Queen of Babble (33 page)

Only with his swollen lip and accent, the words come out sounding more like,Oi’d loik to see how you’d weact if someone sucker-punched you in the mouf .

“Chaz,” I ask worriedly, ignoring their squabbling, “where’s Luke?”

“I don’t know,” Chaz says. He was the one who’d jumped in and broken up the fight. Well, not that there’d been much of one. It had been more like a one-man assassination attempt. Luke had landed his punch, then backed off, waving his hand, apparently having injured it on Andy’s teeth.

Which Andy is now complaining feel loose.

Chaz, who’d come over to congratulate Shari for so thoroughly embarrassing herself onstage, was able to keep Andy from returning Luke’s punch merely by placing a hand on his shoulder. Andy is much more of a lover than a fighter, it turns out.

Though he doesn’t seem to know it.

“It was a completely unprovoked attack!” Andy insists. “I wasn’t doinganything to Liz! I was just talking to her!”

“Lizzie,” Shari corrects him, in a bored voice, from where she’s leaning against the kitchen sink, trying to keep out of the way of the caterers, who are streaming in and out of the kitchen with the first course—salmon—and glaring angrily at us as the chef tries to make progress at the stove with the second course—foie gras. “Her name’s Lizzie. Not Liz.”

“Whatever,” Andy says into the dish towel. “When I find that bastard, I’m going to show him a thing or two.”

“You’re not going to be showing anybody anything,” Chaz says to Andy in a firm voice. “Because you’re leaving. There’s a three o’clock train back to Paris, and I’m going to make sure you’re on it. You, my friend, have caused quite enough trouble for one day.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Andy cries. “It was that French git!”

“He’s not French,” Shari says, still bored, as she examines her cuticles.

“Lizzie,” Andy says from behind the dish towel, “listen. I’m sorry to bring it up. And now may not be the greatest time, but I was wondering about the money.”

I blink at him.

“Money?”

“Right. The money you said you’d loan me for my matriculation fees? Because I really do need it, Liz.”

“Oh no!” Shari bursts out. “Oh no, he did not just—”

“Shari,” I say to her sharply, “I can handle this.”

Because I can.

And, okay, it’s not like I ever really thought he came all this way to patch things up with me because he loves me.

But it honestly never occurred to me that he did it because of the money.

“Andy,” I say, “you came all this way to ask if I’d still lend you five hundred dollars?”

“Actually,” Andy points out, his words muffled by the dish towel, “you said you’d give it to me. But a loan’s all right, too. I feel terrible about asking, but in a way, you do sort of owe me the money. I mean, I did open up my home to you, and there was the gas money, you know, Dad spent picking you up from the airport, and—”

“Can I hit him now?” Chaz wants to know. “Please,Lizzie?”

“No, you can’t,” I say to Chaz.

Although it must be obvious from my stunned expression that I’m not about to pony up the money, since Andy’s hangdog expression has completely disappeared. In fact, his eyes have squeezed shut above the dish towel.

Shari gasps.

“Oh my God,” she says. “Andy, are youcrying ?”

It’s clear when he speaks that he is.

“Are you telling me,” he says, weeping, “that I hitched all the way here and you’re not going to give me the money after all?”

I’m shocked. Crying? He’s crying?

Luke must have hit him harder than any of us thought.

“You said on the phone that you couldn’t talk about it!” Andy sobs. “That’s all! You never said—”

“Andy.” I shake my head. Can this really be happening? “I mean, Andy, we broke up. What did you think was going to happen?”

“You don’t understand,” Andy cries. “If I don’t pay these blokes the money I owe them, they’re…they’re going to break my legs.”

I exchange confused looks with Shari and Chaz. “The bursar’s office is going to break your legs if you don’t pay your matriculation fees?”

“No.” Andy takes a shuddering breath from behind the dish towel. “I…I wasn’t quite truthful about that bit. It’s the blokes that run the poker ring that I owe the money to, actually. They’re…well, they’re quite serious about getting it back. I can’t go to Mum and Dad for it—they’ll throw me out. And my mates are all tapped out as well. Really, Lizzie…you were my last hope.”

I stare at him as his words sink in. Then I glance at Chaz and Shari, to see that both of them are looking at me, Chaz with a little grin on his face, Shari with a glower that clearly says,Don’t you back down.

Don’t you do it, Nichols. Not this time.

I turn back to Andy and say, “Oh, Andy. I’m so sorry!” I reach up and give him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. I can’t believe I once loved that shoulder.

And I can’t believe he really thinks I’m such a sap I’ll actually give him a dime. Who does he think I am, anyway? Some kind of pushover?

“At least,” I say, “have some wedding cake before you go. Good-bye.”

Then I slip out the back door, where Patapouf and Minouche are waiting, eager for scraps dropped by the caterers. Behind me, I hear Chaz saying in a hearty voice, “Andy, my boy. I’m open-minded, man.

And I happen to be loaded. So let’s talk business. What’ve you got in the way of collateral? Is that jacket you’ve got there worth anything, by any chance?”

Agnès is outside, leaning against the butter-yellow Mercedes. She perks up when she sees me, eager for more gossip. I realize Luke’s fight with Andy is the most exciting thing that’s happened at Mirac in a long time. She’s going to have a lot to tell her girlfriends when school starts again in the fall.

“Does the Englishman need to go to hospital?” she asks me brightly. “Because I can call my father, and he can come to take your friend to hospital.”

“He’s not my friend,” I say. “And he doesn’t need to go to hospital. I mean, to the hospital. Chaz is going to take him to the train station, and that will be the last we’ll see of him.”

Agnès looks disappointed. “Oh,” she says, “I was hoping for more of the fighting.”

“I think there’s been enough fighting for one day,” I say. “Speaking of which, did you see where Luke went after the fight?”

Agnès brightens again. “Oh yes! I see him go to the vineyard. I think he is in the cask room.”

“Thanks, Agnès,” I say, and start around the side of the house, to the lawn.

The wedding reception is in full swing and going well now that Satan’s Shadow has gotten the hang of playing covers. One of Vicky’s sorority sisters is onstage, shrieking lines from Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know.” Not exactly wedding fare, but everyone appears far too drunk to notice. Most of them, thanks to the mimosas, had been too drunk even to realize there’d been a fight. Only a few people who happened to be standing nearby noticed, and Chaz’s quick intervention had put a damper on any hopes for a continuation of the dramatic scene, and so they had all turned their attention back to what was happening onstage.

Still, even though no one seems aware of the fight, they all seem to know who I am. Well, I guess that’s what happens when you make a complete and utter ass of yourself onstage in front of two hundred total strangers. They all feel like you’re their best friend.

Or maybe it’s just that word of my prowess with cream of tartar has spread. Because every woman there seems to have some question for me about an antique wedding dress—how they can get out a stain or insert a gusset; how they can update it without damaging the fine material; even how they can find a vintage wedding gown of their own.

I wrestle with these as best I can and finally manage to cross the lawn and reach the cask room—a thick-walled, cavernous structure, as centuries-old as the house itself—and pull open the heavy oak and iron door.

Inside, it’s still as a mausoleum—although unlike in a mausoleum, golden light filters in through mullion-paned windows high up along the walls. You can’t hear the sound of the band outside—which you can probably hear clear across the valley—or the chatter of the wedding guests. The walls are lined with waist-high oak wine casks, the contents of many of which Luke’s father had insisted I try during my tour two days before. The glasses we—and then all the wedding guests Monsieur de Villiers had brought through for subsequent tours—used are piled up beside a stone sink at the far end of the room.

The stone sink at which Luke is running water over his hand.

He doesn’t hear me come in. Or, at least, if he did, he doesn’t react. He is standing with his back to me, his dark head ducked, letting the water run over his hand. He must, I realize, have really hurt himself on Andy’s teeth.

Which is when I forget that my heart is in my throat at the prospect of talking to him after all the nasty things I accused him of last night, and hurry forward.

“Let me see,” I say when I reach his side.

He jumps.

“Jesus,” he says, looking down at me in surprise. “Sneak up on a guy, why don’t you?”

I pull his hand from the stream of water gurgling out of the old-fashioned faucet. His knuckle, I see, is red and swollen. But the skin’s not broken.

“You’re lucky,” I say, looking down at his hand. “He says his teeth are loose. You could have cut yourself on them.”

“I know,” Luke says, reaching out with his left hand to turn off the water. “I should have known better than to aim for the mouth. I should have gone for his nose.”

“You shouldn’t have ‘gone for’ anything,” I say. I let go of his hand. “I had the situation totally under control, you know.”

Luke doesn’t even try to argue. He dries his hand on a nearby dish towel.

“I know,” he says sheepishly. “I don’t know what came over me. I just couldn’t believe he’d have the nerve to show up here. Unless…”

I stare at him. I can’t help noticing how thick and dark his hair looks in the bright shafts of sunlight coming down from the windows so close to the ceiling.

“Unless what?”

“Unless youasked him to come here,” Luke says, not meeting my gaze.

“What?”I have to start laughing at that one. “Are you serious? Do you honestly think—”

“Well,” Luke says. He lays the dish towel aside. “I didn’t know.”

“I thought I made myself pretty clear on the train,” I say. “Andy and I broke up. He only came after me because he thought I could bail him out of a financial situation he got himself into.”

“And…did you?” Luke asks. His dark-eyed gaze is steady on my face.

“No,” I say. “Although Chaz seems to be working on it.”

“That sounds like Chaz,” Luke says with a grin.

I have to look away, flustered by how handsome the grin makes him.

Then I remember that there’s something I’m supposed to be saying to him, so, feeling incredibly shy, I say it, fast. To my French pedicure.

“Luke. I’m sorry about what I said last night. I should have known you didn’t tell her,” I say. “Shari, I mean. About my thesis. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Luke doesn’t say anything. I look up, just once, to see if he’s heard me.

He is looking down at me with the most inscrutable expression I have ever seen—halfway between a smile and a frown. Does he hate me? Or can he possibly, in spite of my big, fat, stupid mouth—in spite of
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everything—like me?

With my heart hammering so hard I’m sure he must be able to see it through the silk of my dress, I look down again and say, keeping my gaze on his feet now, instead of my own—then regretting it when I notice the wingtips again—WINGTIPS! So hot! “And the thing with telling your mom about you getting into NYU. And about Dominique’s plans for the château. I mean, I was really only trying to suggest alternatives to turning this place into a spa. Like maybe renting it out to wealthy families who just want a nice château to vacation in for a month, or maybe for a reunion, or whatever. Honestly, I was only trying to help—”

“Well, actually, I’ve managed to get along without your help pretty well for the past twenty-five years,”

Luke says.

Ouch!

Stung, I can’t help looking up and saying, “And that’s why you’re so happy with your career and your life and your girlfriend? And why Vicky looked so great in her dress and your parents seem to be getting back together and everyone out there is having…such a…fun time…”

My voice trails off as I realize he’s smiling down at me.

“Joke,” he says. “That was a joke. I told you I’m no good at them.”

That’s when he reaches out, pulls me toward him, and starts kissing me.

I’m in complete and utter shock. I can’t understand what’s happening. I mean, Ican …but it makes no sense. Luke de Villiers is kissing me. Luke de Villiers’s arms are going around me, holding me so tightly to him I can feel his heart slamming as hard against his ribs as mine is slamming against mine. Luke de Villiers’s lips are raining thousands of tiny featherlight kisses on my lips.

And now my lips are falling open, surrendering to the onslaught of his. And he’s kissing me hard and long and sweet, and I’m clinging to him because my knees have given out entirely and his arms are the only thing holding me up. And his tongue is in my mouth, like he can’t taste me enough, and I can feel something hard pressing against me through the fabric of his trousers. And his hand, the hand he hit Andy with, is cupping my breast through the silk of my mandarin dress, and I want him to cup more of me, and I make a sound…

“Christ, Lizzie,” he says in a voice that doesn’t sound anything like the way it usually does.

And the next thing I know, he’s lifting me up and putting me down again on top of the closest wine cask, and somehow my legs have fallen open and he’s standing between them. The front of my dress is open, too. I don’t even know how he did that because those snaps are supposed to be hidden. And I can feel his fingers—and the hot sunlight streaming in through the high windows—on my bare breasts.

And I can’t stop kissing him, or running my fingers through his thick dark hair when his mouth starts traveling down my throat, then dips below to scorch the skin on my breasts. All the places where the sun is touching me, his lips are touching me, too.