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“And so I tell her,” Eduard said. “She grows lovelier every day.” As saccharine as the compliment was, he meant it. His devotion to Mariette always weighed heavily in his favor, in Ronsard’s estimation.
“Oh, there is Juliette,” Mariette cried, her attention instantly diverted. “I must speak to her.” She darted away, her full skirt fluttering around her as if she would take flight.
Ronsard and Eduard drifted away from the crowd, strolling casually as if they had nothing more important to do than idly chat and look for acquaintances in the throng. “I think everyone in government is here tonight,” Ronsard observed. “There must be something interesting in the air.”
Eduard shrugged, his heavy lips set in a benign smile. “Elections, my friend. Everyone is courting everyone else. And commerce is always interesting, is it not? The Iraqis wish to buy a very expensive, sophisticated computer system from us, but the Americans, as always, are having a tantrum at the idea. Their economy is healthy, so they can’t comprehend difficulty in other countries. Our industrial leaders don’t like having the Americans intrude on their business. But if we tell them to leave—” He spread his hands. “The Americans have so many lovely dollars. What does one do?”
“Whatever one must, on the surface,” Ronsard said dryly. No Frenchman liked the American presence that seemed to permeate the world. France was French, and would remain so. Whatever agreements the Americans forced, they could not be everywhere and oversee everything. France agreed, then did whatever was in France’s best interests. Pragmatism was the cornerstone of the French character.
“The Russians, of course, are desperate for technology. Unfortunately they have no means to pay. Perhaps the Americans will pay for them. These are interesting times, are they not?”
“Very interesting.” In the past ten years, old boundaries had been completely obliterated. Politics was in a state of flux, and such an atmosphere was very favorable to his business. Instability was the greatest of motivators to a certain type of person.
“The American ambassador is here, of course,” Eduard continued. “His aide is drifting around with his ears on alert.”
The ambassador’s aide was an employee of their Central Intelligence Agency. Everyone knew who everyone was, but still an astonishing amount of information was passed around at these functions. Intelligence officers were often conduits of information that governments wanted to dispense to other governments, but by back channels. No one, after all, wanted to precipitate a crisis.
“A family friend is visiting the ambassador and his wife. She is the daughter of one of Madame Theriot’s oldest friends. A lovely young woman, if I may say so. One always sees the same faces at these things, you know; anyone new is a welcome change.”
Ronsard was a man. He was always interested in a lovely young woman, provided she wasn’t too young. He had no interest in giggly adolescents. “Point her out to me,” he said idly.
Eduard looked around. “There,” he finally said. “By the windows. Brunette, dressed in white. She has the loveliest eyes.”
Ronsard located the woman in question. She was not, he saw, an adolescent. She was standing beside Madame Theriot, a smile that managed to be both polite and warm on her face as she tilted her head, listening to a minister of finance who was probably expounding on his favorite subject, horse racing.
Ronsard exhaled in appreciation. Eduard had not exaggerated; she was indeed lovely. Not beautiful, not spectacular, but . . . lovely. She wasn’t dressed in a manner calculated to draw attention, but somehow she did. Perhaps it was the quiet dignity of her manner, coupled with those stunning eyes. Even from there, Ronsard could appreciate Eduard’s comment about her eyes. They were huge and night-dark, the type of eyes a man could look into and forget what he was saying.
Her gown was a simple, unadorned white, relying on its exquisite cut for its charm. Her complexion was pale, so pale he wouldn’t have thought she could wear white without looking washed-out, but instead the color seemed to accentuate the faintest of pink flushes that made one think one could see the warmth of her blood under that delicate skin.
She was slender without being thin, as so many fashionable women were these days. The gown skimmed over nicely rounded hips, and her bosom, though not large, was enticingly shaped. She wore a single, gracefully long strand of pearls, which matched the bracelet on her right wrist and the earrings on her lobes. She turned as he watched, and the strand of pearls swung sideways to curl under and frame her left breast.
Unconsciously she touched the strand, restoring it to is previous graceful drape, but the brief image made Ronsard’s loins pleasurably tighten.
“Is she married?” The French were sophisticated about such matters, but Americans remained, for the most part, annoyingly prudish.
“Widowed,” Eduard supplied.
The orchestra at that moment began playing a gently stirring movement from Beethoven, as the dancing had not yet begun. As Ronsard watched, the lovely widow’s head turned toward the orchestra, her expression arrested as she listened to the music. She became very still, and her eyes seemed to fill with an aching sadness. She turned to the ministry employee and said a few words, then inclined her head to Madame Theriot and seemed to whisper something. Madame Theriot looked sympathetic and touched the young woman on the arm. Then the young woman slipped out the open patio doors into the night.
Ronsard had no idea how long she had been widowed, but obviously the music had just brought a painful memory to mind. Sad young women, in his opinion, should always be comforted. “Pardon me,” he murmured to Eduard and strode across the ballroom floor.
It was a tedious passage; everyone wanted to speak to him. Women called his name and gave him slumbrous smiles. He shook hands, kissed cheeks, and made graceful escapes while he kept his eye on the patio doors. The minister of finance to whom she had been speaking seemed to dither, but finally found the courage to approach the doors. By that time Ronsard was there, and he deftly stepped in front of the man. “Your solicitude is much appreciated,” he murmured, “but won’t be necessary.”
“Ah . . .” The man blinked at him as Ronsard’s identity registered. “Yes, of course.”
Ronsard went outside into the warm Paris night. The flagstoned patio was lit only by indirect light, from the windows behind him and by the lights strung in the ornamental trees in the garden. Small tables and chairs had been scattered about the patio, providing guests with an opportunity to take fresh air and escape the noise of the ballroom.
The widow sat at one of those tables, her hands quiet in her
lap as she looked out over the garden. She hadn’t wept, Ronsard saw when he drew near, his footsteps slow and purposeful. She had kept her composure, though he thought he detected a sheen of tears in her eyes, and her mouth had that soft, sad curve that made him want to kiss a smile onto it. A mouth that delectable should always smile.
“Hello,” he said gently in English, and the slight start she gave told him that she hadn’t been aware of his approach. “Forgive me, I didn’t intend to startle you.”
She turned those big dark eyes on him, and again he felt that surge in his loins. She looked so sad, so alone and vulnerable. Even as he watched she gathered herself and sought refuge in the social face she had probably been taught to assume from the time she was out of the cradle.
“That’s perfectly all right,” she said, beginning to stand. Her voice was low and feminine, without the annoying nasal tones of so many Americans. “I was just about to return to the party—”
“No, don’t let me displace you,” he said quickly, reaching out to gently touch her arm. He was always gentle in his dealings with women, and so many of them were endearingly susceptible to that tenderness, as if they didn’t get enough of it in their lives. The widow, however, looked mildly shocked that he had touched her, and she drew back just a little.
