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His father laughed. “Aren’t we a pair? Two emotionally stunted men discussing our feelings.”
He pursed his lips. “Speak for yourself. I’m only emotionally stunted when it comes to you.”
That slight bit of sarcasm left his father’s eyes, extinguished by yet another cutting truth. Perhaps he was getting too old for this verbal sparring that had always been their sole means of communication, but Lucian didn’t know how else to talk to him.
Christos lifted the papers on his desk, aligned the edges, and made a show of stacking them. Without meeting Lucian’s gaze, he mumbled, “Perhaps you could stay here, at the house, rather than at the hotel. Tibet would love—”
“Christos—”
“Right. You have business to attend to.” His disappointment seemed so real. “Will I see you again before you leave?”
He was suddenly exhausted. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“I’d like to, see you again that is.”
There was something frightening about the way his father said that. He was being melodramatic. “I’ll . . . I’ll let you know.” He quickly turned and exited the room, cutting off any further comments from his father.
When he reached the hall, he saw Claudette. She left whatever she was doing to come to him. “Did you ’ave a nice visit, garçon?”
“Is he sick, Claudette? Really sick?”
She turned away, then back to him. Lowering her gaze to the ground, she wrung her fingers and whispered, “Your father is not well. Madame Tibet cries often. We thought we might have lost ’im during these last few weeks.”
“Why didn’t someone call us?”
She met his gaze. “Would you ’ave come if I did? I do not know what would be worse, me going over ’is head and contacting you when ’e asked me not to, or seeing the hurt in ’is eyes when I confessed calling ’is children, but not a single one of them came to ’im.”
He didn’t answer. He wouldn’t lie to her and he couldn’t honestly say if he would have come. “May I use a telephone?”
She looked disappointed, but showed him to the closest phone. His cell service was shit this far out in the country. Claudette shut him into the library, and he found the phone on the table by the window.
As he dialed the hotel, he looked through the curtains. He stilled when he saw Tibet sitting on a cement bench in the garden. She must have returned from shopping.
He frowned. She was crying.
Tibet was a tiny woman with dark black hair and tiny features. Her nose was long and her lips thin and tight like a bow. Her brows were narrow and arched naturally high. She was a beauty of the European sort, a native of France.
He stared as she dashed away a tear with a handkerchief. She was alone. He’d never seen much emotion from her, or perhaps he never really looked. This was the woman who destroyed his parents’ marriage.
“Bonjour, Hôtel Patras. Puis-je vous aider? . . . Bonjour?”
Lucian stared at the phone. He was rendered mute a moment as he waited for his brain to kick in. It didn’t. His mouth was the first part of his body to work, and he was shocked when he heard himself say, “This is Lucian Patras. I need to reach Jacques Dubois. He’s a chauffeur there.”
“Oui, Monsieur Patras, I can reach Jacques for you. He is still on zee road. Shall I telephone him for you?”
“Yes, please tell him to return to my father’s estate with my belongings. I’ll be staying here.”
Chapter 20
Jeu Sur
Translation: Game On
The Parisian culture was something that had always appealed to Lucian. He adored watching the people from the benches bordering the River Seine, loved the scent of fresh baguettes flowing from café windows. The fluid language was familiar and eased his mind like lyrical poems even when he was overhearing a mother chattering on about her list for the market. He loved Paris, but had never been more miserable in his life.
Meandering up the cobblestone thoroughfare, he sneered at couples as they embraced and strolled along beside him. Bistros opened their doors to patrons, beckoning guests to dine on their cuisine, but he wanted nothing to do with such vulgar displays of culture. Everything he’d eaten in the past week tasted like ash on his tongue. Even the most delicate and buttery pastries filled his mouth like flavorless mush.
The skies weighed like dull blue cotton, and the manicured grounds sat like graves beneath his feet. Nothing was as it should be in the most romantic city in the world when he had no one to share it with. The idea of being there alone never bothered him before, but it bothered him now.
A group of young women dressed in their slim heels and swank Blemar Pierre dresses tittered by. One dark-haired beauty offered him a shy wave behind the backs of her friends. Lucian couldn’t even muster a smile. He was miserable, and he knew the cure to what ailed him was nowhere on that continent.
