LITMIR.BIZ

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her, Margeaux Broussard had, indeed, proven herself every bit the wild child.

      Not the type of woman he needed to get involved with if the Crown Council was ever going to take him seriously.

      “Sydney, wait.”

      She stopped underneath the archway that led into the main gallery, but she didn’t turn around.

      Henri knew he’d hurt her feelings. He hadn’t meant to. He was simply skittish about public displays of affection at work, even if it was simply the brush of a hand or an I-want-you pucker of lips. He expected no less of his other employees. He had to lead by example.

      “Please let me know when you hear about the missing pieces for the catalogue,” she said, without looking back at him. “If we don’t get this to the printer by Wednesday, we won’t have the catalogue in time for the opening.”

      He glanced around. They were the only ones in the gallery.

      “If you’re free tonight, perhaps we could have some dinner and proof them…together. Two sets of eyes are always better than one.”

      This time she turned around and faced him, that devilishly sexy left brow of hers rising, a question mark. She crossed her arms over her chest, creating a barrier between them.

      “A business meeting?” she asked. “After hours?”

      She wasn’t going to make this easy.

      Still, he nodded.

      “I suppose that might work,” she said. “But I have one stipulation. I want to go out—to Le Coeur Bleu in the Hotel de St. Michel.”

      The Hotel de St. Michel. Where Margeaux was staying. No doubt she’d read his notes about the Hotel St. Michel. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.

      It was a bad idea to bring Sydney there, even though the chance they’d run into Margeaux and her friends was remote. He should go there alone. He should contact Margeaux and arrange a private meeting….

      Even so, as he opened his mouth to suggest a different restaurant, he heard himself agreeing, “Le Coeur Bleu it is.”

       Chapter Two

      Margeaux paused in the hospital hallway, a death grip on the bouquet of colorful flowers. The door to room 436 was ajar, and classical music drifted through the scant opening. She drew in a steadying breath of antiseptic-smelling hospital air and summoned her strength. On the other side of the door was the man she hadn’t seen in more than sixteen years.

      Her father.

      She was an accomplished photographer. She’d put herself through college and had taken herself all over the world.

      But standing there, about to see her father for the first time after all the years and bad blood that had passed between them, she was suddenly desperate for her father’s approval.

      Sadly, she wasn’t entirely sure he’d be glad to see her.

      She was so nervous she couldn’t get a good breath, and for a heartbeat, she was paralyzed—right there in the hallway as the nurses and orderlies passed by with purpose. One of Margeaux’s hands held the flowers like a torch; the other was frozen in mid-knock as a deluge of emotions and questions rained down on her.

       Run!

       Turn and run!

      But this is your father. He’s sick. He needs you.

       Right, he’s never needed you. What if he doesn’t want to see you? What if he sends you away again?

      Suddenly, she felt sixteen again, awkward and unsure of where she fit into the life of her only living relative. A girl out of control, starving for the acceptance of a self-involved father who was too busy to deal with her antics.

      But she wasn’t a child anymore, and it had been at least three years since the press had skewered her with scandal.

      Knock.

      Her hand did just that. As if on its own, her knuckles sounded a quick tap-tap-tap on the door.

      “Qui?” What? barked a gruff voice from inside. Her breath caught, icy in her chest, and a rush of adrenaline urged her away. Run! Go! Leave now!

      “Papa, it’s me.” The voice sounded as if it came from outside herself, but it was her own. Then for the span of several heartbeats all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. Until the gruff voice softened and asked almost tentatively, “Margeaux? Is it you?”

      Her fingertips grazed the door’s cool wood surface as she pushed the door open a hair and looked in.

      “Why are you lurking out there in the hallway?” The voice was gruff again. “Come in here.”

      Before her feet could carry her in the opposite direction, she pushed the door open the rest of the way, and found herself face-to-face with her father. Unsure of what to do—whether to sit or stand, whether to hug him or hang back—she simply stood there and drank him in.

      His once dark, full head of hair was thinner and silvery white. His cheeks were hollow and his previously strong, proud shoulders appeared rounded. Hooked up to IV bags, pulse monitors and a host of other machines, he looked wizened and frail, but the fire in his dark brown eyes burned strong, belying time’s havoc.

      She tried to see past the lines time had etched on her father’s face. She tried to ignore the creases around his eyes and the wisps of silver hair. She tried to see past the lost years and the pain of rejection to the possibility of new beginnings. He needed her. She was here. Wasn’t that enough?

      Please let that be enough.

      “Come in and shut the door,” he insisted. “No use allowing the entire ward to gawk at us.”

      As if paying penance for the obedient child she’d never been, Margeaux found herself submissively closing the door and turning back to him, still unsure of what to do with herself.

      “Come over here so I can see you.” The commanding tone of his voice was just as strong as the fire of self possession that blazed in his gaze. As she approached his bed, her father’s gaze took her in, but his expression did not betray an ounce of approval. In fact, he watched her so stoically she wondered if he even saw her, or if, as had usually been the case, he was looking right through her, toward his own affairs. Immersed in a world that had always taken him away from her.

      Finally, his eyes locked onto hers—a steel trap closing around her heart, and they stared at each other for a long moment. Margeaux didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she wrapped her arms around her middle as if to keep herself from falling apart. She stood there searching his face for something, anything. A sign to tell her how to proceed.

      Breaking the ice was the hardest part, she reassured herself. She’d been giving herself a pep talk from the moment she’d decided to come home: Everything will be fine as soon as we make it past…this.

      Margeaux tried to ignore the voice inside that asked, would it be fine? Why would it be fine now when it had never been fine before?

      “Sit down.” Colbert pointed to a chair adjacent to the bed. That’s when she noticed his hand was shaking. Maybe this wasn’t easy for him, either. Or maybe it was the effects of the stroke.

      Either way, it was unsettling.

      Margeaux settled herself in the chair and smoothed her cotton turquoise skirt.

      “Tell me, what are you doing these days?” her father demanded.

      “I’m a photographer.”

      He pursed his lips as if a bad taste had assaulted his mouth.

      “So you’ve turned the tables, eh? Now, you’re the one taking the photographs rather than serving as the paparazzi’s favorite

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