How Sweet It Is (7 page)

“In Paris?” Chloe gaped at her mother. “You aren’t leaving me here to live with Charles, are you?”

“Of course not.” Her mum took her hand and looked her in the eye. “I’d never leave you, Chloe. I’m opening the gallery here in London. I’m just going to Paris to talk to an artist I’ve found.”

This wasn’t like her mother at all. Her mother never wore makeup, she didn’t wear clothes that made her look sexy, and she definitely didn’t just up and decide to go to Paris. “When did you decide to go?”

“Today.”

Chloe wondered what the bright tone was covering up. “When are you going?”

“Tomorrow, if I can.”

She looked at Rowdy, who held his hands up like he had no clue what was happening either.

“I’m really excited about the gallery,” her mother said, gushing. “I already leased a space, and I’m going to have a grand opening in six weeks. I’ll show it to you when I get back, if you’d like.”

Did she have a choice? She nodded, kind of stunned by the past few minutes.

“You’ll stay with your father,” Viola continued. “I’ll call and arrange it.”

She groaned. “I’m not a child any longer. I can stay alone. And now I have this”—she looked at the beast, searching for the right word—“dog.”

“I’d feel better if you were with Charles,” Viola said.

“I’ll check on you, kid.” Rowdy winked at her. “You’ll be good.”

She wasn’t worried about being good. She just wanted to stay in her own bed and away from Charles and Louise. “Is this nonnegotiable?”

Her mother frowned. “I suppose so. Is that all right?”

“I don’t seem to have much of a choice, do I?” She looked at the dog. “What’s its name?”

“He doesn’t have a name.” Viola handed her the leash. “I thought you’d want to name him.”

Great. She took the soggy leash and wondered how the day had gone so bad so quickly.

Chapter Seven

Viola ascended from the Metro station onto the busy corner at Place Saint Michel. Some of the milling people were obviously French, with their bags and scarves and dour expressions. Some were obviously tourists, with their maps and backpacks and lost expressions.

Taking a deep breath, she checked the map on her mobile and headed toward Quai des Grands Augustins along the Seine. For the first time in years she didn’t feel lost. She had a purpose. She was going to get Phineas Buchanan.

Or rather his art.

According to Google Maps, she needed to turn left on Rue des Grands Augustins and then right on Rue du Pont de Lodi. His building was toward the end of the block, on the left.

She found it without any trouble. His friend Jasmine had said that his workshop was on the bottom floor.

Sure enough, there was a brass plaque on the side by the door:
Atelier de Phineas Buchanan, Menuisier.
To the left, there was a button.

She pressed it, and a buzzer sounded somewhere deep inside. Stepping back, she toned her smile down so she wouldn’t scare him.

No one answered.

The lights weren’t on downstairs. Maybe he hadn’t arrived yet? She framed her eyes with her hands to look in the window. It was only ten in the morning. Hopefully he was planning on coming in. She hadn’t considered that he wouldn’t be in every day. It was Friday.

Maybe she should have come here straight from the airport yesterday. She shook her head. She couldn’t feel guilty about that. She’d found a charming little art gallery, and when she’d stopped to look at the work, the owner had invited her in to chat and have a glass of wine. It’d turned out to be a coup, because the owner gave her the phone numbers of a few promising artists to recruit for her opening night.

Vi
loved
Paris.

Charles had never liked it, saying the French were pompous. Viola wagered they only reflected what he put out.

A cold gust of wind whipped at her, and she moved into the protection of the doorway. Unable to help herself, she pressed the buzzer again. How long should she wait? She tapped her foot, wanting to huff a beleaguered sigh the way Chloe would.

She winced, guilty over leaving her daughter at home. It was more time with Charles, which would only serve Chloe. At least that was what Vi told herself.

She also told herself that she went to Paris for the two of them, for their future, but also to demonstrate that it was important to live your dream. She didn’t want the only example Chloe had to be a cheating father whose idea of affection was a scolding.

The door opened without warning. She whirled around to find herself looking into annoyed brown eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Phineas Buchanan said, his voice gruff as though he hadn’t used it in days. He looked her over from head to toe, making her feel glad that she’d worn some of the lingerie her sister Portia had forced her to buy. Not that he’d see it, but it made her feel confident from the inside out.

Then she realized he watched her like he recognized her. She straightened, thrilled, because while her other sisters were memorable, no one had ever noted her.

She cleared her throat. “I came to find you.”

“How did you know to come here?” A look of comprehension darkened his face. “Jasmine.”

“Don’t be upset with her. I forced her to give me your address.”

“Because she’s so weak-willed,” he said mockingly. He crossed his arms, legs braced apart. “So why are you here?”

“I want you.”

His gaze focused on her lips.

“Not like that.” Although she wouldn’t mind kissing him. She put her fingers to them before she realized she was wearing lipstick. With her luck, she probably smeared the dusky pink all over her face. She surreptitiously rubbed her fingertips before she stained her new clothes. “I want to sell your art.”

His expression closed. “You’re wasting your time. I don’t sell my art.”

“Your friend seems to agree with me that you should.”

“She’s always after me about something. It’s her way of getting back at me.”

“What did you do?” Vi tipped her head, curious.

“I cut one of her pigtails off when we were seven.”

She pictured him at seven, same brown eyes only with a less guarded sparkle, and smiled, charmed. “No wonder she’s after you.”

He stared at her mouth.

Was he looking at her smeared lipstick or imagining kissing her? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed. Literally years. Charles was less than demonstrative, and in recent years sex had been rote and without frills like kissing.

Phineas had full lips and large hands. She shivered, surprised that she wanted to find out what it’d be like to be touched by them.

He leaned down, his gaze locked on hers. “Go away, and don’t come back.”

Before she could react, he stepped into his workshop and closed the door on her. The lock slid into place, the heavy sound a warning.

Hands on her hips, she tapped her foot. “Well, that didn’t go the way I’d envisioned.”

Viola was freezing.

Maybe standing in front of Finn’s studio wasn’t a good idea, she thought for the millionth time. And just like all the other times, she reminded herself what was at stake and that she had a good feeling about him.

When Titania had wanted Ian MacNiven to pose for a photo essay, she’d camped out on his doorstep, and look how well that had turned out.

Not that Viola wanted to get engaged to Phineas Buchanan. Quite frankly, she never planned on getting married again—ever.

Sex was another matter though.

“No sex,” she scolded herself. At least not with Phineas Buchanan. She was here for his paintings. Period.

Not that she’d turn down a kiss or two, but only if
he
initiated.

Clearing her throat, and rubbed her freezing hands together. She should have brought gloves. What was she thinking? She’d told Chloe to take gloves with her, but she couldn’t remember for herself? If only she could afford to splurge on a pair of cashmere gloves.

The door opened and Phineas stepped out. She knew the moment he registered that it was her by the way his face soured.

She held her hand out. “Just give me a chance to explain my vision.”

“Have you been standing out here all day?” He grasped her hand. “You’re freezing.”

Before she could say anything he tugged her inside.

Warmth enveloped her immediately, and she sighed in relief. As she thawed, she craned her neck to look around. The entry was surprisingly spacious and tidy.

“Are you daft?” he asked. “You’ll catch pneumonia like that.”

“You can’t catch pneumonia, and it’s a myth that cold weather sparks illness. You only get sick if you’re already feeling under the weather.”

He frowned.

She shrugged. “I have a teenager. She lives to correct me.”

“You
are
daft.”

“I can’t argue that.” She took a loan on her house, leased a space she couldn’t afford, and came to Paris on a wild-goose chase.

Phineas Buchanan looked her over, his expression as overcast as the city outside. Opening his mouth, he started to say something, but then he shook his head. “I must be daft, too. Come on, then.”

“What?”

“I’m hungry, and you need to eat. Besides, if we stay here, I can’t guarantee that I’ll remain a gentleman.”

“You’re a gentleman?” she asked as he dragged her outside again.

“I’m not.” He gave her a stern look. “And you’re tempting. It’s not a good combination.”

“Tempting?” She blinked. “Me?”

“Of course you.” He scowled. “Don’t you ever look in a mirror?”

She did, but she still saw the woman who’d been a housewife most of her life. “So you want to kiss me?”

“Unfortunately,” he said as he locked the door, “and more.”

“But I wanted to see your artwork.” She tried to look past him. “Can’t I take a peek first?”

He stepped in her way. “No.”

“Why not?” she asked, standing up to him.

“Because I said no. I’m taking you to dinner.”

“To dinner.” None of this made sense. She shook her head. “You don’t even know my name.”

“Then tell me.”

She was tempted not to, not when he was going to have that sort of attitude. But she wanted to see his art, so she didn’t want to antagonize him. “Viola Summerhill.”

“Viola Summerhill, I’m hungry, and I want to eat.” He grabbed a coat from a peg next to the door. “Either you’ll come to dinner with me or continue to freeze on the doorstep.”

“Dinner,” she decided quickly.

“Let’s go.” He started walking down the street.

She hurried after him, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride. He said nothing the whole time, and it was all she could do to keep up, so she didn’t make conversation.

They walked along the Seine, past Notre Dame, to a little restaurant just beyond it.
Le Tournebièvre
, she read on the sign.

“Finn,” a tall young man called out. He kissed Phineas’s cheeks and launched into a rapid burst of French.

Viola understood a word every now and then. She glanced at this relaxed, friendly Finn she hadn’t met, completely different than aloof and surly Phineas Buchanan. This Finn replied smoothly in fluent French and sounded even sexier than he did in English, if that were possible.

She liked this Finn a lot.

The young man reached for her arms and kissed her cheeks. He said something to her.

She shook her head and looked at Finn. “I don’t understand.”

“Louis is telling you that you should come back without me.” Finn gave the young man, who grinned wickedly, a small push out of the way before walking her to a table. “Sit.”

Feeling oddly charmed, she sat down and murmured “Merci” when Louis handed her a menu. He didn’t give one to Finn.

“Order the pasta,” her companion said. “And the steak frites.”

“Don’t tell me what to order.” But it did sound good, even if she couldn’t possibly eat it all.

Louis came and there was rapid exchange of words after she ordered. When he left, she turned to Finn to ask him about his art and what he did, but another man came and began a conversation with Finn as he poured them wine. It sounded very serious, although Vi suspected that most conversation in French would.

The next thing she knew, Louis came back with several plates, all of which he set in front of her. She looked at it all helplessly. “This is too much,” she said softly, so Louis wouldn’t be offended.

“You’re too skinny,” he said as he cut into his own steak. “Eat it all.”

She remembered the offhand comment Charles made about her shape a few months before they’d broken up. “My ex-husband always thought I was a bit doughy.”

“Then he was an arse, and you did well to get rid of him.”

“I didn’t,” she said softly. “He got rid of me, technically.”

“And my previous statement about him being an arse is confirmed.” Finn glared at her. “Eat.”

She did, and it was scrumptious. She closed her eyes, savoring the steak and the salty, crisp fries. It was the best food she’d had in longer than she remembered.

Probably because she was free. And excited about life. And in Paris. Chloe would love this. She sighed and sat back, rubbing her full stomach.

Finn nodded at her plate. “I thought it was too much food.”

“I may explode.” She sipped the last of her wine. Even the wine tasted delicious.

“Dessert?” he asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Of course.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile, and she felt warm all over.

He ordered a
tarte tatin
, sharing it with her. Charles had never eaten dessert, and he discouraged her from having any.

She was going to stop thinking about Charles as of right now. She nodded once and put him out of her mind.

Finn wadded his napkin and tossed it on the table. “Where are you staying?”

“The northern edge of the Marais,” she said, standing reluctantly, not ready for the evening to end yet. She hadn’t even spoken to him about his art yet. “I’ll take the Metro.”

“I’ll walk you to Saint Michel then.” He gestured for her to go first.

He walked slower, keeping in pace with her this time. She looked up at him, startled by his size all over again. “When will you let me see your art?” she said to steer herself back on track.