Page 11

ELEVEN

Embassy

Vivianne

I wake early the following day and enjoy breakfast inside the small hotel restaurant. It is a light continental affair, and I pick at my food.

Nerves.

I rarely eat breakfast, but my stomach is shaky and unsettled. The food and rich French roast help settle my nerves for my first day at work as an attaché.

Jacques waits at the curb. He opens the door and assists me inside the regal black town car. Immaculate in his black suit, he delivers his morning greeting with the same crisp efficiency as the seams starched into his suit.

We drive in silence, neither of us engaging in idle chitchat. The city passes outside the windows, a wonder of neoclassical architecture—more pronounced the closer we get to the American embassy.

The chancery faces the Avenue Gabriel and sits across from the gardens of the Champs-élysées. Jacques drives by the Place de la Concorde while I admire the eighteenth-century French architecture.

Statues and fountains decorate the area, which must be incredibly romantic at night. I imagine the gilded columns glowing from the light spilling from the hanging lanterns.

An obelisk fills the center of the square, and I flip through my guide to read the history of the oldest monument in Paris.

Marines guard the entrance to the embassy. Jacques pulls up in front, ignoring the Marines’ stern expressions, and helps me out. Unlike the previous day, I dress in business casual, but that doesn’t mean I skimp on fashion.

I wear my Louboutins and find my balance on the four-inch heels.

A cobblestone courtyard extends before me, bringing a grimace to my face. Cobbles or not, I will negotiate the uneven ground, even as I wish for my sneakers from the night before.

Jacques retrieves my satchel from the backseat and hands it to me while I admire the embassy’s neoclassical style. The stone building sits at a corner of the Place de la Concorde and conforms to the architectural requirements demanded by the city.

It matches the pale blond color of the other buildings and has elaborate balustrades, balconies, and cornices on its facade.

I say goodbye to Jacques and head toward the main entrance to the chancery, picking my way over the cobbles in my heels. On one side of the courtyard, a statue of Benjamin Franklin perches.

I would’ve thought it odd, but my guidebook mentions Ben was the first envoy to France back in 1776. I’ve never been much of a history buff unless it came to art, but I pause and nod to good old Ben before entering the building.

Inside, embassy staffers gather in the foyer. Others pass by, proceeding through security checkpoints with brisk efficiency. Two colossal marble columns frame the main doors and display the busts of George Washington and the Marquis de Lafayette.

The man who crafted those busts also designed the Statue of Liberty. There are references to France’s role in helping the United States gain its independence from England everywhere.

An odd warped mirror hangs to the right of the entry foyer. I approach and read the plate at the bottom. A convexity in the glass distorts the image. Called the Witch’s Mirror, I wonder at its significance.

A large Cartier clock keeps time above the crowned crest of lion and eagle heads. At the top of the majestic staircase, the medallion seal of the United States separates two oil paintings.

I recognize the works of Gilbert Stuart. One is a portrait of George Washington, and the other is a smaller portrait of James Monroe.

The entire building weeps history and fills my heart with the skill of master artisans, stonemasons, guilders, painters, and sculptors. I spin in a slow circle, taking my time to absorb the wealth of history steeped in the air I breathe.

A man in his mid-to-late-forties waits by the main security desk. Dark-tailored pants complement a layered ensemble of a collared shirt, vest, jacket, and the ever-present scarf Parisian men wear.

He leans against the counter, speaking with the guard behind the desk, until he notices me standing off to the side of the flow of pedestrian traffic.

He makes a quick appraisal, perhaps taking in the fit of my black pencil skirt, cream blouse, and crimson jacket. After his lingering assessment, the man pushes off from the counter. His brisk strides bring him to me with maximum efficiency.

“Miss Faulks,” he says, extending his hand in greeting. “I hope your flight went well?”

Even his hair, black and cut short, is pristine. I grip his hand, shake it, and release it just as quickly.

“It did; although it was hard to stay up, my driver suggested it was best to acclimate to the time zone. I had a very nice tour of Montmartre yesterday.”

“Ah,” he says, “yes, the Basilica du Sacré-C?ur is a favorite of the tourists.”

A soft smile curves my lips. “Yes, it is beautiful. Quite the hike, though.”

“You climbed the hill?” His eyes widen, showing flecks of gold in his hazel eyes.

“It was a most beautiful day, and the view from the top was beyond spectacular.”

From the hesitation in his eyes, I wonder if this man has ever taken the time to visit the city’s typical tourist attractions or if his work consumes him.

He places a hand against his breast pocket. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Arnold Larson, and I oversee our operation.”

“Mr. Larson,” I say, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His gaze sweeps up and down my body and then makes another pass.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Faulks.” He gestures off to the side. “Now, let’s get your credentials set up. Then, we need to speak about the operation, and we have a meeting with the museum later this afternoon.”

Well, he isn’t wasting any time.

Arnold Larson escorts me to an empty office lined with tiny cubicles and takes me to a desk in the back of the room, furthest from the window and next to the restroom.

I glance at the thin layer of grime coating the desk and the dust bunnies gathered under the various power cords. He thinks I want to hang my jacket off the back of my new chair.

No way am I draping Dolce & Gabbana over a worn-down, dust-encrusted chair. Besides, beneath the jacket, I wear nothing more than a thin blouse.

I wear the Dolce & Gabbana as an ensemble and love the double row of buttons cinching my waist and the light flare of the skirt accentuating my legs. The garment hugs my curves, and while I would’ve preferred something red, I went for understated.

Not that there’s anything understated about Dolce & Gabbana.

Their professional women’s clothing line defines feminine beauty even if it isn’t styled for comfort. Regardless, one doesn’t remove the jacket. Not that I expect a man to understand.

“This is mine?” I say, remarking on the tiny cubicle. All thirty square feet? I have more room in the water closet of the servants’ quarters at home.

“All yours, although I don’t expect you’ll be doing much desk work.” He pulls out the chair, but I don’t take his lead and sit.

“I prefer to use my laptop. Will that be a problem?”

His lips twist. “Unfortunately, our firewall will make that impossible. Any research or communication must be from an approved device. We need to process you through security, grab your badge, and set up your e-mail and computer access. Once your security clearance is finalized, we can discuss the case.”

I clutch my purse against my chest. “Well, I guess we should get to it.”

“You can leave that here. I assure you, our workplace is secure.”

I place a hand on Larson’s sleeve. “Thank you. I appreciate that, but a woman is seldom separated from her purse.”

And, as purses go, my Chanel clutch comes with a price tag in the thousands. It isn’t something I’d ever leave lying around.

“Lead on.”

We take a lunch break at a small bistro down the road while security makes my badge and activates my new e-mail account.

Larson pays for lunch, and I thank him with a smile. When we return, I find myself back at the tiny cubicle, an embassy badge attached to my suit jacket, and Larson hovering, his eyes dipping too often to the abundance of my cleavage.

I don’t worry, however. A gold band encircles his ring finger, and he interrupts our lunch to accept a call from his wife.

I shake my head. “I couldn’t have found where to go without you.”

“No problem,” he says. “We should check and make sure you can log on to the system.” He turns his wrist over to check his watch. “We’re meeting the Interpol agents in less than an hour.”

I beam my gentlest smile at Larson and then grimace at the dirty desk.

“That sounds perfect, but would you mind if I freshened up first? If I have any problems, I know where you live.”

With a soft laugh, I point to the door leading into his office. Unlike the spartan rows of cubicles, Arnold Larson’s office has doors.

He gives a nod and backs away. “I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

I take the too-few steps to the women’s restroom and lean against the porcelain sink while staring at my reflection. I’m in Paris as an attaché to the embassy. Soon, I’ll be meeting with Interpol agents. This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

Why, then, am I so nervous?

I freshen up and then take a stack of paper towels, wet them, and return to my desk. Although I grew up in a house full of servants, I’ve performed basic household chores since I could walk.

“Work,” my father claimed, “good, honest work requires elbow grease, Viv. It’ll make you appreciate everything you have.”

I wanted the maids to clean my toilet instead of being forced to do it myself. It wasn’t until I was a preteen that I discovered bribery worked better than “elbow grease” to achieve the sparkle my father demanded.

With brisk efficiency, I set to cleaning the layers of grunge coating my desk. Dust bunnies are pacified, and old glass rings are polished into nothingness. I wipe every square inch. Only then do I head to Larson’s office.

He leans back in his leather chair, feet kicked up on the corner of his desk, ankles crossed, and has an antiquated phone with a cord attached to it pressed to his ear. He waves me in and gestures to the couch.

I sink into the worn leather, happy to be off my feet, and then a trickle of electricity buzzes in the air. I turn, surprised by the sensation, and my searching gaze collides with Paul de Gaulle’s stormy eyes.

He pauses in the doorway, his large frame filling the opening. His focus settles on me, and our breaths sync.

“Mademoiselle Faulks, a pleasure to see you again.” Traces of his French accent curl around his words, imbuing them with a potent sensuality.

I shift in my seat, pressing my knees together as he watches my every move. I want to greet him with the firmness of a handshake, but he closes the distance between us and sits beside me, far too close for comfort.

He reaches out and claims my hand, the warmth of his fingertips dancing across my wrist.

Slowly, with his eyes locked on mine, he lifts my hand to his mouth and presses a featherlight kiss to my skin. All thoughts of breathing flee while I balance on the end of an exhalation, too terrified to move.

“How was your flight?” He rubs a circle with his thumb against the inside of my wrist.

Pulling back isn’t a choice. I hang on to the cusp of the moment, my thoughts a tumbled mess as to what to do next.

Fortunately, he solves the problem for me, releasing my hand and sinking back into the plush leather couch. He kicks back, his ankle resting on the opposite knee.

“You are stunning, ma chère .”

I clear my throat. “Thank you, Mr., um…Monsieur de Gaulle. You’re too kind.”

A glance toward Larson shows my new boss deep in conversation, which leaves me and de Gaulle to make small talk while we wait. Larson even spins around, props his feet against the wall, and places his back to us. He leans back, bracing against his desk.

“Please, Mademoiselle Faulks, call me Paul.”

“But won’t your—business partners expect something more formal?”

He nods, and his eyes narrow. “There will be plenty of time for that later. May I call you Vivianne?”

“My friends call me Viv.”

“Americans love to butcher beautiful names.”

“Excuse me?”

“Allow me to address you as Vivianne, if I may. It’s more—shall we say, continental? Much less likely to draw attention.”

Less attention from whom?

“If you insist, Monsieur de Gaulle . ”

“ Ah, non. ” He leans forward, his tantalizing scent filling my nasal passages with the promise of dark woods and private places. “Please, call me Paul.”

I sink back from Paul, my heart thumping beneath thousands of dollars of haute couture.

Dolce & Gabbana makes power suits for women, but nothing can shield me from this man’s innate sexual potency.

Part of me loves the challenge he presents. Another tells me to run, far and fast. Yet I do neither. I accept his terms.

With a nod, I relent. “As you wish—Paul.”

His eyes glitter with victory. “Now, was that so difficult?”

“Not difficult,” I say, confused by his choice of words. With a gesture toward Larson, I continue, “I assume you’ll be joining us?”

“Most definitely.” He picks at nonexistent lint on his trousers. “Word has spread about the young American who spotted the Van Gogh forgery. The men we’ll be meeting do not understand our true intent. As far as they’re concerned, you’ve been brought in due to your ability to identify Starling forgeries.”

“I’m far from an expert, Monsieur—” He holds up a finger, and I accommodate his wishes. “I’m far from an expert, Paul.”

“And yet, if it weren’t for you, the Metropolitan Museum of Art would be showcasing a fake to the world. News such as that travels.” When he smiles, his teeth flash a brilliant white. “Your name is being whispered all across the globe.”

My heart thunders once again. If that were even half-true, my hopes to control at least a piece of my future could be realized.