn. The door opened and Francois walked in, still impeccably attired in his gray suit and starched white shirt. He turned the light on, and Roman blinked at the brightness.

“Whiskey? My wine cellar is at your disposal, and you choose whiskey.” Francois stopped at the bar along the stone wall and pulled a crystal tumbler off the shelf. He crossed the room to the table next to Roman’s chair, picked up the bottle, and poured himself a drink. He sat on the sofa and loosened his tie.

“Why are you here?”

Francois set his glass down and looked around the living room. “You have accomplished a great deal of work on the house since last week.”

“Are you here for a tour?”

“I wanted to see how you are. You have not answered the phone all evening.”

“I didn’t want to speak to anyone.” He sipped again. “I suppose Constance told you about her cousin.”

“She told me a little before dinner. She rushed off for a meeting with the wedding planner after we ate. I had no idea who her cousin was before today. Constance did not know about you either. She said all she knew was Gigi had been seeing someone in Paris.” He sipped the whiskey again. “You never talked much about the American after she left. But I know it almost destroyed you. Shall I send her home?”

“No, it is not fair to Constance. Just make sure Genevieve stays out of my way.”

“You’re
my
family, and my best man. I don’t want
you
to stay away. Or to be hurt again.”

He set his glass down on the table. “You are my only family, more brother than cousin. I will not let you down.”

“She’ll be too busy baking to do much anyway. At least she is not the maid of honor, so you won’t have to escort her down the aisle.”

“Thank God for small favors,” Roman muttered. “What do you think of her husband?”

Francois quirked a brow. “Husband?”

“I think she called him Daniel.”

Francois’ eyes opened wide, and he started to speak, but stopped. He picked up the bottle and poured another drink. “What do
you
think of him?”

He rubbed his sore jaw. “I prefer not to think of him. He must feel threatened by me, or he would not have hit me.”

Francois laughed. “He hit you? I did not hear about this.”

“They do not make a good couple.”

Francois stared at him, and Roman realized he’d spoken aloud.

I sound like a jealous ass.

“Don’t be an imbecile. Talk to her. I think it will help.”

“We have nothing to say. She left me to marry someone at home.”

“It’s not my place to say anything, but I’m telling you to speak to her at least once. You will understand why when you do.”

Francois’ cryptic words only irritated him further. “Go home to your fiancée and your daughters, and leave me alone.” A stab of envy pierced his heart.

Francois hesitated, then got up and walked to the door. He looked back once and met Roman’s eyes. Silent now, he turned and walked through the door, closing it behind him.

Alone at last.

He heaved himself out of the chair and started toward his bedroom, but stopped and picked up the bottle. Perhaps it would help him sleep.

And forget.

He’d tossed and turned all night, thoughts of Genevieve filling fragmented dreams and every waking moment. He’d finally given up on trying to sleep and risen before the alarm rang.

He’d needed physical action, and took his tortured thoughts out on the walls he was tearing down in the barn to convert into a studio. He’d been able to relieve
some
of his frustration and aggression with the sledgehammer.

But a call from Mignon reminded him he still needed to check the fit of Genevieve’s dress. They had not completed the fitting the day before, and he was too much a perfectionist not to check it himself.

She would try the dress on, and he’d get the hell out of there.

He parked in front of the chateau and climbed out of the car. Francois stood at the base of the steps, speaking with a young woman. He hailed Roman.

“This is Sophie Bélanger. Sophie, this is my cousin Roman Duchaine.”

Roman shook her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“
Bonjour, Monsieur
Duchaine.”

“Sophie is part of the International Sommelier program, and is here interviewing for the manager-in-training position for the winery.”

“A very ambitious program. Good luck to you.” He was impressed. She must have started her coursework young.

“
Merci
,” she said, smiling. “I’ve been working and studying in America the last few years, so it’s nice to be home again. This is the last part of my coursework, and I hope to learn all I can from Monsieur Gaillard.”

“Then let me welcome you home to France. Again, it was nice meeting you.” He turned to Francois. “I have to get to a fitting. I’ll see you later.”

He shook hands with her again, and started up the steps. Glancing back at her again, he thought she looked familiar, but wasn’t sure why. Short, wavy black hair, and a very pretty face, like an old-time glamorous movie actress, but he didn’t think he’d ever met her.

A few minutes later, he walked into the ballroom. The bridesmaid dress hung on the rolling rod, but no one was there.

The door opened behind him.

Genevieve rushed into the room, followed by Mignon. “Sorry. I was delayed in the kitchen.” She kept her gaze averted. “Mignon said you need to check the dress.”

“You can change behind the screen. Be careful so it does not rip further.”

She and Mignon retreated behind the screen. He tried not to imagine her taking her clothes off. Tried not to remember how her satiny skin warmed beneath his fingers.

She emerged a few moments later dressed in the blush pink attendant gown. He would be impartial, as if she were any of the hundreds of models he had used over the years.

He directed her to step up on the platform, and he circled around, looking for any imperfections in the fit.

“Do you have the shoes you are wearing for the wedding? I must check the length of the skirt.”

“They’re in the blue bag by the screen.”

He picked up the bag, pulled the shoe box out, and opened the lid. Strappy sandals dyed to match the dress lay inside. He held the shoes out to her.

She set one shoe on the platform, started to step into it, but she wobbled. He instinctively reached out to steady her.

Electricity sparked up his arm, and his eyes flashed to her startled ones.
Did she feel that as well?

She put the other shoe on, and he focused his attention on the skirt. He twitched the organza fabric, looking for the tear he’d heard yesterday. Nothing.

He worked his way up the dress, skimming his hand lightly along her leg. The warmth of her skin soaked through the dress. He reached her upper thigh, and her breath hitched.

At the side of her waist, just beneath one of the fabric roses, he finally found where the stitches had ripped.

“Mignon, I found the tear.” He looked around for her. “
Où est-elle allée
?”

She looked at him blankly. “What?”

“You don’t speak French any longer?”

“I don’t have much use for it in Atlanta, so I lost whatever I learned.”

“I asked where Mignon went.”

“I didn’t realize she’d walked out.”

“I need the needle and thread.” He turned away and rummaged in the sewing box. Finding the correct color, he threaded the needle, and knotted the ends.

“Hold still, please.” He leaned close to her, concentrated on sewing the small rip in the seam so he would not prick her with the needle. Tying off the thread, he reached into the sewing box for the scissors, but could not find them. He stifled the urge to curse, frustrated.
More delays.

“Hold still.” He leaned forward, brushed her breast by accident.

She inhaled sharply, and shrank away from him.

Perversely pleased at her reaction, he laid his cheek against her, his head pressing into her softness. He took his time biting off the thread. His heart raced. Pulling back, he noticed goose bumps break out on her arms. He glanced at her face.

Her eyes were closed, almost as if she were in pain. Alarmed, he noticed her face had grown pale.

He started to reach for her, but her eyes opened and she glared at him.

“Are we done here?” she snapped. “I’ve still got a lot to do before the party tonight.”

He’d intended to throw her off balance. But now he was the one suffering. He forced his traitorous body to relax, hating that he’d gotten hard the minute he touched her.
Especially since she feels nothing but disdain for me.

He walked around the platform, purposely running his hands over her body to check the fit. He was frustrated, and wanted to lash out at her. “I’ll be finished when I’m finished. I don’t let my women wear my designs unless they are perfection.”

“Your
women
?
Your
women? First, I’m not anyone’s woman. And second, I sure as hell ain’t yours. I’m here to do a job and to stand up with my cousin at her wedding. I’m not one of those women splashed in the magazines and on the internet who drape themselves all over—”