Page 19 of A Caribbean Heiress in Paris
The French had accomplished something truly astonishing. They had claimed the Exposition Universelle would be a gathering of cultures and nations like the world had never seen, and they had delivered on that promise. In the two weeks since he’d arrived Evan had experienced a very different city than the one he’d visited many times before. Paris had always had a life and rhythm of its own. But now with millions of people descending here at once from what seemed to be every corner of the world, the place was incandescent.
“There it is.” Raghav pointed to the small building just beyond the base of the tower that housed the pavilion for the Dominican Republic. “We can’t stay for long. Dairoku is expecting us in an hour.”
Evan nodded, taking in the structure, which was about a fifth of the size of the one they’d built for the British exhibit. It was made in a neocolonial style, with beautiful wood carvings along a wraparound porch, painted in white with moldings a cheerful sky blue. Large windows framed each side of the door. Evan noticed they did not have glass, which allowed some of the aromas to waft outside. Even from where he stood, still a few yards from the entrance, he could smell the vanilla, tobacco and timber being displayed.
“This business should not take long.” As he strode in purposefully behind Raghav, it occurred to him that he’d thought the same thing the night before, and that had not gone at all as planned. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darker room, which meant he heard her before his eyes could find her. The moment they did, he understood that his earlier assurances to Raghav and to himself were not as nearly as steadfast as he’d believed.
“Sir, I have already informed you, I am the distiller.”
The mere sound of her voice primed Evan like a soldier poised for battle. His body knew the reaction for what it was. Lust. Attraction. Nothing surprising there either. She was lovely. Full red lips, and those strong cheekbones with their smattering of freckles. Her figure that even with the sober clothing she wore today could not hide the curves and lushness of her. There was quite a lot to appreciate in Luz Alana Heith-Benzan, and his body responded to it. But it wasn’t the lust that troubled him; that he could handle well enough. The danger was the itch right under his skin to be the man who protected her from whatever and whoever had caused that strain in the words she’d just uttered. The peril was in the possessiveness slithering up his back and spreading into his limbs like manacles.
Thatwas much more treacherous territory.
“It’s Bridgewood,” Raghav said with distaste. Evan took a closer look and indeed saw the very unsavory character who happened to operate a dozen luxury hotels across Europe. He was a nuisance and a desperate sycophant to anyone who he perceived as an advantageous acquaintance. Heirs to dukedoms fit into that category.
“I find it hard to believe that any self-respecting spirit maker has sent a woman as their representative. Are they not interested in finding buyers?” Bridgewood’s voice became more insolent with every syllable, while Luz Alana’s countenance remained the very image of placidity. It was as if the more irate the man got the more she fought to appear oblivious to it. But Evan was looking very closely, and he saw that Bridgewood’s badgering was getting to her. Nothing glaringly obvious, just a slight wobble in her chin, a sharp intake of breath. She was fighting to not let the man see her fall apart.
Emotion came upon him swiftly, and a noise very much akin to a warning growl escaped him. The sound made her look up. For a moment her pained composure was replaced by surprise and then—just for a second—something that looked like genuine pleasure. Her full lips tipped up, brown eyes brightening as their gazes locked, then she looked away. Another man would recoil at the slight, but it only made her that much more appealing to Evan. With a woman like this, he’d have to earn every smile, every soft word. Nothing would ever be granted easily, making every inch of ground gained all the more gratifying.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she sighed as the man in front of her prattled on.
“Mister?”Raghav asked in a whisper, the word awash in delighted curiosity.
“There wasn’t time to cover my courtesy title last night.” His answer elicited a low and devilish laugh from Raghav.
“All right, I trust you know what you’re doing.” He sounded like he didn’t believe that in the slightest. “I will go greet Antonio while you continue to misrepresent yourself.”
Evan rolled his eyes but let Raghav go without argument, because the truth was that he almost wished he could keep his title a secret awhile longer. His position in the peerage cast a long shadow, corroding every relationship in his life. To Luz Alana he was just a fellow distiller. He wasn’t ready to shatter that notion.
“Whether the rum is good isn’t relevant. I do not do business with women,” Bridgewood declared as Evan reached the table.
“Sir, I assure you the rum will taste just as delicious when sold by a woman,” she appealed to the insufferable man in that unflagging, friendly tone. He could see from the lines around her mouth the enormous restraint it took to not tell the man to go to hell. He loathed seeing her be put through this.
“She’s right, Bridgewood,” he said as he clapped the man on the shoulder, prompting him to pull back from the table and turn away from Luz Alana. “The rum is excellent...the best I’ve tasted,” he added, holding her gaze for a second longer than what was appropriate.
“Darnick, I would’ve thought you only drank whisky,” the man said with forced politeness, and Evan could feel Luz Alana’s gaze boring into him.
“I like to learn about the competition,” Evan said, and winked at Luz Alana, who was looking at him suspiciously.
“Darnick?I thought your surname was Sinclair,” she asked, her expression doggedly neutral.
“Darnick is a...family name,” he explained vaguely, while Bridgewood sent him a speaking glance. Evan locked eyes with the man, daring him to say a word. “What do you say, Bridgewood? Are you going to secure the best rum at the exposition for your hotels? I met with César Ritz’s barman this morning and told him he couldn’t leave Paris without some Caña Brava to serve at the Savoy.” The Swiss hotelier had just taken the helm of the iconic London hotel, and everyone in the city was keeping an eye on every move he made. “You’re not going to let the Swiss outshine you in your own city?” Evan had to suppress a smile at the man’s affronted expression. He’d known Bridgewood had a fragile enough ego to fall for this kind of juvenile taunt.
“I will take a dozen cases. Have them sent to this direction,” Bridgewood declared at length, handing Luz Alana a business card.
The rum heiress sent Evan a bewildered look. “Yes, of course.” Her voice was laced with just a touch of breathlessness that Evan found distractingly enticing. “Though, I could offer you a better price if you buy it by the cask. A cask is about two hundred liters.” When she saw Bridgewood hesitate she spoke up again, this time not bothering to disguise her excitement. “The casks are a special reserve, for sale only at the exposition,” she added, eliciting an interested look from the hotelier. The man flushed, clearly displeased with a woman daring to push him, but too intrigued to turn her down.
She was born for this. A true lioness.
Bridgewood turned to Evan seeking approval. He had the unattractive habit of painstakingly mimicking the upper classes in dress, speech, even in what he drank. To his credit, he’d at least built a career out of it. Evan nodded, granting the man the permission he seemed to require before making the purchase.
“Oh, all right,” Bridgewood huffed, as if it was his own money he was spending and not the fortune of his employers. “To be delivered by tomorrow. I leave for London in three days’ time and want all the inventory on the train with me. Payment will be made on delivery.” He gave Evan a clipped nod and headed out of the pavilion without so much as a glance in Luz Alana’s direction. Evan watched with disdain as the man left, then he turned back to Luz Alana.
“Mr. Sinclair, three times in two days. I may be forced to reach the conclusion that your only occupation in Paris is turning up wherever I am.” Those lips were as luscious and tempting this morning as they’d been last night. And that smart mouth was frankly intoxicating.
“This is the thanks I get for making a sale for you.” He was provoking her, and was rewarded with a delicious little growl.
“My rum sold itself,” she retorted with absolute certainty in her voice. She believed in her rum, and the Bridgewoods of the world could never change that.
