Captivated by Her Parisian Billionaire
Author
Andrea Bolter
Reads
19.9K
Chapters
9
CHAPTER ONE
THE EIFFEL TOWER. It had been a long time since Jules had woken up to the sight of one of the world’s most famous landmarks. When his eyes clicked open after the heavy slumber he hoped would cancel out his jet lag, he’d used the remote control on the nightstand to raise the blackout blinds and let in the light of the Paris morning. There the tower stood in view through his window, in all its wrought iron lattice glory.
Jules’s apartment was an example of the many Durand Properties, his billion-euro real-estate empire, he owned in the city with their mixture of historic architecture and every modern convenience. High ceilings, crown moldings and original chevron wood floors reminded him that this apartment in the Seventh Arrondissement, as Paris’s districts were referred to, was over a hundred years old.
His eyes fell shut again. While there was no question that his hometown was one of the most magnificent cities in the world, he was uneasy returning to Paris. Traveling across the globe, buying more and more properties everywhere he went had become his way of life. The last sleep he’d had on land was on the fifty-seventh floor of an ultra-luxury hotel in Singapore. Always on the move, Jules liked living in hotels, anonymous and temporary.
After rubbing his eyelids with the heels of his hands, he reopened them. There was the window again with its spectacular view. The tower, watching over the city as it always did. Yep, he really was back in Paris.
Mindlessly scratching his bare chest, he knew he should get out of bed. Tomorrow, he’d resume his habit of starting the day with an outdoor run. Today, he’d acclimate. A busy morning lay ahead with reestablishing himself at the Durand Properties headquarters and completing the job he’d returned to France to do. It was time to take the reins from his irresponsible mother and father, who had been on their own globe-trot for far too long. Although parenting his parents was hardly how he’d envisioned this chapter of his life, blood was blood and he’d do anything he had to.
As if reading his mind, the buzz of Jules’s phone beckoned and one glance at the screen’s caller identification let him know it was his mother. He swiped to answer.
“Where in the world is my tall handsome son?” Agathe Durand’s singsong led him to believe she was calling from a different time zone, as she was never chipper in the mornings. Her voice was high with that continental-traveler tone she used to fool people, to disguise the fact that she was perpetually discontent with her life.
“My apartment, Mother. You’re not in Paris?”
“Tel Aviv.”
“Tel Aviv. Dandy.” Spending Jules’s money, of course. “Dare I ask, is Father okay?”
“Yes, your exasperating pater is fine, although keeping me from properly enjoying Tel Aviv. The man wants to sit in cafés eating falafel all day instead of being out and taking in the sights.”
There she goes again, Jules thought. Blaming his father for her own unhappiness. As she did the entirety of Jules’s childhood. At their age, Jules hoped their domestic dramas were behind them, especially now that Hugo was confined to a wheelchair after a fall had broken his back. Yet, with his parents, there was no telling. The unpredictability of which drove ordered-and-organized Jules crazy.
“Never mind touring Tel Aviv. You’re supposed to be in Paris. That’s why I’m here.” Arranging to meet them in the same place was often a challenge and Jules had sat waiting in many a foreign train station or airport, eventually receiving the call that they’d missed their departure.
While his parents continued their decade-long knack of finding an antique piece of jewelry to buy and then sell at a high markup, or one of them getting work in some corner of the world at a tavern or on a farm, Jules had been largely footing their bills. Hugo’s physical condition now prohibited him from any hard labor. Agathe’s bon vivant facade was not what it used to be and she was no longer able to charm her way into dinner or a night’s lodgings.
As their only child, Jules felt a responsibility to them despite the dysfunction he’d grown up in. Money was something he had plenty of to give. So while peace and satisfaction were apparently out of the question for his parents, at least he could make sure they didn’t disappear somewhere into the abyss. Now their wanderings had become impractical and dangerous. He needed to ground them.
In short, the gig was up for these nomads Jules called parents. It was time they stayed in one place. Paris, where they’d raised Jules in a shoddy apartment on the outskirts of town, long lost to creditors, was where they were born and where they would die.
“Oh, Jules, we’ll be there eventually.”
A wince reminded him of similar phone calls from years gone by. Only it wasn’t both of his parents calling during any hour of the day or night far from home. It was his mother who, at least a dozen times during Jules’s childhood, would become bored or angry with her housewifely doldrums. So she’d pack a suitcase and disappear, abandoning Jules and his father. With theatrical vows that she needed to see the world and would never return, she’d only get as far as visiting relatives in other parts of France for a few days. Inevitably, she’d regain her senses or outstay her welcome, not having the wherewithal to get any farther. She’d return to her husband and son with promises that she’d never leave them again. Until she did.
In later years, she began dragging Hugo along with her, which gave her the courage to venture greater distances. A bitter and cold man who was never able to maintain steady employment, it made no difference to him where he laid his head at night.
But this move would be final. Once Jules got his parents back to Paris and into one of his apartments where they’d have a safe roof over their heads, he’d base himself here again and look after what their aging health would demand. As laughable as it was to use the term for people his parents’ age, it was time for Agathe and Hugo to grow up. In the process, Jules would call Paris home again as well, which he had been resisting but knew was overdue.
“If you had seen the way your mother behaved with our taxi driver last night, you’d be as horrified as I was,” the voice of Jules’s father came through the speaker. Obviously, Hugo had gained custody of the phone in Tel Aviv and was reporting to Jules lest his wife consider herself blameless for their latest row. “She absolutely threw herself at him. The young man was gracious, of course, but even he was embarrassed.”
“You’re just jealous,” Agathe called into the speaker. Why Jules’s parents had to fight during a call to him was anyone’s guess. There was plenty of other time left in the day for them to badger at each other and then let things subside like they always did, neither of them having the gumption to actually end their marriage. They were becoming more childish every time he spoke with them.
“While I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than listen to the two of you argue over the phone, I need to finish the apartment I have for you and run my business. You were supposed to meet me in Paris to make some decisions about the renovation. I’ll put you in one of my hotels while we finish the work. Get here.” He ended the call, annoyed. Hopefully, he was making the right decision in forcing them back. He couldn’t think of another solution.
After showering and donning his uniform of a Savile Row business suit, he found his daily breakfast of a green vegetable smoothie in the refrigerator, which he had instructed the housekeeper to prepare. He readied himself for his workday in what was to become his new routine. Durand Properties occupied an enormous building in Montparnasse. It had been months since he’d set foot in his actual office, the staff spending more time with him on telescreens than in person.
Jules maintained a crack management team to collaborate with him on operations, leaving him free to do what he did best. Seek out real estate to purchase and rehabilitate, resell or lease. He was good at his job, he reasoned, as he’d amassed over two hundred properties on four continents.
He stood at his bedroom window and peered down at the street traffic while he sipped his green drink. People hurried this way and that, many headed to the metro stations where they’d travel underground to their daily destinations.
His eyes fixed on a young couple. The woman had a short haircut and wore a striped dress, gesturing wildly with her hands as they walked. Jules couldn’t hear her from his second-floor apartment, but from her facial expressions she seemed to be shouting at her companion. The man, bearded and in jeans, listened silently. At one point, he deftly kissed her on the cheek without causing either of them to lose their stride. From arguing to kissing, their familiarity with each other made Jules guess they were a couple that had been together for a long time. Did interactions with women always have to include commotion?
“Yes, Karim.” He turned from the window and paced the wooden floor as he took a call from his personal assistant at the office, who Jules spoke with several times a day regardless of his own whereabouts.
“Jules, I’ve checked with Lanon in Project Development about acquiring an interior designer to do the apartment for your parents. She tells me that all of our designers are swamped and if we pull anyone away from their current project, we won’t make our completion dates.”
“I see.” Jules contemplated his assistant’s report. A few years ago, he had bought a large building in the Second Arrondissement with apartments that would be a good fit for his parents because he was able do the structural changes needed for wheelchair access. Which was not always possible in the stately old buildings of Paris. Plus, it was in a lively neighborhood with plenty of shops and public spaces nearby. His tenant there had moved out, although later than he had expected. So the unit still needed paint, furnishings and decor, and some further accommodations given his father’s mobility restrictions.
“I’ll be in the office shortly. Please check with Giang in Resources as to how we should go about finding a designer immediately.”
Of course, it couldn’t be just anyone. Since the designer was to work with Jules as a son of the inhabitants as well as an employer, it wasn’t a typical project. He’d want to select this hire himself.
“I already have. He suggested we contact some of our high-end furniture suppliers, as a lot of designers come through their doors.”
“Good, then. Kindly get that done.”
After the call, Jules knotted his tie in the mirror. He squared himself in the eye. The two little permanent creases between his eyebrows always gave his face a serious demeanor.
This morning, there was also worry in his big brown orbs. Converting abandoned factories into housing for an entire village in India was one thing. But taking charge of his parents’ affairs, staying in Paris to be with them in their elder years was going to be his biggest project yet. He was fundamentally as unsettled as they were.
For some reason, he thought of that pretty girl in the striped dress on the street yelling at her man.
Returning to the window, Jules saw the couple far down the block now, as tiny as dolls from his viewpoint. He shifted his gaze to the Eiffel Tower one more time.
Paris.
The City of Light.
Home.
Jules had never felt lonelier.
“I might have good news,” Yasmine Jaziri told her roommate, Zoe Gaiman, as she sat down at the outside table of the café on Boulevard Saint-Michel, the longtime haven for young people and students in the city’s Latin Quarter.
Zoe nursed her lemon soda as she allowed Yasmine to get settled in. When the waiter approached, Yasmine ordered a glass of red wine.
“Let’s hear it.” Zoe couldn’t wait. She could use some good news no matter who or what it pertained to.
“My boss, Si, told us that Jules Durand is desperately looking for an interior designer.”
“Jules Durand? As in Durand Properties?” Zoe bubbled. The real-estate development corporation, which owned dozens of buildings in Paris and many more throughout the world, was founded and led by a certain Jules Durand whom Zoe had read about in a magazine article. The fact that he was much younger than would be expected for someone so accomplished had made an impression on Zoe, and she’d remembered the name. Also, judging from the couple of photos accompanying the magazine story, Jules Durand was twenty-five kinds of good-looking.
“Apparently, he has an apartment he needs work on, and quickly,” Yasmine continued.
“What, he asked Si if he knew anyone?”
“Yeah. Si mentioned it at the staff meeting this morning.” Yasmine apprenticed for Si Wu, a renowned furniture designer. Trendy and finely crafted side tables that cost more than Zoe earned in a year kind of thing. It made sense that Jules Durand would buy from a studio like that. “I can get you the contact information.”
“I doubt he’d consider me qualified.” While Zoe was a burgeoning interior designer, Durand Properties was not going to be interested in someone with her level of experience. She’d been in Paris for a year and had only managed to secure a few small jobs. A tiny restaurant that needed a new look on a budget. A nursery school that was updating their two classrooms. The couple that needed to utilize their parking garage for storage. Not much more than what she had been doing in Maupont, the small town near Lyon where she grew up. She had fled to make a name for herself in Paris, not to mention leave painful memories behind.
“What can I get for you two mademoiselles?” the older mustached waiter asked when he returned with Yasmine’s wine.
“Thank you, we’re just having drinks,” Zoe quickly answered. There was no money in her budget for an expensive dinner. She and Yasmine had agreed they’d meet to savor a slow drink and watch the parade of Paris go by. At this point, even that was a treat.
The waiter snarled, no doubt hoping they were going to order food. Zoe shrugged her shoulders at him with a cute smile. It failed to crack his gruff exterior.
“It doesn’t hurt to try,” Yasmine continued on about Durand Properties. “You have nothing to lose.”
“You’ve got that right.”
Zoe had come to Paris on a hope and a dream, and feared that neither were coming to pass. Even sharing a one-bedroom apartment with Yasmine, whom she’d met through a mutual acquaintance, she couldn’t afford this expensive city. Something had to give or she’d soon be letting her brothers in Maupont know that she was coming home, defeated.
“Just send an email,” Yasmine encouraged. “You have some nice photos from the jobs you’ve done. Include those. You know what you’re doing.”
Sweet Yasmine. Always a word of encouragement. She assessed her roommate sipping from her wineglass Her thick dark hair was stick straight, as opposed to Zoe’s corkscrew red curls that grew every which way out of her head. Yasmine hailed from Tunisia and had moved to Paris to study, eventually landing under Si Wu’s tutelage. Even though Zoe’s fantasy of success and a life in Paris seemed to be crumbling, she’d always wish the best for Yasmine.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try and see if I can get a meeting.” Not with Jules Durand himself, she hoped. That would be too nerve-racking. He’d probably have an underling interview prospective designers, wouldn’t he? The CEO would have much more supervisory tasks in front of him.
What was she even thinking? Jules Durand’s company, with some of the most notable buildings in Paris, was not going to hire someone who knew how to make a room look larger by placing mirrors in the correct locations! They would employ designers with CVs as grand as the rooms they’d be filling.
The waiter returned with a tray full of delicious-smelling food for another table. Zoe’s nose followed the aroma as far as it could.
“Yasmine, you know what? You’re right. I do know what I’m doing. I don’t doubt my abilities.” She liked saying those words out loud. “Durand Properties might be just the break I need.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The possibility that if she did pursue the opportunity she might encounter Jules Durand himself niggled at her. Staring back at her from those magazine photos with his eyes as dark a brown as hers were as light a blue, he was one intense man. His were the kind of eyes that could take over a girl’s thoughts. Make her wonder if the impossible might be possible. Not Zoe, of course. None of that was for her. But it might set someone else to speculation.
“Okay, get me the contact information.”
Two days later, Zoe and her portfolio strode toward the Durand Properties headquarters. In her one good black suit with the coordinating silky blouse underneath, she felt professional and terrified at the same time.
Just as Yasmine had promised, the contact person at Durand Properties was easily reachable by email. He, in turn, sent her an e-log from which to choose an appointment time. Several of the slots were already filled, leading Zoe to deduce that other people were being interviewed, as well. Which didn’t bode well in her favor as her competition might have more experience than she did.
Nonetheless, she was excited. This was why she came to Paris, to work within the walls of the incredible architectural marvels, both old and new, that graced this remarkable city. She loved it here, where the boulevards teemed with energy. She didn’t want to return to sleepy Maupont, where the most she could hope for was the odd job revamping a guest bedroom or small office. Where, walking down every street, she’d see someone she knew who would give her that look of sympathy and pity for what would define her family’s name there for the rest of eternity. No, Paris wiped the slate. Gave her a fresh start. And it was where she wanted to live for the rest of her life.
As Zoe neared Durand Properties, a modern glass building that occupied an entire square block, she ducked into an alleyway. Removing the comfortable shoes she’d been walking in, she opened her bag and extracted the business heels that pulled her outfit together. After the switch, she approached the entrance door, Durand Properties etched into the glass with a distinct script. An intercom system allowed her to announce her arrival, then the latch clicked and she was able to open the door.
She remembered that Karim Harbi, the man she spoke with on the phone, had told her to check in at the welcome desk before taking the elevator to the fourth floor. The woman who sat behind the counter verified the appointment and pointed her in the right direction.
When the elevator door opened to the fourth floor, Zoe stepped into a central reception area, the likes of which she had never seen before. People bustled to and fro. All the walls were made of glass, affording panoramic views of the city from every direction. The fourth being the top floor allowed Zoe to see that the slanted roof was made of a reflective type of glass and solar panels that could harness the sun’s heat.
In the center of the space was a wide staircase with open steps and gray steel railing. Two women descended while engaged in conversation. Off to one side, a long concrete reception desk was staffed by three employees, two women and one man, all stylishly dressed in neutral colors, speaking into headsets. Several seating areas were grouped throughout with blond wood furniture, some with red upholstery, others bare. A cluster of men in suits sat at one talking amongst themselves. Low coffee tables held massive arrangements of red flowers. Abstract stone fountains placed here and there compensated for the lack of artwork given that there were no actual walls other than the glass perimeter. It was, quite simply, the most stunning workspace Zoe had ever encountered.
“Mademoiselle Gaiman?” a young man greeted her as she was taking in the surroundings. His voice served as a good reminder to make sure her jaw wasn’t hanging open at the impressiveness of it all. “I am Karim.”
His accent and dark skin suggested he was another young person who had come from somewhere else to Paris with a dream in his pocket.
“Nice to meet you.”
“If you’ll follow me, Monsieur Durand is ready for you.”
What did he just say? As it was Karim she had been interacting with so far, Zoe had convinced herself that she’d be having her interview with him. Or with someone in their human resources department. Or someone other than Jules Durand himself.
“Karim,” she coughed out, “is it typical that Jules Durand is the first to meet with perspective employees?”
“No, of course, a company of our size has a department devoted to personnel. But this is a special project of a personal nature. Jules will better explain when you meet with him.”
Heart suddenly thumping against her chest, Zoe cleared her throat. Karim led her to a massive corner office, private by being delineated with its own glass walls. It was as carefully furnished as the reception area. As they approached, Zoe could see a meeting section with a wood table and chairs. There was also an area with two drafting tables, computer banks and shelves that held architectural blueprints. To the side of that, two white leather sofas faced each other with armchairs beside them creating a conversation space. There was a vase of more red flowers on a countertop beside a sink and refrigerator. A treadmill faced outward to the view. The single office in its entirety was large enough to house a family of four. At the stone desk in the center of it all, a man who Zoe recognized to be Jules Durand sat in a high-backed black office chair speaking to someone through an earpiece.
As she got closer, which for some reason felt like marching toward a firing squad, she could make out the furrows between his eyebrows that she’d taken notice of in those magazine photos of him. They gave him a sort of stern look that was somehow wildly sexy at the same time. In a dark gray suit, white dress shirt and forest green tie, he was as stunning as his office building. His aura, his buzz permeated the air and reached her all the way out in the corridor. This man was over six feet of pure power. Adrenaline pounded through her.
On impulse, Zoe began forking her fingers through her corkscrew curls in hopes that her hair didn’t look too unkempt. She threw her shoulders back and stood as tall as she could which, given that she was a shorty, wasn’t much.
Cheering herself on, she had this. She was a hard worker, had done nice designs in the past and deserved a chance to move onto bigger projects. Not to mention that the only way she was going to be able to stay in Paris was if she rose up to the next rung on the career ladder.
She was going to dazzle this man, regardless of how imposing he was.
He was going to hire her. No doubt about it.
Karim pulled open the heavy glass door to the private office and, after Zoe stepped in, took his leave.
“It’s an honor to meet you, monsieur,” Zoe began as she took an uneven step forward, which made one of her shoe heels wobble. Then she heard a cracking sound. But before she could do anything about it, the heel snapped and buckled under, jerking Zoe Gaiman forward and causing her to fall flat on her face into Jules Durand’s office.
“Are you all right?” Jules dashed from behind his desk to attend to the interviewee who had just, literally, burst into his office. Presenting his arm for the young woman to use for balance as she stood up, he felt a surprising tingle when she wrapped her small fingers around his bicep.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she quipped dismissively, although nonetheless leveraging all of her weight onto his arm. The portfolio of photos and sketches she had brought along to impress him with was now scattered around her. A quick cheat of a glance told Jules that they were good.
Once she hoisted herself to a standing position, he took notice that she stood not much more than five feet tall. And she had a wild tangle of hair. Had her fall dislodged a more conservative hairdo? Because, at the moment, it looked like a crazed tree straight out of a Van Gogh painting. A wine-induced hallucination of reddish, no, almost orange spirals pointing toward every angle. It took all of his gentlemanly decorum not to reach out and touch one of her curls, so curious was he to know what they would feel like.
She retrieved the culprit that was responsible for her dramatic entrance. Indeed, the pointy heel had almost fully separated from the body of her shoe and dangled limply from its infrastructure.
“Darn it. These are my only...” She decided, flustered, not to finish the sentence. Instead, she slipped the broken shoe back onto her foot and used two hands to smooth down her skirt and jacket before extending her palm for a handshake. “I’m Zoe Gaiman. I hope you can forget what just happened and we can begin the interview over again.” She blew a breath upward, possibly in an attempt to send some errant hairs back to their designated place.
As he returned her handshake, Jules couldn’t consent to her terms because he had an inkling that he would never forget anything about Zoe Gaiman.
Her fingers were as soft as he’d imagined they’d be.
Together, the two of them bent down to gather up the sheets of her portfolio. He gestured for her to take a seat opposite his at the desk. Hobbling on the broken shoe, Zoe made her way to the chair and slid in.
With a tap on his computer, a photo appeared on his screen, the secondary screen that faced Zoe’s seat and on the large monitor that serviced the seating cluster to his right. In the past few years, Jules had conducted most of his work from his laptop while ensconced in suites of the world’s finest hotels and in Durand Properties satellite offices. Naturally, he’d frequently returned to Paris for meetings and functions. But his highly efficient office here was underutilized. That was about to change, as he’d be basing himself here permanently.
“The apartment in need of design is in this building,” he explained about the first photo to Zoe. Five years ago, he’d purchased the building, which had been divided into eight apartments, not knowing at the time that he’d be dedicating one to his parents. “Here are some photos.”
To her credit, Zoe seemed to have recovered after her visit with his office floor and she studied the slideshow he presented. “There’s an elevator, I take it?” she inquired.
“Yes. Which is critical. You see, this apartment is for my own parents to inhabit. My father is wheelchair-bound.”
“Oh, so that’s why Karim said this was a personal project. It looks as if the front entrance to the building has the width to accommodate a wheelchair, but the interior doorways have been widened? That must have been a tight squeeze.”
“My architects supervised those modifications.” Jules was impressed. Zoe was the third designer he’d interviewed today and neither of the other two had noted that obvious need for wheelchair clearance in the apartment’s doorways.
He glanced away from the screen to make contact with her sky blue eyes, which had a crystalline shimmer he found very intriguing. She also had an adorable swath of freckles that ran from one cheekbone across her nose to the other. And that hair!
Women and their attractiveness or lack thereof was of no interest to Jules, so he surprised himself in even taking the time to observe Zoe’s unique beauty.
“I see from your portfolio pages—” he pointed to what was now a haphazard stack that she’d lain on the spare chair beside her “—that you share my appreciation for blending the old with the new.”
“Yes, I like to bring in every functional convenience but make the living space warm and stylish at the same time. And I did a course in special-needs accessibility. Let me show you some photos.”
He peered over while she riffled through her pile. One looked like a guest room converted into an office, the other a classroom. Did she have the proper experience for an entire Paris apartment, especially one for his parents where he knew he’d demand perfection? Zoe showed him an unimpressive access ramp leading to a converted garage with a few grab bars installed here and there. Jules’s contractors had already done the structural modifications on the apartment. Still, at least she said she’d studied accessibility.
He opened another program on his computer. “Here we have some suggested color combinations for the paint and furnishings in the main living spaces. We can look at the bathroom and kitchen afterward. I assume you’re familiar with this software that automatically generates a primary color scheme with complementary shades for accents.”
“I don’t use auto-generated color combining.”
“Excuse me?”
“I wouldn’t want a computer to decide a paint shade to match a sofa color for me. That’s not how I work.”
With two fingers, she twisted a ringlet that fell over one of her ears. Jules had no way to determine if it was actually out of place. It was nothing short of ludicrous how curious he was about her hair. Although, now it was what was coming out of her mouth that alarmed him.
“Mademoiselle Gaiman, as you might imagine, Durand Properties employs every bit of technology available that can assist us in our work.”
“With due respect, Monsieur Durand, computer-aided design is, of course, a marvelous advancement. And the furniture placement programs and whatnot on the market these days are timesaving tools. But I also have to feel a project. In my heart—” she paused to bring her fist to her chest for emphasis “—and in my soul.”
“I see,” he tittered, surprised at this young woman’s pluck. People usually yessed Jules Durand, too intimidated to disagree. He wasn’t sure whether or not he liked Zoe’s assertiveness. Ever so briefly, his mind flashed on a very private way he might show her with his lips who was the boss.
He quickly refocused with, “I’m afraid I don’t employ souls. I employ professionals who, in turn, follow industry standards and new developments.”
“Does the way yellow spring flowers play against the five o’clock sky rely on a digital approval system?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“When the waves of the ocean ebb and flow, creating a natural rhythm that syncs with a shoreline wind. Can your computer software replicate that?”
Jules was becoming a bit irritated. While there was something mesmerizing about this young woman, he had a job to offer and expected it done his way, and certainly wasn’t going to work with someone who questioned his methods.
Especially in dealing with this apartment for his parents, Jules wanted the project done quickly, as he expected Agathe and Hugo back in Paris soon and he couldn’t accommodate time-consuming mistakes. He had no leeway for prima donna designers who constantly changed their minds and, for example, repainted several times before being satisfied with their choices.
He needed his parents securely ensconced, not traipsing all over the earth like vagabonds with his father in a wheelchair. It was ironic that Jules himself had called no place home for years, either, although his time away was well spent amassing a fortune.
Everyone was going to stay put in Paris. For all the turbulence of his upbringing, with his mother’s abandonments and then returns, and his father’s unstable employment history, Jules would ground them now. He’d become the de facto patriarch.
“I thank you for coming in, Mademoiselle Gaiman.” He pushed his chair back from the desk, ready to show her to the door. “Obviously, we have an incompatible approach, but I do wish you well.” Oddly, the idea of never seeing Zoe again gave him pause and he hesitated.
“Wait...” Zoe threw her palms up, trying to halt him before he stood. “If this apartment is for your own parents, don’t you want it to breathe with life? Shouldn’t it be a blanket of comfort? That sings in peaceful harmony. Why don’t you show me the apartment in person? So I can feel it.”
That was the second time she had mentioned feeling the apartment.
Jules didn’t do feelings. He didn’t choose properties based on spring flowers. He relied on engineers and architects and inspectors and financial advisors for whom the tools of the trade brought a scientific precision. Jules liked that. There was no room for gamble in his orbit.
Yet, chance was exactly what was in front of him. He’d get no data collection on how long his parents would live. There was no spreadsheet that could forecast if his mother would finally find serenity within the boundaries of a permanent residence. No analysis would report how good a job Jules would do as their caretaker.
So the last thing he needed was any further unpredictability. While he respected that Zoe was probably a very creative person, and thought he might contemplate for the rest of his life how hair grew out of someone’s head like that, he had other prospects to meet with. This interview was over.
“Thank you for your time, Mademoiselle Gaiman.”
He stood, hoping she’d follow suit. Which she did, but not before shooting a penetrating look at him that made his ribs rattle. Were there tears pooling in those bright blue eyes? “Good luck with the project,” she muttered.
Jules saw Zoe Gaiman to the door with her tottering on her broken shoe heel all the way.
