One

Béatrix Clouet stopped at the door to her mother's office, a knot of pain compressing her chest. The man who sat behind the tulipwood desk was almost too lovely to bear. Rodin's Kiss could not outshine him, nor the Paris spring that flowered, lush but decorous, down the Champs Elysées. The rail-thin models he used to dress were little more than mirages. His beauty did not depend on makeup or lighting or good photographers. Like fairy dust, it shone from his pale English skin, from his tamed gold hair, from his hands, from his hips, from his kind gray eyes. Philip Carmichael was beautiful inside and out. His smile lit up a room. His generosity could stun.

And she hated him with all her heart.

She could not, however, turn away. What a difference one man's presence made! Six months ago this room had been cold and sleek, an audience chamber for a queen whose hive filled two floors of a skyscraper in La Défense. Unlike the rest of Paris, La Défense was no bastion of cozy, antiquated charm. No, this Manhattan by the Seine was new and steely and tall, the perfect mise-en-scène, her mother had claimed, from which to launch into the twenty-first century. The marble floor stretched like ice to the modern desk. The ceiling, an ominous black mirror, intimidated with its height. The furniture was minimalist, metal and wood and glass, all painfully stylish. Even the view, which took in the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and the soft white domes of Sacré-Coeur, failed to warm. The windows that stretched from floor to ceiling inspired a sense of awe more precarious than pleasant.

None of these things had changed, and yet, with Philip at the helm, the very scent of the room welcomed visitors inside. Clutter had overtaken the conference table: fashion sketches, a haphazard spill of apples, a single tattered running shoe. A huge bouquet of tulips, yellow and red, blocked the vertiginous sweep of glass.

And then there was Philip himself, who could never be frightening, not even in his solemn black suit with his beautiful hair brushed so severely behind his ears. He wore it longer than most CEOs; he was, after all, still in the business of selling fashion. Sadly, the wild, sunstreaked mane he used to toss when he laughed was a memory. Back then, he'd been young and irresponsible. And poor, of course. An irrepressible cocksman who still believed in his dreams. Sleeping his way to the top had been the last thing on his mind.

Now he paged through a portfolio of designs for a charity event, none of which he'd drawn. His lips, sculpted and strong, pursed with concentration. His hands were graceful, their careful manicure disguising the fact that he bit his nails. Poor Philip. He'd been a good designer, not brilliant but sensitive. His clothes had been wearable and flattering. He'd have done well if he hadn't set his heart on conquering the rarified world of haute couture. His first and only show had tanked. Elle had called it "pedestrian," Women's Wear Daily, "a bore." And those were the print reviews. The society ladies' claws were even sharper.

But pity for Philip was dangerous. Pity threatened the wall she'd wrestled, stone by stone, around her heart. Béatrix cleared her throat and braced to meet his splendid eyes. He looked up.

"Hullo, Bea," he said, cocking his head in that hopeful way he had, his smile unsure, his eyes promising to tolerate whatever outrage she was sure to unleash.

"Allô, Phil," she responded, knowing the nickname annoyed him.

He winced, just a little, then gestured to a black leather chair. Béatrix lowered herself into its gentle Scandinavian hold. An English tea occupied the corner of Philip's desk. Always the gentleman, he poured her a cup of Darjeeling: her favorite, not his. She accepted a scone, still warm from the corporate kitchen, slathered it with jam, and settled back.

She wore a new earth-brown suit. The boxy jacket and leggings offered more in the way of comfort than fashion, but Bea was a comfortable kind of gal. She crossed her legs, though she knew her sturdy calves would catch no one's eye, least of all this man's. Curly black hair, freckles, and a figure best described as generous could not impress a man who'd seen the cream of the catwalks in their skivvies. Nor could she claim any particular style. She was presentable, that was all, and she wouldn't be that if she hadn't grown up in Paris. Béatrix Clouet had no illusions about her looks. It was, she thought, one of her few good traits.

"So," she said, plate balanced on her knee. "Why did you call me here? Did someone spot me on the town with my shirt untucked?"

"Bea." His tone was fond and scolding, the ideal beau-père, the only problem being that this beau-père was barely five years older than his stepdaughter. He spread his fingers over the surface of the desk, their length sending a rebellious sluice of heat between her legs. "You know I've given up on telling you how to dress. I must say, though, that shade of brown you're wearing isn't quite—"

"Phil."

He smiled at her warning, his lips satin smooth and faintly rosy. One long dimple sprang to life in his left cheek. Béatrix curled her nails into her palms. Let me out of here, she thought, before I melt in my chair. This crush had been bad enough when she was fifteen. Now it was intolerable.

Suddenly he frowned. "Bea. Have you lost weight?"

To her disgust, a blush stung her cheeks. "I've been riding my bicycle to work."

"All the way from Montmartre! On the motorways! Are you insane?"

"No." She set her teacup firmly on the desk. "Last time I checked I was twenty-three, an adult, and perfectly capable of deciding how to get from one place to another."

"But, Bea, your mother would want me to keep an eye on you."

"Puh-leeze," she said, stealing the intonation from her best American friend. "Mother didn't give a damn if I screwed up. In fact, she welcomed it."

Copyright © 2004 by Emma Holly