Accidental Heiress

She was back in St. Michel. And sooner than he’d expected, considering he’d had his doubts about whether she’d show up at all. Honestly, the last thing he needed was Margeaux Broussard dropping their weighty baggage in the middle of his already chaotic life.

“Henri, are you there?” His brother Luc asked.

“Yes, I’m here. Of course I’ll try to contact her. But that doesn’t mean she wants to see me.”

Henri didn’t mean to sound so testy. After all, his brother had done him a favor by directing the chief of the Bureau of Customs to alert him when Margeaux arrived.

“But I’m going to try,” Henri added, purposely shaving the edge off his tone.

Luc had been in charge of St. Michel’s national security before he married Sophie Baldwin, the woman who was the newly crowned queen of St. Michel. Despite stepping into a head-of-state position, Luc still had his fingers on the pulse of the country’s security, and had happily helped out his brother when he’d been asked.

“I’m sure Colbert will be happy Margeaux’s home,” Luc said. “It sounds like he’s going to need some help once he gets out of the hospital.”

Henri blew out a breath.

A lot had changed, but a lot remained the same—such as the way his heart beat a faster cadence at the mention of her name.

Even so he reminded himself that Margeaux hadn’t come home for him.

That was a thought that was oddly more disappointing than helpful.

After finishing the call with Luc, Henri made his way to the Ferdinand Gallery where Sydney had said she’d be waiting for him. He glanced around, but she wasn’t there.

He contemplated telling her to behave herself—to quit flirting. However, knowing Sydney, that would only encourage her. Instead, he decided to leave well enough alone and focus on more pressing matters such as how to expedite the rest of the paintings through French customs. They’d been on loan to a museum in Brussels and the orders to have them shipped straight to St. Michel should’ve been clear, but the paintings had mistakenly been returned to Paris. Henri was beginning to think that it might have been faster to pick them up at the Musée d’Orsay and bring them to St. Michel himself rather than wait for a bunch of bureaucrats to unravel the unnecessary red tape binding the priceless works of art.

He walked over and straightened one of the Monets already in place—a landscape of a house and overgrown garden that reminded him of the Broussards’ home with the sprawling terrace and thick, wild orchard where he’d spent so much of his youth. His thoughts flew to Margeaux, and her father’s situation.

Colbert could’ve hired home healthcare, and he had friends and staff who would’ve ensured that he was cared for. The man wouldn’t have been left high and dry. Still, Henri was one-quarter surprised Margeaux had come home and three-quarters relieved. It was nice to know that she’d come when her father needed her.

Because he wasn’t so sure the woman he’d read about in the tabloids over the past sixteen years would have made the trip. That tabloid heiress, who’d been estranged from her family and friends for more than a decade and a half, hardly resembled the girl who’d once been his best friend and first lover.

“You’re a million miles away from that Monet, love,” whispered a soft feminine voice. It made him jump. When he turned to face Sydney, she flashed that broad, sexy smile that usually coaxed a return grin from him. Today, however, her charms weren’t working.

“I was just taking a mental inventory of all that we have left to do before the exhibit opens.”

Her gaze locked with his and her mouth turned down into a slight frown. Arching a brow that seemed to convey that she didn’t believe him, she said. “Oh, you mean all those things we discussed in the meeting? I took excellent notes. I’ll send you a copy, so you don’t have to worry.”

He’d always found her attractive, and most of the time he found her no-holds-barred approach appealing. But for some reason, today, it was off-putting, too much for the workplace. The closer she got, the more claustrophobic he felt. It was as if she were backing him into a corner. He fought the urge to step back, to put some space between them. Instead, he turned back to the painting and studied it.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Do we want to keep it here or should we move it across the way?”

He pointed toward the shorter wall on the other side of the room.

“So, you’re not going to tell me,” she said.

“Tell you what?” Henri asked.

“Who this person is who has shanghaied your thoughts?”

Henri crossed his arms.

“It’s a family matter. I don’t want to discuss it at work.”

Sydney’s green eyes darkened a shade, and she shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was simply concerned about you.”

She reached up to touch his hand, but he uncrossed his arms and shoved his fists into his trouser pockets, dodging the contact.

Sydney flinched. “Henri?”

He lowered his voice. “That’s not what we should do here.”

She blinked once. Twice.

“What I mean is we agreed to keep matters strictly platonic at work.”

“Yes, of course we did.” Suddenly all business, she was the one who took a step backward. Henri sensed the transformation immediately. “I’ll be in my office reviewing the PDF of the show catalogue.” With that, she turned and walked away. He was amazed at how fast her demeanor could change. One minute the flirt, the next the serious businesswoman.

Henri felt that old familiar inner riptide of uncertainty, which should’ve been reason enough to let her keep walking. Even if Sydney had been pushing the bounds of what was appropriate in the workplace, at least she knew when to rein it in.

Unlike Margeaux, who had created a reputation for herself as a socialite run amok. She seemed to take pleasure in embarrassing her father with her headline-grabbing antics. Even if she had been lying low for the past couple of years, her reputation preceded her. Fille sauvage, her father had called her for as far back as Henri could remember. As if living up to the label her father had slapped on her, Margeaux Broussard had, indeed, proven herself every bit the wild child.

Not the type of woman he needed to get involved with if the Crown Council was ever going to take him seriously.

“Sydney, wait.”

She stopped underneath the archway that led into the main gallery, but she didn’t turn around.

Henri knew he’d hurt her feelings. He hadn’t meant to. He was simply skittish about public displays of affection at work, even if it was simply the brush of a hand or an I-want-you pucker of lips. He expected no less of his other employees. He had to lead by example.

“Please let me know when you hear about the missing pieces for the catalogue,” she said, without looking back at him. “If we don’t get this to the printer by Wednesday, we won’t have the catalogue in time for the opening.”

He glanced around. They were the only ones in the gallery.

“If you’re free tonight, perhaps we could have some dinner and proof them…together. Two sets of eyes are always better than one.”

This time she turned around and faced him, that devilishly sexy left brow of hers rising, a question mark. She crossed her arms over her chest, creating a barrier between them.

“A business meeting?” she asked. “After hours?”

She wasn’t going to make this easy.

Still, he nodded.

“I suppose that might work,” she said. “But I have one stipulation. I want to go out—to Le Coeur Bleu in the Hotel de St. Michel.”

The Hotel de St. Michel. Where Margeaux was staying. No doubt she’d read his notes about the Hotel St. Michel. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.