Page 118 of Angel Eyes

Lucien?

The chandeliers flickered as someone dimmed the lights, and a hush fell over the room as a man in a houndstooth blazer came to stand at the center of the room. He was tall and appeared to be in his early sixties with thick salt-and-pepper hair. Beneath the wide bridge of his nose, his mouth stretched into a smile that struck me as oddly familiar.

My eyes cut to Gabriel, my gaze traveling over his features, features that had become so familiar I could see them with my eyes closed. At present, they were arranged in a deep scowl, but usually they were soft with pleasure, his mouth curved in a grin that looked just like—

I sucked in an audible breath, my knees going weak as all the pieces slotted into place.

My father owns a restaurant in Villefranche-sur-Mer.

He and my cousin still live there.

Lucien Alarie, although my intimates call me Cristian.

Go out with Gabriel. If things work out, you can bring him to my restaurant opening.

I’m not a good man, Juliet. Sooner or later, you’ll find out the truth about me.

It wasn’t her. It was my cousin, Lucien. As it turns out, they were having an affair.

Weeks of conversations came rushing back in rapid-fire succession, and I swayed, planting a hand on the table to keep myself upright. Breathing hard, I looked at Gabriel, who’d finally released Cristian. Or was it Lucien? Tears burned my eyes as my gaze shifted to him.

Oh, Cristian.

What on earth have you done?

“Good evening,” a deep voice boomed over a microphone, and my attention shot to the man at the center of the room. “I am Marcel Beaumont, and it is my great honor and pleasure to welcome you to the opening of Marcel’s in Paris.” There was a polite smattering of applause, though I could barely hear it over the rush of blood thundering in my ears. “When I first envisioned opening a restaurant thirty years ago, I never could have imagined it would grow into what it has become today. At Marcel’s, we seek to embody the core values of elegance, commitment and excellence. And in our quest to serve the finest cuisine, our ultimate goal has, and always will be, to cater to the people.”

Another round of applause.

“A thousand helping hands came together to bring Marcel’s to the great city of Paris,” he continued, “but I would like to give a special thanks to my nephew, Lucien, whose vision and hard work has made tonight possible. I would also like to thank my business manager, Elise Lemieux, whose oversight has kept things running smoothly these past several years, my late wife, whose memory serves as a constant source of encouragement and strength, and last but not least, my son, Gabriel, whose presence here tonight makes everything I have strived to achieve worthwhile. Please join me in raising a glass to family.”

A chorus of “à la famille” detonated around the room like landmines, followed by a cacophony of clinking glasses. When the lights rose again, my eyes sprang to Gabriel, but he didn’t return my gaze, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths.

I placed a tentative hand on his arm. “Gabriel?” He pulled away from me, and I flinched as he stared at me with cold, hard eyes. “Gabriel,” I breathed, placing a shaky palm on my chest, “it’s me, Juliet.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and a look of sharp pain flickered across his features as his gaze sliced to Cristian before returning to me.

His eyes, those beautiful eyes that lit up my entire world, were lifeless and empty.

“I hope …,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “I hope he was worth it.”

I let go of a stuttering exhale, my heart spiraling down into the base of my stomach as he turned and strode in the direction of the exit. My lips formed his name, but the sound got caught in my windpipe, and I took a step on trembling legs to follow him just as a hand caught my elbow.

“Juliet,” Cristian said, his voice cracked and broken. “Juliet, please—”

“No,” I screeched, pulling from his grasp and stumbling back against the table. “I trusted you, and you made a fool out of me.”

“Let me help you,” he said with pleading eyes.

“Don’t,” I cried, bordering on hysteria as I fumbled for my purse. “You’ve done enough.”

Without another word, I raced toward the exit, drawing more than a few glances as I weaved between the tables. In the hall, there was a line for the elevator, and I groaned, searching for the emergency exit. I found it beneath a glowing red sign that read Sortie, and I dashed for it, throwing open the door and hurrying down the stairwell.

One floor down, I stopped to take off my heels before shooting down the remaining stairs barefoot. By the time I reached the ground floor, I was sweating, but I couldn’t care less, so long as I found Gabriel.

Gabriel.

God, the way he had looked at me … just the memory of it was enough to make my chest cave in. I had to find him—had to figure out a way to explain all this.

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