“So he should,” Fleur drawled. “Now, would you like to hear where we’re going?”
Skye nodded wordlessly.
“To the mothership,” Fleur winked, as the car pulled away from Matthieu’s building and drove to the end of the street, then turned right, on the Champs Elysees, all beautifully dressed for Christmas with green garlands and string lights across the wide boulevard, so Skye couldn’t help but gasp at the beauty of it all.
Traffic was thick, and tourists were everywhere, so the car went slowly, giving her plenty of time to marvel at the festive window fronts, and when it finally stopped outside of a store emblazoned with the world famous de Garmeaux logo, Skye’s first reaction was to point out that they could have easily walked. Her next was to panic.
“What are we doing here?”
“You’ll see,” Fleur winked conspiratorially, stepping out of the car with the grace of a ballerina, leaving Skye to follow in her wake. Fleur also wore spiked high heels and commanded them effortlessly.
“Fleur, I really don’t want—,”
Fleur sighed under her breath and turned to face Skye, putting a hand on her forearm. “Listen, I know you don’t right now, but believe me, you’ll thank me later.”
It was almost impossible to say no to Fleur, and so she followed her into the designer store where staff immediately tripped all over themselves to take care of Fleur.
“Today is about Skye,” Fleur demurred. “Find her things.” She waved a manicured hand through the palatial store, with the elegant Christmas tree at the center of the foyer. “All the things.”
With a wink at Skye, she beckoned her deeper in the store. “You might as well sit down. This could take a while.”
It took ten minutes for an army of retail staff to stock a fitting room. Pants, shirts, dresses, shoes, jackets, all of it stunning, designer, and very, very expensive.
“Okay,” Fleur’s smile was beautiful and kind. “What do you like?”
Skye stared at the collection of clothes, feeling a heck of a lot like an intruder. “They’re all beautiful,” she said truthfully.
“But?”
Skye swallowed a laugh. “I’m a country girl at heart,” she offered with a lift of her shoulders.
“Is there some rule that says country girls can’t like couture?”
“No, but when I move—,” she clamped her lips shut.
“When you marry Matthieu, the speculation will only increase, for a time,” Fleur said gently. “I can’t bear to see him go through it all over again.”
Skye startled. “Go through what again?”
Fleur’s face was pale. “The way his mother was treated.” She moved to one of the outfits—a pair of black linen pants with a silk halter neck.
“By whom?” Skye followed, flicking through the clothes without seeing them, though the textures were delightful beneath her fingers. “Everyone.” Fleur shot Skye a look loaded with meaning. “The media tore her apart for not belonging. She was excoriated at every opportunity.”
“Oh.” Skye’s heart slowed down. “I didn’t know.”
Fleur frowned. “He hasn’t mentioned it?”
Skye’s stomach dropped to her toes. They were only faking an engagement, but over the last month, she’d felt closer to Matthieu than she had another soul. Why hadn’t he shared this with her? She shook her head.
“He doesn’t like to talk of his mother. He was only a boy when she died but he’s tortured by a desire to have done more. I fear the media reports about you could destroy him.”
Skye closed her eyes on a rolling wave of emotion. Embarrassment, because though she hadn’t gone online for weeks, besides to check her emails, she was sure the blogs were having a field day, sadness that Matthieu hadn’t spoken to her about his mother, and also, something far more painful, more dangerous, right in the center of her chest, something that flared to life at the very idea of her being the reason for Matthieu feeling pain.
“I didn’t realise—,”
“Please, don’t misunderstand me,” Fleur moved closer to Skye, putting both hands on her arms now, holding her in a half-embrace. “There is nothing wrong with you. You do not need to change, Skye, not one bit. But perhaps we can get you some costume items, in case you feel like wearing them, in case you decide you’d like to—,”
“I want to,” Skye murmured, wondering why she’d been such an idiot all this time. How could she truly pretend to be the fiancé of a man like Matthieu without at least dressing the part? Why hadn’t she seen the necessity of this sooner? “I don’t ever want to be the reason he feels pain.”