Essence

Chapter 3

3

STANDING AT THE ENTRANCE to the lounge, Dahlia blinked against sepia lights illuminating the dark edges of two silhouetted strangers. The pair were seated on a damask sofa in the lobby lounge, entwined in an intimate midnight conspiracy, brandy snifters beside them. With every mild sea breeze, shadows of palm fronds swayed across the high ceiling and walls of the hotel, a private seaside enclave. As Dahlia peered through tall doors that stood ajar, the scent of white lilies and salty air wafted to her nose.

Where is he?

She’d woken after midnight alone in the spacious suite and found she couldn’t sleep until he returned. It wasn’t like Kevin to disappear, and she was worried. She turned back to the lounge.

The woman’s silky blond hair grazed the man’s cheek as he trailed a finger down the woman’s bare arm, lingering on her hand, their fingers twining in seduction. The woman arched her neck, and her lover drew his lips along her skin.

Such a romantic scene, she thought idly, like something out of an artistic French perfume commercial. Even now, in her half-groggy state, her creative mind was always at play. She blinked, straining to see the lovers while she eavesdropped on their murmured conversation.

The couple’s soft laughter rippled through the sultry midnight air.

Dahlia’s breath caught in her throat, and she clutched her cotton sweater. Had she heard correctly? She glanced behind her but saw no one else.

Deep laughter rang out again. His laughter.

Oxygen whooshed from her lungs. Disbelief and confusion roared through her mind. No, it couldn’t be. Suddenly light-headed, she touched a wall for support.

Sleep had eluded her for the last two hours. Missing Kevin, she’d pulled on dark jeans and a French blue-and-white-striped sweater and searched the hotel and gardens looking for him. Since they’d been in Cannes the past few days, he had occasionally left their suite to make a business phone call or have a nightcap, claiming insomnia. But this?

Never would she have imagined he was seeing another woman.

She must have cried out when her knees buckled because the two figures quickly parted, and she slammed against the wall, rocking a potted ficus tree in a Chinese urn as she did. Gasping for air, her breath came in short fits.

“Dahlia, what are you doing here?” Kevin leapt to his feet and strode to her, his face masked with annoyance. “You should be sleeping.”

She pushed herself from the wall. Kevin was a head taller than her, but Dahlia raised herself to her full height, refusing to be intimidated. “And miss seeing the man I’d planned to marry with another woman?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Kevin furrowed his brow in irritation. “Nothing has happened.”

“Only because I interrupted you. Is she the business call you’ve been making?”

The woman on the sofa shot a look of victory toward Dahlia. Her pale, precision-cut hair skimmed her shoulders, and her skirt hiked high on shapely thighs. She crossed her arms in petulance and stared at Kevin. As much as Dahlia would’ve liked to have given her a piece of her mind, she turned back to Kevin.

“This isn’t what it seems. Trust me.” Kevin’s face relaxed and his brown eyes melted into hers, reassuring her. As his charm re-emerged, his easy smile revealed perfect white teeth. It was the same charm that had made her fall hard for him only a few months ago. “She’s an old friend of the family. She needed some advice tonight.”

The bartender behind the gleaming cherry wood bar pursed her lips and slid her gaze toward Dahlia. As Dahlia met her eyes, the woman arched a fine eyebrow. In an instant, she had unequivocal confirmation.

“Is that the way you treat all your friends?” Anger burned through her and she jerked her arm from Kevin’s grasp. Her heart was shattering, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of tears. Only a few hours ago, they’d lingered over a romantic dinner with a view of the calm, azure waters of the Mediterranean Sea. They’d laughed and kissed and spent the evening planning their life together, sharing a rare vintage wine Kevin had chosen to celebrate their elopement. It had been a perfect, intimate dinner, just the two of them.

Dahlia had no need for an extravagant wedding such as her grandmother Camille, who’d raised her from a toddler, would have surely insisted upon. That is, if she’d approved of Kevin. Camille had called him ambitious, but not in a good way. “He’s not marriage material, Dahlia.” And she’d grown icy when Dahlia told her they’d become engaged. Which was why Kevin had wanted to elope.

Yes, this had been his idea. What was he up to?

Dahlia pressed a hand to her forehead as the shimmering future she’d imagined with Kevin dissolved like a mirage. She’d always been attracted to exciting, charismatic men, but they seldom lived up to her expectations. In her heart, she shared the traditional values that Camille had instilled in her from childhood after her mother had abandoned her.

“Dahlia, you can’t possibly think she means anything to me.” Kevin’s voice dropped a notch, reverberating in his chest, where Dahlia had rested her head just hours ago as they’d danced. She shook her head, casting out the memory.

“And you can’t possibly think I’d fall for that,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare come back to the room.” Dahlia spun furiously from him and charged through the lobby.

After her grandmother had vehemently opposed their decision to marry, Kevin had immediately booked flights for them to Europe. They’d be married in France, he assured her, as Dahlia had told him she’d always dreamed.

Had she been blind to his transgressions? Kevin was the picture of power, success, and extravagance. He’d clearly been relishing this dual role, but for how long? Who was this woman? Were there others?

She flung open the door to their—her—suite and slammed the door behind her. What did any of it matter now? She marched to the telephone by the rumpled bed where they’d made love earlier that evening. Speaking quickly in French, she requested a bellboy.

When the uniformed bellboy arrived, she pointed to Kevin’s bespoke suits, Gucci loafers, and Armani shirts. “Mr. Blackstone is moving to another room. Please remove all of his belongings.” She turned away and stepped onto the balcony. Moonlight illuminated the placid sea, shadowing yachts in the harbor nearby. This was to have been the setting for the beginning of a magical new life. She closed her eyes, feeling sick to her stomach.

“Will there be anything else?”

Dahlia turned back to the young bellboy, who had loaded all of Kevin’s clothes and toiletries onto a rolling cart.

“Yes, please inform him. He’s in the lobby bar. With a blond.”

“Oui, mademoiselle.” The bellboy lowered his eyes and executed a crisp half-bow, showing no sign of judgment.

After he was gone, she lifted her face to the cool ocean air. Her grandmother had taught her to take decisive action in all that she did, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t devastated. Soon, she’d have to tell Camille that she’d been right about Kevin all along. The thought of that made her shudder.

Camille Dubois was a force to be reckoned with. She still ran the global empire that was Parfums Dubois, and she still rose every morning and energetically embraced the day, just as she had six decades before when she was introducing her first perfume in Paris. Though Dahlia tried, it was difficult living up to the lofty standards of a legend.

She ran her fingers across the smooth stone balustrade as Camille’s words of warning echoing through her mind. “He’s overly enthusiastic with regard to our business,” Camille had commented after Kevin had angled for a business deal with Parfums Dubois. “He has nothing to offer you. By his age, he should have accomplished something of note in his life.” She’d narrowed her eyes. “And do you know where his money comes from?” Dahlia had to admit that she didn’t. That was embarrassing enough.

Kevin was older and it was true that he had nothing to show for his years of globetrotting and partying, yet he still spent money like a prince. He was charming—too charming, she realized, bitterness welling in her throat. Camille had certainly seen through Kevin. Why hadn’t she? But then, she’d always been lousy at choosing boyfriends.

Dahlia loved being swept up in the thrill of romance. All her friends at home were coupling up, so when Kevin came along it seemed like a natural time for her as well. She desperately wanted to have a family, a place where she felt she belonged. She’d never had that, except with her grandmother.

She brushed angry tears from her cheeks. She wasn’t crying over him, she told herself, pushing her hair from her face. Intellectually, she knew he wasn’t worth it. Still, she was hurt, but more than that, she was furious with him and angry with herself that she hadn’t spied what Camille had so easily deduced.

Oh, but what fun Kevin had been at first. Skiing, sailing, traveling, shopping. He had catered to her and acted as if he adored her.

Acted.

She blew out a breath. It had all been an act to ensnare her. No, not her. Her money. Dahlia wrapped her arms around her slender frame. Not that she had millions, and what she did have was from saving and investing. Yet everyone thought she had access to Camille’s fortune, although Dahlia never asked her grandmother for anything.

Camille was a firm believer in self-reliance and insisted that everyone around her earn their own way—her granddaughter included. Dahlia couldn’t count the number of calls and emails she’d received from anxious stockbrokers and venture capitalists who were sure that she was worth millions, or would be soon. In actuality, Camille’s plans were much more complicated than people knew. Her grandmother had made sure that the fortune she’d built would never be squandered. A significant portion would be channeled toward charity. Whatever Dahlia stood to inherit, she would have to earn, just as Camille had.

Dahlia was proud of her independence and wouldn’t have it any other way. Most people assumed that Parfums Dubois would pass to Dahlia upon Camille’s death. She clenched her jaw. Kevin was probably among them. Or was he merely incapable of committing? The reason didn’t matter anymore.

It was over.

Sometimes Dahlia envied her girlfriends of modest financial means, like Scarlett and Fianna, although both were working their way up the financial ladder with diligence, hard work, and calculated risks. They could be sure that the men who loved them were truly interested in them, not in their money. They knew who their friends were.

Not Dahlia. People often befriended her only to pitch ideas for investment. And when she told them she wasn’t interested—because they wouldn’t believe she didn’t have squillions at her disposal—they dropped her and moved on to wealthier prey. This didn’t hurt her as much as it once had, but it still disappointed her. She hadn’t fully developed the callousness Camille had about people.

The only true friends Dahlia had were those at home in Los Angeles that she’d known for years. Verena, Scarlett, Fianna, and Penelope. Camille had also been quite interested in Fianna and her fashion line because Parfums Dubois often licensed designer and celebrity names for fragrance lines.

Dahlia lifted her face to a soft breeze as she thought about Fianna, who’d nearly lost her business when her runway show had been sabotaged in Dublin, injuring several models. The fashion press had skewered her, but Fianna had risen to the challenge and created a new fashion line that soared in popularity until the press could no longer ignore her success. Dahlia had created a perfume especially for the new line, and it was selling so well Fianna could hardly keep it in stock.

Fianna’s fragrance was Dahlia’s first independent foray into the perfume business, besides her family business. And she had done it all on her own, from the investment capital to the packaging, perfume, and promotion. Admittedly, it was a small success but a success nevertheless. What she really wanted was to continue building her own branded line, Dahlia D. She didn’t use her last name because she had no desire to invite comparison to Parfums Dubois and her grandmother.

Though in truth, Camille had been grooming Dahlia to step into a leadership position at Parfums Dubois for years. To placate her grandmother, she had dutifully gone to Harvard Business School and earned an MBA. On Camille’s insistence she’d even served as interim president while the board was head-hunting another more seasoned president. Camille had gained board approval on the basis that having Dahlia at the helm would be good for publicity.

After that experience, Dahlia wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to run the company. Parfums Dubois was far different from the creative, entrepreneurial business Camille had founded. The firm had become a corporate machine that ran on spreadsheets and numbers.

Being the founder’s granddaughter was challenging, too. Dahlia was held to a far higher standard with intense scrutiny from within the company, as well as by investors and the media. Co-workers envied her, or worse, tried to ingratiate themselves with her. She often wished she could just be normal-no-one-from-nowhere. Just as her grandmother had been when she’d stepped off the ship from France so many years ago with nothing but a few perfume formulas and the fervent desire to succeed.

Behind her in the room, her phone emitted a soft signal she instantly recognized. Thankfully, it wasn’t Kevin. She hurried inside and answered the phone. As soon as she heard her friend’s subdued greeting, she knew something was wrong.

“Verena, is everything okay?” It was one of her friends from Beverly Hills. Their grandmothers had known each other for years. Mia Valent, Verena’s grandmother, had even known Dahlia’s mother, which was more than she could say.

“I’m so sorry to have to call you,” Verena said. “Camille is resting now, but she had a stroke. You’ve got to come home right away.”