Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,68
of gorgeous fabrics. No one even looked up at us as we passed. We entered a space that was an immense closet, and I stared at the blouses and pants and dresses, knowing that I likely couldn’t afford to even breathe the air in here, never mind wear any of the clothes.
“Jacqueline!” cried Jean Claude, and a woman dressed all in black with silver hair and the most elegant sharp-edged features I’d ever seen appeared.
Jean Claude spoke to her in French too rapidly for me to understand. Jacqueline took a tape and began measuring me while he spoke. She pushed my arms up and sized my bust, waist, and bottom. I tried not to be embarrassed. I failed.
Jacqueline argued a bit with him, and I felt nervous that Jean Claude was crossing a line by asking her for outfits, but then Jacqueline turned and walked away. She came back a moment later with two dresses, one a pretty blue day dress and the other a pewter silk dress with a fit-and-flare skirt that would make me look like an ingénue. Jean Claude looked pleased and chose the pewter dress.
“You must wear this one tonight, mon chou, and think of me while you do,” he said. His gaze lingered on my stained blouse. I had the feeling he couldn’t bear the thought of my walking around Paris in it. “And now that I have your size, I will send something over tomorrow for the party, especially for you.”
“Thank you, but this is too much,” I said. Jean Claude shook his head, refusing my protest.
Jacqueline led me to a curtained-off area to change, and while I got into the dress, which was a perfect fit and boasted exquisite hand stitching, she found some very smart black-and-silver pumps in my size and a black cashmere wrap. When I glanced at the mirror, I barely recognized myself, which was a good thing.
Jacqueline delivered me back to Jean Claude, who was downstairs in the showroom. He was standing with a group of well-to-do women, all of whom looked like they were about to swoon at his feet. This perturbed me. A possessive streak inside me that had been dormant for years was electrocuted back to life like my own private Frankenstein’s monster, and I found myself studying the cluster of women. I had planned to stand off to the side and wait, but as if he could sense my presence, Jean Claude spun around.
The smile on his face when he saw me was blinding in its brilliance, and I blinked. He held his arms wide and said, “Mon chou, tu es belle et innocente.”
Beautiful and innocent? I supposed the cut of the dress did make me look younger. Maybe he was looking to find the carefree, adventurous woman he’d known seven years ago. Well, that made two of us.
As I walked down the circular staircase to the main floor, he gestured for me to stop. I clutched the wrought-iron banister and posed on the marble steps, feeling self-conscious but thrilled that he approved. He held up his phone and took several pictures before gesturing for me to continue and giving me lavish words of praise.
The women in the showroom were clearly eavesdropping on our conversation while pretending not to be, but they had the grace to act as if they were discussing the fabric of the gown they were looking at when he said, “Jacqueline, if anyone asks, I will be back shortly.”
Jacqueline nodded, as if she had expected as much. She handed me a silk-handled embossed paper bag with my wine-stained clothes inside. “Au revoir, mademoiselle.”
Jean Claude took my hand and said, “Allons-y, Chelsea. I will escort you home.”
He swept me toward the door, and we were almost outside when I remembered one significant detail. I stopped, pulling him to a halt.
“Wait,” I said. This was it. The moment of truth. “I have one question.”
He looked at me expectantly, and I narrowed my eyes at him.
“Are you married?”
chapter fourteen
HIS EYES WENT wide in a look of horror. Then he smiled and held up his left hand. There was no ring. “Non. How could I get married when all these years I’ve been waiting for you?”
The ladies across the room audibly sighed, and I laughed. Always the charmer, Jean Claude was. I felt better, but wanting to be as thorough as an audit, I asked, “Engaged?”
He shook his head. “Non.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Non non,” he said. “My heart is yours, mon chou.”