The dinner party turns out to be more than the small gathering I expected. There are at least eight other couples when I get there. I hand a bottle of wine to the waiter who opens the door and then go in search of the hosts Joanna and Jacob. The soundtrack of jazz music, the clink of crystal glasses, conversation in different languages, and laughter play in the background. I’m calm and relaxed, almost detached, as I glance around the stylish apartment.
Memories of hosting and attending these kinds of parties almost every weekend with William by my side intrude. All eyes were on my husband who could work a room with his charm, charisma, and ease like no other. Women and men of all ages, seasoned players, new and old money, politicians, Hollywood stars. You name it. No one stood a chance against William when he made you the object of his attention. Once, a senator from Florida had told William that The White House could be his future if he chose. And I, his faithful wife, would stand next to him proudly sharing him with others. Watching them lose their minds over him as I understood, maybe too well, what it felt like.
But I lock those memories away before they have a chance to cause any real harm. Not tonight, I repeat inside my head. Tonight the past remains where it belongs—in the past.
“Excusez moi.” I smile tentatively at a couple who moves to the side to let me through.
I’m about to reach for a glass of wine from a passing waiter when I hear Joanna’s posh British accent calling my name. I turn to face her, smiling. Lovely and graceful Joanna who looks as though she belongs in the pages of a book with dukes and countesses. She doesn’t walk. She glides in her designer shoes.
“Valentina! There you are. I was beginning to despair.” She kisses the air on both of my cheeks. “You look ravishing.”
I laugh. “So do you. Thank you for having me, Joanna. Your home is lovely.”
“It is, isn’t it?” She links her arm with mine. “Come, let me introduce you to my husband and to the rest of the guests.” She smiles slyly. “There’s someone who’s been asking about you, actually.”
“Really?” I frown. “Who?” I don’t know anyone in Paris. Well, except … my heart begins to race.
“Yes, really.” She laughs airily, patting my hand. “Can you not take a guess? Maybe I should keep it a surprise?”
We join a group of people standing near a grand piano, dropping the subject. She introduces me to her husband Jacob and to a very famous photographer named Ronan who I recognize from an art magazine and his drop-dead gorgeous fiancée Blaire. They are from New York, too.
After chatting about Paris and New York and the merits of each city, I politely excuse myself and go in search of a drink. As I’m approaching the home bar, a prickle of awareness makes me spin around. I expect to find someone watching me, but everyone seems to be lost in conversation. I rub the back of my neck, dismissing the feeling.
I’m reaching for a glass of wine from the counter when someone comes up behind me. “Hello, ma petite chouette.” His breath fans my back as he leans in to grab a drink, making my skin prickle in excitement.
Sébastien. I should be surprised, but I’m not. Deep down, I knew it was him as soon as Joanna mentioned someone asking about me. Or, if I’m honest with myself, I hoped it would be him.
The corners of my mouth tilt up on their own volition, feeling like a thirteen-year-old tasting for the first time the delicious, heady flavor of infatuation. “Hi.”
This close to him, I can see how thick and curly his eyelashes are. The scruff covering his jaw. And those lips that invite you to fantasize about them in the dirtiest, most forbidden ways. Which I have. “What are you doing here?”
He raises an eyebrow, a faint smile spreading across his handsome face. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Charmed by the man standing in front of me, his words fill me with unwanted pleasure. I recline my back on the counter and take a sip of the spicy blend, pretending I didn’t hear what he said. Funny how just his presence alone can breathe life into what was a dull party. Suddenly the wine is sweeter. The colors more vibrant. The room warmer.
I focus on Joanna and her husband. They laugh freely and work the room like the born entertainers they are. “It’s because of you then.”
He leans back, setting his elbows on the counter. His movements easy and graceful remind me of a predator about to strike his unsuspecting prey. “What’s that?”
“Why I was invited tonight.”
He gives me a sly and sideways grin. “Would it make a difference?”
“I don’t know.” My lips quirk behind the glass before I take a sip. “Maybe.”
“Good maybe or bad maybe?”
“Would it make a difference?” I shoot him a side-glance, throwing back his own words.
He laughs, amusement shining in his eyes. “Bien, ma petite chouette. Très bien.”
“Merci.” A runaway smile escapes my lips. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that he’s wearing a tailored white dress shirt with three buttons carelessly undone at the neck, its sleeves rolled up showcasing his gorgeous arms, and navy blue trousers. His raven locks fall loosely down over his forehead, lending him an air of recklessness and caged energy. He should look untidy in a room where every man is dressed to the nines, but somehow he manages to outshine them all. What chance does a fine suit jacket have against arms like his? None.
Seconds pass in charged silence. This would be the perfect time to go, but I remain in my spot. I don’t understand why I linger in his company. I have more common sense than to be attracted to a man who happens to smile and make one feel like her insides are Jell-O.
He says something. I look up as he’s smiling down at me, and I realize that, yes, maybe I have no common sense left at all. I clear my throat. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m glad you came, Valentina.”
I hear a man’s loud laughter coming from somewhere in the room as I get lost in the captivating blue of Sébastien’s eyes. If it’s a warning, I ignore it. A wiser person would take their leave now, maybe making an excuse about mingling with others. Recognizing the danger in front of her. But sometimes all the reasoning in the world is useless against a lethal man who looks at you as though you’re the only woman in the room—who makes you come alive. “Me too.”
“Tell me, Valentina, do you believe in fate?”
“Hmm … I don’t know. Maybe, yes. I think we can affect our own fates, but I also believe there’s this powerful thing—energy, some might call it God—that gives us a nudge in the right direction. How about you?”