Adam's Daughter (32 page)

Kellen dropped a franc onto the saucer and rose. She glanced across the cafe to where the strange man was sitting. He was gone. She shrugged a
nd started off toward the metro.

CHAPTER THIRTY-
NINE

Kellen arrived at the embassy later than she had planned, and the reception was already in full swing. By nine, she had almost enough material for her column. The room was very crowded and stuffy. The July night was unseasonably warm and even the open terrace doors didn’t yield much fresh air. The men in their dinner jackets looked uncomfortable, and the women’s perfect matte makeup jobs were beginning to shine. Her own black crepe dress was strapless, but she wished she had taken the time to pin her hair up. She took a glass of champagne from a waiter. It was cool and biting. She drank it in greedy gulps.

“Kellen! There you are!”

She turned to see the managing editor of the Trib standing next to a tall man with dark hair. She realized it was the stranger who had asked for a chair in the cafe that morning. In the same instant, he recognized her.

“Garrett Richardson, this is Kellen Bryant,” said the editor. Kellen held out her hand, and the man took it.

“
Enchanté, mademoiselle
,” he said, smiling.

"
Enchanté, m’sieur
.” Kellen smiled back.

“My god, can we drop the French? My brain is too tired tonight,” the editor said with a sigh. “Besides,
Kellen’s American, Garrett.”

The stranger looked at Kellen with surprise.

“She writes our People column,” the editor went on. “So watch what you say around her. She’s very good. I treat her like Casey Stengel treats his twenty-game winners.”

The editor’s eyes darted across the room. “You’ll have to excuse me for a moment. Oh, Kellen, Garrett speaks English, too. He’s British. His father is Arthur Richardson, the owner of the
London Sun
. I’m sure that will give you two something to talk about.”

The editor left. Kellen glanced at Garrett Richardson. He was tall and wore a dinner jacket as if he had been bo
rn in it. His hair was black and wavy, and he wore it slightly long, over his collar. His features were sharp, with high cheekbones and a thin nose, but he had a generous mouth and dark blue eyes.

“
I believe we’ve met already,” he said. “In a cafe. You were reading McLuhan. I thought you were French.”

“Why did you think that?” she asked.

“Because I thought you were quite pretty. And a bit rude.”

“Parisians are not all rude, Mr. Richardson. That’s a
tourist cliché. The people here are no ruder than in New York, or London for that matter. I just don’t like being bothered by strangers.”

“
I had no intention of bothering you. I simply needed a chair.”

They were silent, both staring around the room. A waiter passed by and Garrett took two glasses of champagne.

“Look, we’ve gotten off to a bad start,” he said, holding out a glass to her. "I’m sorry if I seemed intrusive at the cafe this morning.”

He was smiling, a warm, charming smile that made him
look more approachable. Kellen took the glass and smiled.

“To cafes,” he said, holding up his glass. “In Paris, everything starts in a cafe.”

“That’s another tourist cliché.”

“Well, the funny thing about
clichés is that they are usually true.”

Kellen sipped her drink. The bodies in the room pressed close, and the heat was lulling. She lifted her hair off her neck. She could feel Garrett Richardson’s eyes on her.

“So you write a gossip column,” he said. “That must be very interesting.”

“It is. I meet some intriguing people.”

“Really? Anyone intriguing in this priggish bunch?”

She looked at him. Brits could be so insufferably condescending, and when you got to know them they were timid bores.

“Oh, don’t let appearances fool you,” she said. “There are some real stories in this room. See that fellow over there? He’s a blacklisted Hollywood screenwriter who can’t get a passport to go home. That dumpy little man over there is a novelist who really works for the CIA.” She pointed to a distinguished-looking man wearing the Legion of Honor rosette. “And that gentleman is a diplomat who prowls the quay at night looking for young boys.” She smiled. “Does that shock you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re used to shocking things. Your father owns that newspaper, the
Sun
. Isn’t that the one with all the scandals and nude women?”

“The
Sun
prints stories that people enjoy reading, Miss Bryant. You do the same in the States. You call them human interest stories, I believe.”

Kellen smiled. “Mr. Richardson, I’m familiar with the British tabloid press, and it’s nothing like the American press. We don’t pander to our readers’ lowest instincts.”

Garrett smiled back. “The
Sun
is an extremely profitable enterprise because of what you call pandering. And pandering is a very subjective thing. All newspapers pander to some extent to survive. The
Herald-Tribune
, for instance, is nothing but a specious small-town newspaper transplanted to Paris that panders to Americans who need to be assured that their dollar and sports teams are doing well.”

For a moment, Kellen thought of telling him that she was the daughter of Adam Bryant so he
would realize she had real newspaper credentials. Anything to prick his balloon of self- righteousness. She decided against it.

“The Trib
is a good newspaper,” she said.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t good at what it does. But one can’t take it seriously.”

“It’s good enough to cause the
New York Times
to start a competing edition.”

“Ah, yes, the battle of the boulevards
. And neither side is winning.” Garrett finished his champagne. “Perhaps you should run pics of nude women.”

She looked at him and saw
from his smile that he was teasing her. Her eyes dropped to his left hand holding the glass and she noticed he was not wearing a wedding band. Kellen glanced around the room. She could still feel his eyes on her. There was a long silence.

“It’s getting too hot in here,” Garrett said suddenly. “I’m leaving. Would you like to come?”

She looked at him. “Yes,” she said. She handed him her jacket. He draped it across her shoulders, lifting her hair out of the way. His fingers seemed to linger on her neck.

Outside, the air was warm, almost sult
ry. They walked along the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, each trying to keep the small talk going. It was near ten and the windows of the exclusive shops were dark. As they made their way along the narrow sidewalk, Garrett’s arm would occasionally brush Kellen’s. Each time, it would send a small current through her.

Despite the fact that she didn’t particularly like Garrett Richardson, she knew that she was attracted to him. She didn’t question the feeling; she had experienced it with other men she didn’t like. But the pull was never before so strong. It was as if she had known, from the moment she saw him in the cafe that morning that he would somehow fit into her life.

Even if it’s only for tonight, she thought.

They came to the Place de la Concorde. “Would you like a drink?” Garrett asked.

“Yes,” Kellen said.

“We could go to my hotel. The Crillon. It’s nearby.”

For the first time, Kellen felt a small pang of disappointment. She had met his kind before; seduction was a drink or two in an impressive hotel then upstairs for the quick and unimaginative denouement.

“I have a better idea
,” she said.

They walked toward the river. At the
quay, Kellen led Garrett down some stairs to a floating bar anchored near the bridge. It was a simple place, festooned with little white lights. They took a table outdoors.

“
This is wonderful,” Garret said. “I haven’t had dinner. Are you by chance hungry?”

“Yes, a little.”

Garrett ordered a bottle of Chablis, bread and oysters, the only food the bar had to offer. The waiter brought a plate of enormous oysters. She tried one. It tasted fresh and salty, like the sea.

“These are
fines de claires
,” Garrett said, smiling. He ate one, closing his eyes in pleasure. “The working man’s oyster. Oyster snobs won’t touch them.”

Kellen smiled as she watched him devour the food. “You’re not a snob, I take it.”

“Absolutely not. I have a real talent for the baser things in life. That’s what makes me a good newspaperman.” He ate another oyster. “And I have a healthy appetite.”

Kellen sipped the
Chablis. “Your French is perfect. Where did you learn it?”

“In school and then here. My mother’s family had a country place in Normandy. We came here often when I was a boy.” He went on to talk sketchily about his family. Kellen had heard of his father, Arthur Richardson. She knew that he had made his large fortune through a chain of tabloid newspapers in Great Britain, the largest being the hugely popular
Sun
.

“Tell me about yourself,” Garrett said as he poured out the last of the wine.

“There’s not much to tell,” Kellen said cautiously. “I grew up in California. San Francisco.”

“I’ve been there,” Garrett said. “A great town.”

Kellen told Garrett little, and lied about her father, saying that her parents were dead. She wasn’t sure why she did it. She told herself there was no point in complicating what she could see was rapidly moving toward just a brief sexual encounter.

“Why are you in Paris?” he asked.

She laughed. “For excitement. For fun. For romance. All the awful clichés. Isn’t that why everyone comes to Paris? I came for...”

Lost words from
the past floated to her mind. “‘For a life that bums like a fabulous yellow roman candle exploding like a spider across the stars,’” she said.

Her thoughts drifted to Stephen, then back to the present.
The wine was working its way through her body, nicely blurring the edges of reality. On both sides of the river, the city was quiet. The water lapped at the sides of the barge, and every so often the trees on the far bank were illuminated by the lights of passing cars.

Garrett’s eyes held hers. “This great, burning
life, did you find it?” he asked.

“Yes
...no. Not yet,” she said.

He took her hand and turned it over in his own as if carefully examining each line in her palm. She was aware suddenly of the pressure of his thigh against her own. He slowly brought her palm up to his lips. When he kissed it, she shut her eyes. She knew in that instant that she wanted him more than she had ever wanted any man. It had gone beyond physical attraction into something dark and irresistible.

“It’s late,” he said. “We’d better go.”

“Where?”

“We’ll get a taxi. I’ll take you home.”

She knew he wanted her. She could feel it. She had a sudden feeling that, after tonight, she would never see Garrett Richardson again, and she wanted to prolong the night as long as she could.

“No. Not yet,” she said. “Come with me...to a party.”

“Where?”

Kellen rose, smiling. “I don’t really know. My friend Nathalie only told me to come to the Place Denfert-Rochereau in Montparnasse. And to bring champagne and...oh hell, a flashlight. Where can we get one?”

“Well, I can take care of the champagne,” Garrett said. He had the waiter bring a bottle.

Kellen leaned over and blew out the candle on the table. “Here, hide this in your jacket.”

Garrett took the candle and stuck it in his
pocket. He was smiling and shaking his head in bewilderment.

Kellen took his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Be brave, Mr. Richardson,” she said, smiling. “I promise you that this will be a night you’ll never forget.”