Lucky Ce Soir Read online

  They all jumped. Hell, Jean-Charles’s imperious tone had me wanting to reach for a spatula. Instead, I followed him while the others held back. While food sizzled and steamed, they clustered together, staring at the man slouched in a chair someone had pulled into the center of the kitchen. Long, lean, all angles and anger, he pushed away a young man pressing a cloth to his head, pressing it to his head himself. When he lifted it slightly, I gasped at the long, red gash in his forehead. The man let loose a long stream of French I didn’t understand yet understood perfectly. His other hand drifted to the center of his chest where he pushed, then winced in discomfort—from the gash or his heart, it was hard to tell.

  I glanced at Jean-Charles, then again at the man in the chair. That apple hadn’t fallen far.

  Jean-Charles shifted Christophe to his hip as he knelt by his father’s chair. Christophe, his eyes glistening, patted his grandfather’s face. Children and their empathy.

  Why do we lose that as we grow?

  “The pain? Is it bad?” Jean-Charles asked his father in a whisper.

  Looking at his father, I could answer that one. The man was so pale his skin held a hint of blue. His cheeks hollowed below too-wide eyes. He panted as if running a race, perhaps against Death himself. My father, with a bullet in his chest and blood leaking out so fast, had been as close to death as one could get without stepping into the afterlife. Jean-Charles’s father was right there, toes curled over the edge of the abyss, his features donning a death mask as he sank into himself, his life force depleted. The man was way past “not well.”

  “Should I call the doctor?” Jean-Charles had seen the same as I had. Without waiting for permission, he nodded at his mother who eased away to summon help. “Did you take the nitroglycerin?”

  He pushed his son’s concerns aside. “It will go away.”

  With two fingers, Jean-Charles fished around in his father’s breast pocket extracting a small tin. With a thumb, he popped it open and extracted a tiny white pill. “Take this.”

  One of the kitchen staff appeared with a glass of red wine. “It is the Lafite.”

  Jean-Charles nodded his thanks as he took the glass, waving it under his father’s nose. As ammonia does for a fainter, the wine brought back the elder Bouclet, focusing him. “That’s the ’82,” he gasped, then sucked in more air. “One of the best vintages,” another gasp then pull-in of air, “a rare cult wine. We set aside a case for a special day. We wanted to toast your engagement,” a gasp, a wince, then a deep breath, “with something special.”

  “And that is very special.” Jean-Charles held the glass to his father’s lips. “Take a sip. See if it is aging well.” Christophe, his eyes wide with worry, clung to his father.

  A little nitro with your rare Bordeaux. Not a great pairing but a terrific bribe. One that worked as the old man did as his son insisted. Jean-Charles’s mother returned. Her slight nod let her son know she’d found the doctor. I assumed he was on his way since no one made any move to relocate the elder Bouclet.

  “How is it?” Jean-Charles asked after his father had taken a few sips, savoring each of them. A touch of color returned to his cheeks. He breathed easier now, easing the force with which he pressed on his chest. “It helps. The pain is lessening.”

  “The wine?” Jean-Charles asked as if that was what he’d meant. “How’s the wine?”

  A smile passed between them. His father bestowed a look of love. “Not as special as you, but it is very good.”

  “Papa? What has happened?” Jean-Charles used a soft, measured tone. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “The pain is almost gone.” His father waved his hand, a human flag of surrender. Jean-Charles had his father’s hands, long and narrow—artist’s hands that could concoct a variety of delights.

  Jean-Charles pushed his father’s hand away from the cloth he held to his head. “Permit me.” A demand framed as a question, one of his best things…and most irritating. He snuck a peek under the now-red cloth, then let loose a stream of low, guttural French.

  Madame Bouclet swooped in, snatching her grandson to her chest. “Jean-Charles!”

  Her offense was justified. If I were more of a lady, the bit I caught would have made me blush. One of the staff rushed to do his bidding, returning quickly with a first-aid kit. Jean-Charles set to work. His hard expression brooked no argument. His father sat motionless, as if carved from stone, his hands on his knees, his back erect, his face flushed with emotion. “The wine,” he gasped.

  His son brushed the comment aside. “Who did this?” He dabbed at the cut with cotton soaked in alcohol drawing a few epithets from his father, which he ignored. A quick glance around the kitchen. “Did you fight with someone? Who was here?”

  Most of the staff turned from his question—apparently, they knew what happens to the messenger.

  “Laurent.” The word sounded like an epithet.

  “Here? In our home? What did he want?”

  “The wine,” his father repeated.

  “He wanted the wine?” Jean-Charles closed the cut with two butterfly closures.

  “He had a crazy story. I didn’t listen. I didn’t let him finish,” his father managed, then convulsed into a fit of racking coughs that he caught with a white napkin pressed over his mouth. His skin turned an alarming shade of red. “Uninvited in our home,” he managed between coughs and gasps.

  Still a bit iffy on French protocol, I assumed from his inflection that was almost as grave a sin as disrespecting the women of the household, maybe more.

  “Easy, Papa. Slowly.” Jean-Charles helped his father take a few more sips of the Lafite between spasms.

  This stress, both physical and clearly emotional, only put more pressure on a bad heart.

  “Enzo did this to you?” A hint of incredulity subtexted the question.

  From Jean-Charles’s inflection, I took it Enzo Laurent might be scum, but he was no blackguard, and as an honorable man he wouldn’t ever do such a thing. Men came in all types and sometimes shifted from one to the other with the proper motivation. I guessed we all could. My mother often had me seriously considering homicide. I mean, the idea of three-squares, a cot, and no Mona was almost irresistible at times. But jail would probably be incompatible with my serious authority issues, so I’d restrained myself…so far.

  “No. A man. In the tunnels. I surprised him. He ran out through the kitchen. I couldn’t catch him. The swine ran right by Enzo. At my shout, he tried to stop him as well. His jaw may be broken for his efforts.”

  “What did the man in the tunnel look like?”

  “Young. Dark hair. I never saw his face. He and Enzo tussled, and then he was gone.”

  “Where is Enzo?”

  “I threw him out!” The elder Bouclet seemed offended at the question that, in its asking, suggested there was another course of action. “The wine,” he gasped as he grabbed his son’s lapel.

  “What about the wine?” Jean-Charles asked again, looking at his mother who bracketed his father on the other side. Holding his hand in one of hers while securing her grandson with the other, she eyed her son, her eyes dark with worry.

  Monsieur Bouclet sat up straighter, his face clearing as he stared at his son with a look of pain and disbelief. “The wine, it is gone.”

  This time it was Jean-Charles’s turn with the raised eyebrow trick. “What do you mean it is gone? The cellar is full. We even transported the entire winery library from the winery to show our guests. I checked it myself last evening.”

  The truth in his father’s stare could not be denied. “It’s all gone.”

  Chapter Two

  JEAN-CHARLES ROCKED back on his heels and sprang to his feet. As he passed by, he said, “Come.” It wasn’t an invitation. He snagged his son from his mother, then handed him to me.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” I whispered as the boy tucked in close, wrapping his legs around my waist and fisting a hand in my hair.

  “Mother, stay with Father,” he or
dered in a head-of-family tone.

  As I turned to follow Jean-Charles, his sister Desiree, the one I’d been waiting for, burst into the room, making an entrance more impressive than welcome. I was the only one who smiled. Jean-Charles ground to a stop, glaring at his sister. I narrowly avoided plowing into him. All this stopping and starting was making me goofy. Or maybe it was the fact that I barely dared to breathe in my very fitted sheath. Either way, not much oxygen filtered into my brain.

  “I thought this was a party, not a funeral.” Desiree, resplendent in her own sparkly sheath, her matching shoes dusted with dirt, stopped in front of her mother. She reflexively bussed the air near each cheek while she kept her eyes on her father.

  Her mother looked happy to see her but angry as well. “You’re late.”

  Self-consciously Desiree brushed down her dress and patted at her hair—a female reflex that connected us even though a vast culture separated us. Even the French had taught their daughters that, if the exterior is found pleasing, then you have a chance of being found pleasing as well.

  She needn’t have bothered. Any daughter could read her mother’s look—her displeasure lurking under the smile.

  A man, Jean-Charles had said. The last one in Desiree’s life was dead. Could there be another so soon? She was stunning, no question. With that tiny yet lush figure, tousled curls, inviting mouth and a hint of haughty, she was the kind of package men wouldn’t be able to resist trying to unwrap…even though they knew they should. If recent history was any indication, she liked the bad boys. Another bit of personal synchronicity—this one I was even less comfortable with.

  Desiree brushed aside her family’s disapproval, but worry doused her hint of jaunty. “What is going on? Why is everyone in here?” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “You do know we have a roomful of guests, oui?”

  Everyone used English in my honor for which I was profoundly grateful. Being a fish out of water, I was glad they didn’t leave me at sea as well.

  Her light brown hair that matched her brother’s was piled high on her head with a few tendrils tickling her cheeks adding softness but unable to hide her concern. “Papa?”

  “Tend to him. The doctor is on his way.” Jean-Charles dismissed his sister with an order. “He always brightens when he sees you.” Spoken like a true older brother.

  Jean-Charles lifted his chin in my direction then turned and disappeared down the hallway. I hurried to keep up. “Where are we going?”

  “Shhh.”

  I hated being shushed. Halfway back to the party, he paused in front of a heavy wooden door on his right. “My father’s study.” Ushering us inside, he secured the door behind us. A button in the top right-hand drawer of the massive desk released one of the beautiful burled wall panels on the side wall to swing open a few inches. A hushed rush of air ruffled my hair and raised goosebumps. “What is this?”

  Jean-Charles pushed the door open wider. “The wine cellar.”

  For some reason, I was thrilled he didn’t say the dungeon. “Must be some kind of special wine down here.”

  “Indeed. The wine cellar is very private. A secret of only our family. The wine is very precious. Be careful here. The steps are steep.” Leaving me feeling like I’d just stepped back in time—way back in time—he bounded down the stone steps.

  My eyes needed time to adjust from the glare of the kitchen, so I took the steps slowly, balancing Christophe, who held tight. His hand fisted in my hair tugged, but I ignored it as I concentrated on placing my feet on the narrow stairs. With one hand holding him and the other hiking my skirt to keep it from tangling with my feet, I worked my way step by step. Almost down, I tripped. Reaching out, I caught the railing. But the momentum, with Christophe’s weight added to mine, was too much. My hand slipped.

  Christophe jerked my hair as he held tight. I bit down on a yelp, sucking air and holding it.

  Jean-Charles bolted up the stairs, catching me around the waist. His other hand found the railing. He held tight, using his body to block my fall. “Steady.”

  I think all three of us held our breath until conscious thought registered the danger had passed.

  I felt the press of someone behind me. Perhaps I heard a gasp, but something made me realize Desiree and her mother must have followed.

  Jean-Charles backed down a step but still held me. “You okay?” I nodded. He held out his arms for his son, but Christophe held tight to me. He wrapped both arms around my neck. His breath was warm on my cheek when he said, “It’s okay. I have you.”

  Jean-Charles caught my eye as he helped me down the last couple of steps. We both smiled, and the tension eased. Later, the could-have-beens would haunt me. Tripping and hurting myself was one thing…

  As my foot found the sandy floor, he let go of my waist and extended a hand. I took it, and he led me down a narrow stone tunnel. Sconces dotted the wall providing enough light to navigate, though Jean-Charles seemed to know exactly where he was going.

  “Who is Enzo Laurent?”

  “Our sworn enemy.”

  I almost laughed. “You mean like dueling pistols, twenty paces, dawn, all of that stupidity?”

  He threw an irritated look over his shoulder. “Same emotion, but the battles today are fought differently.”

  “Swords? Sabers?” I hurried to keep up as he increased his pace. “Oh wait, fake news, Russian interference, reputation assassination, hours of forced listening to techno-pop to see who screams in pain first, Pez dispensers, swizzle sticks, arm wrestling.”

  “Lucky, stop. You are making this worse. We are gentlemen.” The hint of a laugh undercut the indignation. “Swizzle what? I do not know this.”

  “The plastic things you stick in drinks to stir them.”

  “An odd weapon.”

  “An odd battle. You may be gentlemen, but you need to grow up.” Here I was offering advice, and I had no idea what the fight was about.

  “Your words will not change history. We fight. It is what we do. By any means appropriate. There is a code, defined rules—boundaries, if you will. The wounds go deep, but you’ve made your point.”

  I was running short of sarcasm. Rather horrifying, to be honest. Without the shield of a clever quip, I’d have to pretend to be a grown-up. “How quaint. The Rules of Engagement and the Geneva Convention are curious bits of arcana, so gutted they’ve been left as beyond resuscitation on the battlefield of life.”

  I let him have his little bit of fantasy. Nobody played fair these days, and he was a fool to think this Enzo Laurent would be the exception. “What is this place? Where are we going?” The air was dank and cold and smelled of centuries long past.

  “A series of tunnels built centuries ago.” He dropped my hand and grabbed one of the torches from the wall.

  “Seems more like a dungeon.” Ancient screams whispered from the shadows, raising goosebumps.

  “Your imagination is racing with you.”

  “Running away,” I corrected reflexively. My toe connected with something hard. A bone? I shivered still under the spell of my imaginings.

  The rustle of the people who followed mingled with imagined sounds of wraiths whispering past.

  “What?” he asked, his question gutted by distraction.

  “My imagination is running away with me.”

  “This is what I said.”

  “Lost in the translation.” I shook off the ghosts. “I still think this place was a dungeon.”

  “Feel the air? It is a perfect wine cellar.” His words filtered back to me on the coolness as he rounded a corner and disappeared.

  So, it was a dungeon.

  I stepped up my pace and followed him. The narrow tunnel opened into a slightly larger room. Racks upon racks lined the stone walls.

  All of them empty.

  Jean-Charles stood like stone. I recognized his look. Thinly veiled homicide.

  The thieves had left one bottle which must’ve fallen and lay forgotten and half-covered in the loose dirt on
the floor. Jean-Charles bent and picked it up. A tic worked in his cheek as he brushed the dirt from the label. I shifted Christophe to my back, securing him by hooking my arms under his thighs. “How much was here?”

  He held the bottle for me to see. “It’s not how much was here, but what was here.”

  Even though I recognized the label, I bent down to catch the year, then gave a low whistle. “Chateaux d’Yquem 1996. Pricy stuff.”

  He handed the bottle to his mother. Desiree peeked over her shoulder. When he turned back to me, his face was calmer, but the hardness remained in his eyes. He turned up the gas to the lit sconce and the flame jumped, flickering light into the shadows. “The Chateau d’Yquem was one of the lesser bottles. We had one of the Chateau Margeaux Thomas Jefferson bottles. A Chateaux Lafitte 1869. My father purchased one bottle from a gentleman who had bought a triplet for over six hundred thousand U.S. dollars. Then there was our vineyard library collection—one bottle from each vintage ever produced.” He shrugged. “It is priceless and irreplaceable. This collection, our bottles and the others, was my father’s work of a lifetime.” He turned slowly in a circle. “And now it is gone.” He leveled a gaze at me. “This could kill him.”

  I had nothing to say, so I squeezed his arm then stepped aside, leaving him to wrestle with his emotions. Madame Bouclet seemed to wilt as she watched from the doorway. “The wine! All the wine!” She twisted her pearls like a tourniquet—they’d either break or she’d faint dead away.

  “Stay there, please,” I said as I focused on the small space, taking in as many details as I could. “Jean-Charles, don’t disturb any footprints.” Christophe breathed in my ear but kept quiet. I pulled at his arms, loosening them. “Not quite so tight, okay? I won’t drop you.”

  “I know. You keep me safe.” His shiver echoed through me.

  Misplaced confidence, but I didn’t argue, preferring instead to try to live up to his opinion.

  Jean-Charles shot me a glare, but he did as I asked, carefully placing his feet as he moved along the shelving. I worked my way around the other side looking for anything that would give a hint as to who and how. “I take it the only exit would be back the way we came?”