The French Connection. Tracy Kelleher
last wish,” Françoise had declared melodramatically over her third glass of sherry and just before she’d patted his bum when he’d been leaving the study. “He wanted you to preserve the family’s long tradition of service to the country.”
Frankly, Edmond figured his grandfather’s last wish would have been that he’d go two under par for a full round of golf. Edmond also didn’t cotton to being goosed by his stepgrandmother, whose face was so tight she could barely blink.
But in his own way Edmond did feel an obligation to the family legacy, a legacy—mind you, that included as many scoundrels and ne’er-do-wells as diplomats and statesmen. Given this latitude, he figured he was perfectly justified in fulfilling his calling in his own particular way—no excuses necessary, thank you.
Yet as Edmond held on to Shelley McCleery’s slim Italian shoe—very fine quality, he noticed—he was struck by how much he really didn’t want to think about his calling. Not when the shoe belonged to a slender, finely shaped foot which in turn was attached to a well-turned ankle—that being as much of her leg as he could glimpse beneath the table and below the hem of her trousers. And having never given much thought to having a shoe, foot or, for that matter, ankle fetish, the arousing images going through his mind were…well, really quite arousing.
He shifted in his chair.
“I’ll take my shoe then,” she prompted, holding out her hand. “It’s one of my favorites, not to mention that I got it for a great price at Nordstrom’s in Woodbridge, New Jersey, which, if you’re ever in the States, I highly recommend checking out—not that you need to worry about that kind of thing.”
Edmond raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’d be surprised.”
“In any case, ever since I discovered that my ability to hop on one foot for a prolonged distance was not up to Olympic standards, roughly about the same time I realized I would never be a prima ballerina, rock star or winner of the Pillsbury Bake-Off contest—I was still holding out for secretary of state, mind you—I became quite fond of wearing shoes on both feet.”
Edmond hesitated before speaking and looked once more beyond the severe pantsuit and the prim hairstyle to the winking green eyes—rather startling emerald-green, he realized—and saw there was something quite unique about Shelley McCleery beyond the fact that she had mentioned New Jersey, the sybaritic utopia of his adolescence.
“My shoe?” A note of impatience tinged her question.
He coughed. “Of course. Allow me.” And on the hard pebbles of the café’s courtyard and in the ominous shadow of one of southern France’s most imposing prisons, he knelt down on one knee and extended Shelley’s shoe toward her.
She looked furtively around, relieved to find that the proprietor, who was leaning against the sun-drenched stucco wall of his establishment, was totally intent on deciphering the daily racing form.
“I feel quite silly, you know,” she said and reluctantly raised her naked foot.
“You think you feel silly? Imagine how I feel?”
“Then why do it?”
He gave her a lopsided smile, and she noticed the button on the cuff of his sleeve was about ready to fall off.
“Why do it?” he repeated her question as he thought. “Because this may be my one and only chance to play Prince Charming.” He reached for her foot with his free hand and, as he held the back of her ankle, slid on her shoe.
His head was bent, and she couldn’t see his face, only his wavy black hair falling this way and that. It really was too long and desperately needed to be cut, or barring that, combed. She could think of any number of women ready to take on the task. “Actually, in your case it’s Count Charming,” she joked.
But then stopped.
Because his fingers were caressing the sensitive skin at the back of her heel. Should she say something, extricate her foot in some way? Did she really want to?
A noisy seagull chose that moment to swoop over and land on the ground in front of the café. It walked in its stiff-legged gait and poked among the stray sugar wrappers and baguette crumbs that had blown to the ground. From its purposeful stride, it was clear the bird was familiar with this exercise. It stopped a few feet from the table and stared at Shelley with its black, button-shaped eyes.
And just like that the moment was broken. Edmond let go of Shelley’s foot and settled himself back in his chair.
She tucked her legs under the table.
He coughed into his hand.
She became entranced by the sea.
“Another coffee?” he asked.
She brought her gaze back to him. “No. No, thank you. I think I need to moderate my mix of uppers and downers if I’m going to stay awake this evening.” She rubbed her finger on the Teflon-coated tablecloth, with its flower-print pattern. “Not to change the subject too abruptly, but I wanted to tell you how sad I was to hear of the death of your grandmother, Madame la Comtesse.”
“That’s very kind.” A note of formality descended over the conversation. “In point of fact, she wasn’t my actual grandmother since she was my grandfather’s third wife. My real grandmother, along with my parents, died while strolling along the Promenade des Anglais in Nice many years ago when I was quite young. A Milanese banker, distraught at his mistress leaving him for the center-forward of the Forza Napoli soccer team, lost control of his Lamborghini, which jumped the sidewalk and struck them.”
“How—” melodramatic seemed too insensitive “—tragic.” There were worse things after all than having a father run off to the circus.
“Yes, well, they had just finished having aperitifs at the Hôtel Negresco, so I think they were feeling no pain.” The way he worked his jaw belied the flippancy of his remark.
“At least you had your grandfather.” Who later also died on him, Shelley realized. The layers of tragedy were beginning to rival Les Misérables.
Edmond signaled to the waiter and pointed one finger toward his empty cup. The man reluctantly put down his racing form and went inside to make another espresso. “Yes, I was very lucky. And then there were my aunts, of course.”
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