"Who ought to be the king of France—the person who has the title, or the man who has the power?" – Pepin the Short
"I don't understand. Malcolm isn't your father?" Belle sank down onto the bed and folded her hands. She was biting her lower lip again, her eyes twin pools of sorrow. No doubt she was regretting ever meeting him on the plane.
He cursed himself for bringing her here. He wanted to beg her forgiveness for dragging her into his messy, complicated life. But the words to an apology wouldn't come.
The charged atmosphere that had formed between them at the spinning wheel had dissipated, replaced by a different kind of tension—a push-pull between silence and revelation. He felt like he was strung upon the wheel, primed to be torn asunder. Part of him wanted to get the truth out in the open, and part of him wanted to ransack her bag for the necklace and run.
He rested his hip against his old desk, toying with an old ledger. He didn't dare meet her concerned gaze, fearful of the pity he might find there.
"I don't understand," she repeated, twisting the hem of her shirt in her fingers, "but I want to. Talk to me. Please?"
How could he begin to explain? It has been four years since he'd learned the truth, yet even now he scarcely understood. For most of his life he had believed Malcolm d'Or, imperfect though he was, to be his flesh and blood. Now Belle was asking him to dig through those painful memories and overturn them, exposing everything he loathed about his life. But she'd also said sharing was cathartic. Perhaps telling someone would make him feel better. But Belle wasn't just someone. She was…special. Patient, understanding, and forgiving. Never had he met a more forgiving person, nor one so willing to see the good in others. Gathering his courage, he dragged in a shaky breath, praying he could get through the story without breaking down.
"My mother…about seven years ago she became very ill. No. I must go further back." Belle bobbed her head, encouraging him to continue. "This vineyard has been in our family for three generations. The Montague family also operates a vineyard not far from here. For as long as I can remember I was pledged to marry their only daughter, Milah Montague. There are many vineyards in France and it's difficult to stay solvent, so after we were born, our parents decided to unite the two families and the land to create a wine empire."
"So it was an arranged marriage?"
He nodded. "I respected Milah, liked her even. But I didn't love her, nor did she love me. I…it was what was expected of me—to be a dutiful son. So we wed. For a little while we hobbled along, but she grew restless, bored with being a vintner's wife. Our son was born and I hoped that would help our marriage, but Milah's troubles ran deeper than that. Living in the country never suited her. Life is simple here, and ever since we were children she'd longed for couture and parties and nightlife.
"I knew she had other lovers, but I was building the business, establishing a name and a reputation. It was easier to ignore her and seek my own fulfillment. I loved working the land. I hoped that if she found distractions and a measure of happiness somewhere else, at least she would be there for our boy. But she wasn't happy being a mother. She'd leave our son with me or with relatives and friends whenever she wanted to get away, which was often. Once she hitchhiked to Paris and didn't return for days. I should have released her to live the life she wanted, but I didn't. She grew to resentful me for it."
Belle started to speak, but he shook his head and continued. Now that he had opened his mouth, he couldn't seem to stem the flow. The words poured out of him like wine gushing from a cask.
"My relationship with my father was never easy. Even though I did all that was expected of me, he was never satisfied. He hated the responsibility of running the vineyard, but he didn't want to give up control, either. He'd take off without warning to Monte Carlo or Paris or London and go on benders, drinking and gambling and visiting prostitutes. He kept several mistresses and never even tried to hide it from my mother or me.
"Seven years ago, my mother was diagnosed with a rare blood cancer. It was a difficult illness with difficult treatment. About three years later, she decided she'd had enough treatment and hospitals. She wanted to spend her last days at home, surrounded by her family. On her deathbed, she told us the truth: Malcolm wasn't my father. She'd been in love with another man—my biological father—but he died in a car accident before she told him she was pregnant. She was heartbroken and alone and afraid."
"I can't imagine." Belle sniffled, her eyes damp with emotion.
"One night she met Malcolm in a bar and they married within a week, a short enough time for her to pass me off as his son. She'd kept the secret for 38 years, but after so much emotional abuse, I think it was her last chance for revenge. Her last chance to make my father suffer for all the ways he wronged her."
"But that decision backfired—on you." Belle's voice was gravely.
"Oui, Malcolm was furious. I was his only heir, now illegitimate. With Mother gone, I bore the full brunt of his wrath. He never relished the role of fatherhood, but after we learned the truth, he cut me off without a thought. Milah was unhappy anyway, and my fall from grace spelled the loss of my inheritance. She ended our marriage on the grounds that I was no long heir to d'Or Vineyards. She was within her rights—the contract between our families was void," he said.
"And your son?"
"My son," he echoed, afraid to say his name. "He was angry with me for allowing our family to fall apart. But he was only eight years old. Too young to grasp all that was happening. He never knew the truth about his mother's affairs. I protected him from that. Maybe that was wrong of me. Looking back, I suppose I believed that a poor mother was better than no mother at all."
"Oh, Luc. I'm so sorry," she said. "You deserve so much better." Unabashed in her sorrow, she wept. Trails of tears snaked down her face, dripping off her chin, but she made no move to wipe them away. Amazed by her guilelessness, he could only stare. That someone cared enough to shed tears for his sake was a wonder. How long had it been since someone had cried for him? Not since before Mother had died.
"Belle—" Overwhelmed by her compassion, he started across the room, but an insistent knock at the door stopped him. Luc retreated to his post near the desk. "Enter."
"Are you decent, darlings?" Cruellina turned the handle slowly and poked her head inside like a turtle venturing out of its shell.
"Finally!" She grinned, her eyes pinning Belle to the bed where she was wiping her eyes. If Cruellina noticed their gravitas she did not let on.
"Vraiment, it's lovely to see someone making good use of that bed." She frowned at her cousin. "Luc what are you doing across the room, darling? You can't make love to her from over there. Is this one of this tantric things?"
"Cru!" he said through gritted teeth. Damn his cousin and her ill-timed sexual innuendos. "Did you need something?"
"Uncle sent me to fetch you. He's in his study." She bussed his cheeks and hissed in his ear, "Don't let him push your buttons."
Pulling back, she smiled, hands fluttering at his shoulders. "It was good to see you. I hope you'll not wait another four years before you visit us again. Belle, darling, it's been a pleasure. Come back and see us again, oui?" She winked and turned on her heel, her fur wrap bouncing behind her in time to her quick steps.
"I'm coming with you," Belle said after Cruellina departed. Her chin was tilted in defiance.
"We should get back to the train." He snapped open his gold pocket watch and waved it in her direction. "Focus on why you're in France, cherie. Victor. Or have you forgotten your plans to throw yourself at him and beg him to take you back?" He gave her a nasty smile.
"What?" Her face clouded over. "Why are you being like this?"
Why? Why? Because I'm a coward, Belle. But he couldn't say that. He'd revealed far too much already. "That's the kind of man I am, cherie. When faced with a choice between me and everyone else, me wins—every time."
"I don't believe that at all. The tailored suits, the smooth deals, the smirks. It's a coat of armor you wear; a mask you hide behind. You know what your problem is? You don't know who you are." She challenged him with her seeking gaze, stepping closer. He shivered as those sea blue eyes assessed him—slashing him open, raw and exposed. "So since you don't know, I'm going to tell you. When I was assaulted in Paris, it was you who came to my rescue and you who gave me a place to stay. You offered to help me with my passport, you came with me on the train, you offered to help me win back Victor. That's who you are."
He shrugged, dismissing her misplaced faith in him. If she was looking for a hero, he was the wrong man.
"You're a good man, Luc d'Or, even if you don't think so," she said, putting a hand on his arm. "And I'm not letting you face your father alone. I'm coming, too."
"What? Non. Absolut non. I can handle Malcolm." He wasn't letting her anywhere near that viper.
"I'm sure you can. It's him I don't trust." Belle narrowed her eyes. "I'm coming with you."
Defeated, he sighed, too fatigued to continue arguing. "Fine. But stay silent."
"Oui," she said staunchly in a poor attempt to mimic his accent.
He hid a smile and forced himself to glare at her. Stubborn, troublesome woman. At the first opportunity he was getting that necklace back. Next he would return her to her fiancé. Then, finally, he would return to securing his future. If only that future didn't seem so empty.
"Hello, worm. What the hell are you doing here?" Malcolm d'Or reclined behind a massive mahogany desk, a cigar clamped between gleaming white teeth. Lean and tanned, at first glance he was the picture of health. But Luc noticed the telltale signs of strain around his eyes and the bloated roundness of his jaw, courtesy of too many shots of vodka at the Blackjack table.
Luc leaned against the doorjamb of the office, affecting an indifference he didn't feel. Belle stood a half-step behind him, her presence bolstering his spirit even as his pride roared that a real man would face Malcolm d'Or alone.
It really chaffed that he still cared what the bastard thought about him.
"Have you run grandfather's operation into the ground yet? Who does all the work around here while you're off chasing your misspent youth?" he asked, sitting down in the leather club chair in front of the desk.
"Consult the family tree, whelp," Malcolm snapped, eyes bulging. "He's not your grandfather, so neither his dead hide nor this vineyard are your concern. I'll ask you again: what are you doing here?"
"Just passing through." Luc crossed his leg and leaned back like he had all the time in the world.
"Who's the girl?" Malcolm jerked his head toward the doorway where Belle stood, glowering.
"Belle French. I introduced you in the square, remember?" Luc cracked his knuckles, a not-so-subtle reminder of who had won that brawl.
Malcolm paled and considered his reflection in a small desk mirror. He patted his battered nose and the papery skin under his eyes. Luc bit back a chuckle. The man was obsessed with getting older and loathed every sign of aging. If he could have discovered the Fountain of Youth and bottled that instead of wine, he'd have transformed himself into a horny teenager and hoarded every last drop for himself.
"Weren't the last 38 wasted years enough?" the older man snapped. "When will I finally be rid of you?"
"Soon, Papa, very soon," he said, emphasizing the title his father loathed.
"Are you still planning to buy the old Avril place?" Malcolm asked, still obsessing with the mirror.
Luc stiffened. "What do you know of my plans?"
"That property is a wreck. The vineyard is overgrown, the cottage is in ruins." Malcolm chortled. "It's going to take great quantities of blood and sweat and money to get that place going again. Assuming it's still for sale when you get the cash together."
Clenching his fists, he seethed, wanting to lunge across the desk and wring the old man's scrawny neck. No. He would not allow himself to be needled. "Idle threats. I will have the land and I will make a great wine. And nothing you do will stop me!"
Exerting every ounce of self-control, he stood and leaned over the desk with a menacing glare, causing Malcolm to shrink back. "Oh, and by the way—you look like shit."
Satisfied by the surprised rage plastered across the bastard's face, Luc guided Belle out the door and slammed it closed.
"That piece of land you showed me, it's very important to you, isn't it?" Belle asked. They stood at the depot, waiting to catch the last train to Cannes.
"Oui," he said, his guts churning in discomfort. He was not looking forward to the sway of the train exacerbating his stomachache, but he had no one to blame but himself.
Back at the estate, when Belle had gone to freshen up before their journey, she'd left her bag in his care. At last he'd had the chance he'd been waiting for since he found her in the alley beside the bar. Fingers itching, he'd yielded to the temptation of having the knapsack to all to himself. He'd rifled through her belongings, searching for his necklace. Nothing. Nothing? It had to be there. Frantic, he'd overturned the bag, shaking out every last aspirin and hairpin.
Empty.
The necklace he'd procured and carried over 7,500 kilometers was gone.
No necklace meant no money. No money meant no land. No land meant no vineyard. Desolate, he'd put his head between his knees and wept.
He was finished.
An hour later, he didn't know what disgusted him more: knowing that the necklace was gone for good, or the sinking sensation that he'd betrayed Belle by looking for it. Unwilling to meet her eyes, he stood behind her as she fidgeted with a colorful scarf, a present from Ursula.
"You'd risk everything for that land, wouldn't you?" She turned to face him, toying with the material at her throat.
There was no censure in the question. He raised his eyes to her face. "Oui."
"Do anything to have it?"
"Oui."
"Get down on your knees and beg?"
"Oui." He cringed.
"Then what makes you so different from me?" she asked. "Admit it. Not much."
"Ok, I admit." He laughed in spite of himself. She was right—there was no difference. He wanted the vineyard. She wanted Victor. Both of them wanted a miracle.
While they waited, he considered her. The setting sun bathed her skin in a rosy glow and created a fiery halo around her riotous curls. Mon dieu, she was beautiful. But it was more than that. He respected her; her thoughts, her needs, her desires. What he wanted from her ceased to matter; she wanted Victor and he would honor that.
She wanted Victor. He'd made a deal, and it was time to put his selfishness aside and hold up his end. "I will help you win your Victor back. If you want him back, we will get him back, just like I promised."
"I knew you were an honorable man," she said, smiling at him once more. "May I ask you something else?" She fixed her attention on the approaching train.
"Of course."
"How are you going to buy that vineyard? You must have some plan. Some strategy."
He winced, recalling that he had taunted her with those same words on the way here. "I had a plan, but it did not work out."
"It didn't work out? That's a shame. What was the plan?"
"I had…something to sell." He was shouting over the rumble of the train as it pulled into the station.
"Something? Like what? Stocks? Bonds? Little bags of plutonium?" She rubbed her fingers together.
"It's no matter now," he grumbled. "I lost it."
"You lost it?" She arched an elegant eyebrow. "If it was me I'd have some kind of backup plan. Something more than just bullshit to fall back on." She hopped aboard the train and whirled around, standing in the entryway. "Something, perhaps, maybe a little bit….like this?"
Grinning, she pulled the scarf away from her neck, and he gawked in disbelief.
There—nestled against her throat, winking in the fading sunlight—was the necklace.
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Up Next: On to the French Riviera, where Belle and Luc strategize to reunite Belle with Victor.