The Frenchman's Bride. Rebecca WintersЧитать онлайн книгу.
Maurice. Oh yes, and Beauregard.
“At some point that afternoon the three of us became friends. It just happened. We’ve been close ever since. I should have recognized the signs of Paul’s infatuation before today, but I didn’t.
“I assume that’s why they’ve never told you about me. It was wrong of them of course. But just now you treated their omission like they’d committed a sin. Why did you do that?”
He moved closer. “How did you get a job at Tati’s?” His question proved he was too upset to be reasonable. “The government rarely issues work permits to Americans.”
“They made an exception in my case, but don’t be concerned. I’ll only be depriving your countrymen of a job for another two weeks, then I’ll be gone for good.
“As for your other fear, you’ve already solved that problem by coming to Paris to take your children home. Tell me something—if you’re so distrustful of them, why did you send them away to boarding school?”
His lips twisted unpleasantly, but she was determined to make this last point.
“The twins could have gone to a perfectly good college in St. Genes so they could live at home with you where they belong. Life is so fleeting! Don’t you know the love of a parent is more vital and necessary to a child than any expensive education?
“Your children worship you. They’ve missed you horribly and have studied hard to get the best grades so you’d be proud of them. I ought to know because I’ve spent hours tutoring them for their exams while we’ve explored Paris together on my days off.
“No doubt Monique bought that beautiful red dress to wear in front of you for Pere Maurice’s birthday celebration next month. She claims every woman fantasizes about you.
“Though she hasn’t said as much to me, I know she’s worried that someone will come along you do want in your bed. Every day that she grows older, she’s frightened she’ll be replaced in your affection.
“Please—if there is a special woman in your life you haven’t told them about either, don’t let her be at the chateau when you take your children back to St. Genes. Give them your total attention first so they’ll know nothing has changed.
“And please—promise me you’ll work things out with Paul tonight before it’s too late. He’s trying hard to be a man. Go to him and explain why you were so upset. Paul’s so sweet and sensitive inside. He’ll understand and forgive you.
“Adieu, monsieur. Que dieu vous benisse.”
A few seconds later the elevator doors closed, leaving Hallie’s words reverberating in the dining room.
Vincent remained frozen in place.
Like a master swordsman, she’d cut and thrust to produce a firestorm of emotions at the deepest level of his psyche. Then she’d had the audacity to bid him goodbye forever, imploring God to bless him.
He’d never met anyone remotely like her.
Never mind the womanly attributes that had blind-sided his son. What spell had this enigmatic stranger cast over both twins to evoke such singular affection?
For nine months their relationship had been flourishing without his knowledge. Vincent felt wounded. Betrayed.
He didn’t buy the explanation that the twins had kept Ms. Linn’s existence a secret in order to surprise him with their English proficiency.
No doubt Paul had fallen hard for her from the outset and had sworn Monique to secrecy. For a long time now she’d managed to infiltrate their world. No telling how many intimate details about his personal life and those of his children she’d elicited.
Though he didn’t have the faintest clue who this American really was, he was going to find out.
He went to the study to look up the number of Tati’s Department Store, then made a call to the manager. After being put on hold for a long time, someone in the credit department picked up and told him the manager had left for the day.
Vincent tried to get information about Ms. Linn, but was told he’d have to speak to the manager in the morning.
No sooner had he hung up, so he could call his attorney who would get the desired information for him, than his cell phone rang. The number of the chateau was displayed.
He clicked it on. “Vincent here.”
“My boy…are you sitting down?”
Pere Maurice’s sober question caused him to break out in a cold sweat. “What’s wrong?”
“We just had a call from Passy Hospital in Paris. According to the police, Paul ran in front of a truck while he was crossing the boulevard against the light. They checked the ID in his wallet, then called here. He’s still unconscious.”
“I’m on my way!”
The short trip to the nearby hospital passed in a blur. He entered the emergency room on a run. The fear that Paul might not wake up had taken hold. Now it was Vincent imploring God to bless his son and keep him alive.
“Where have you put Paul Rolland?” he asked the staff worker at the admitting desk. “The police tell me he was hit by a truck. I’m his father.”
“Your son is in cubicle five. You can go through those doors.”
He pushed them open and hurried inside. The drawn curtain at number five caused his heart to drop like a stone. A nurse was just coming out.
“Is my son still unconscious?” he demanded without preamble.
“No. He woke up a few minutes ago.”
Vincent could breathe again. “Dieu merci—oh, thank God.”
“He’s still being examined, but you can go in.” The nurse pulled the curtain aside for him.
At first glance, Paul looked wonderfully alive despite his pallor. There was a goose egg at the side of his forehead near his hairline.
The doctor was cleaning an abrasion on his left cheek. He looked up as Vincent introduced himself.
“Your son is a lucky young man. There are contusions on his left arm and leg, but no broken bones. The X-ray shows he has suffered a concussion, but with a few days bed rest the dizziness will pass and he’ll be fine. I’ll arrange to have him moved to a private room.”
Those words brought exquisite relief. “Thank you for everything,” he said before the doctor left the cubicle.
Now that they were alone, Vincent snagged a stool with his shoe and rolled it over to the examining table. He sat down next to Paul whose eyes had been closed the whole time.
“My son.” He reached for his right hand. “It’s Papa. I’m here. Thank God you’re going to be all right!” his voice shook.
Paul didn’t respond.
“Paul? Say something to me.” His throat swelled. “I love you.”
“No you don’t.”
The hurtful retort issued between taut lips sounded so cold, Vincent was crushed.
“Leave me alone. I don’t want you here.” He found the strength to pull his hand from his father’s grasp.
Vincent’s spirits plummeted to new depths. “That’s your anger talking. You know I would never leave you. You’re my son. I plan to stay with you until you’re out of the hospital and I can take you and Monique home with me.”
Paul’s eyes opened once more, but there was no sign of warmth in those dark remote depths, or in his facial expression. The son Vincent had loved and raised from birth was nowhere to be found.
“I’m not going to St. Genes. That’s over. I plan to stay in Paris. Don’t worry. I’ve already arranged for a job and a place to live.