She could see confusion and amusement dance across his face like water ripples moving along the Seine. “Why? A fashion competition is hardly anything incriminating.”
Celine ran a finger down the spine of her sketchbook. “Not everyone thinks so.”
He remained silent for a moment, assessing her. Celine could only guess what his mind was brewing. He knew something Jacques didn’t—something Jacques, as her boyfriend, should know, yet Celine had chosen not to tell him.
“Alright, I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Bastien decided, rising from his chair. “I am curious to see how long you can keep on lying once you get accepted.” He pushed open the partition andtossed a cocky grin over his shoulder. “Ten weeks are an awfully long time, baby vamp.”
Chapter 2
The Troubled Son
“A gilded bathtub filled with three thousand francs worth of champagne!”
Wincing, Bastien sat a few degrees straighter on his chair and wearily eyed the ledger his grandfather was holding before him.
“Edward of Wales did it, so I thought I’d try it too,” he offered. “He claimed it cleansed the soul.”
He didn’t know how well that second half of the statement held up to the truth, nor did he care. He’d say anything to get out of his grandfather’s oppressive office and lose himself in some loud dance hall. The room was unbearably stifling. Even the feeble ticking of his wristwatch against his skin was making him jittery. They had been arguing back and forth for one straight hour and Bastien knew they had just started. His parents were away, occupied with taking care of business overseas and Grandfather Ménard had made it his point to keep Bastien in check. He was the only one monitoring the family accounts, the revenue from the Ménard vineyard, and, much to Bastien’s chagrin, his grandchildren’s spendings.
But one hundred bottles of champagne… Bastien could admit he had catastrophically messed up. Slowly, he brought his agitated stirrings to a halt.
“See,” he tried again, “I did consider raiding the cellar—don’t worry, I wouldn’t have wasted any of the vintages, I’m nota savage,” Bastien assured, waving a hand in the air. “But then I thought it would look too macabre. The blood of Christ and all that. God might have smitten me.”
Their vineyard produced enough to sell and stock up their personal wine shelves; his grandfather wouldn’t miss a couple of bottles. Though Bastien knew the choice in beverage wasn’t what had sparked up their argument.
His grandfather released a slow, deep breath.
“If the champagne wasn’t enough, you went and purchased a new motorcar.”
Bastien raised his arms to claim innocence. “Jacques got a new Arabian, it seemed only fair I’d get a new ride too.”
“A four thousand American dollar ride?”
“Haven’t you told me not to bargain over quality, grandfather? That was the best Cadillac they had.”
Monsieur Ménard pushed his glasses up his long nose, a gesture he did to distract himself from disowning his grandson on the spot. “I will pretend that you were in dire need of a new car. Do explain, though, all those women that were part of your…celebration.”
“Them,” Bastien grinned, “I paid with my charm.”
“Bastien—”
“Well it’s awfully pathetic bathing in champagne all by yourself, I needed companions.”
“Enough! I’ve heard enough.”
How his grandfather had found out about the party was still a mystery. Bastien had asked Anaïs to keep quiet about it. He knew Grandfather would throw a tantrum. The expenses were abundantly insane, even for a wealthy family like the Ménards. But Bastien had been brought up as a socialite and he couldn’t disregard the call of extravagance. He had been raised to party, make nice with high-class society, and show the importance of their name through any means possible. Maybe he had chosenan impractical way—which, more often than not, sullied the Ménard name—but he was only doing what he’d been told.
He got his answer when a crash sounded from the corridor and the door swung inwards, bringing in his step-siblings.
Because, if Anaïs who knew everything, had kept her mouth shut, then the only other person who had been invited and had declined, must have told on him.
Jacques staggered inside, struggling to keep Bastien’s Dalmatians from smearing their muddy paws all over him. Though his riding clothes were already irreparably stained green with grass and mud streaks.
“Call them away,” Jacques grunted as Hyde leaped to lick his face. “Bas!”
Bastien huffed a laugh, half scornful, half delighted. “I think I will enjoy this for a little while longer, brother. Hyde almost bit me the other day, I’m starting to think he’s feeling peckish for human meat. Maybe I’ll let him have a taste of you first.”
The paling look of horror on Jacques’s face was priceless. He deserved it. Bastien had hoped his brother would agree to his fun for once when he had extended the invite; that they would finally get along.
