The French Connection. Tracy Kelleher

a reasonable guess.”

      Paul snorted. “Please, Lionel didn’t get his inventory by using the Yellow Pages. We all know that he’s slept with or attempted to sleep with half the aging aristocracy of continental Europe—his personal touch has been in places you don’t want to know.”

      Abigail shivered and looked down at her untouched food.

      Shelley pointed a finger at her chest. “Not that I’m defending the horny bastard, but you have to admit the one place he’s never put his mitts on is me.” Being a naturally modest person, she didn’t mention that while maybe not in the same league as Jennifer Lopez or Nicole Kidman in the looks department, she wasn’t exactly chopped liver either. Auburn shoulder-length hair combined with a firm, rounded derriere and well-toned legs gave her a definite Julia Roberts allure—Julia Roberts with an extra fifteen pounds.

      Paul shook his head. “Shell, get real. It’s not like you have any property on the Riviera worth renting.”

      What could she say? McCleerys weren’t Riviera types; not only did they freckle in direct sunlight, they lacked that essential je ne sais quoi—inherited wealth. “Okay, I get your point. But I’d still like to get back to my dilemma. You see, Lionel is intent on keeping the rental for the coming high season.”

      “Simple.” Paul shrugged. “He goes over and wines and dines the comtesse’s daughter and weaves his usual magic.”

      “That is just so irritating,” Shelley protested. “Why do you necessarily assume that some woman would agree to just about anything if she was showered with a little attention?”

      Paul smiled smugly. “Ahh. I get it. There is no daughter, is there?”

      Shelley conceded with a shrug. “Only a grandson.”

      “How old?” Paul asked.

      “From the limited information I’ve got, probably around thirty.”

      “And Lionel’s not considering extending his sexual tastes to members of the male species?”

      Shelley shook her head. “No, not even when it comes to the Montfort chateau.”

      Abigail shifted in her chair. “So, what’s the plan?”

      “Well, the plan is still for Dream Villas to pay a condolence call—in person, naturally,” Shelley said. “But Lionel’s not going. He feels it might not be a good idea for him to resurface at a family event. You see, he and the comtesse were an item before she became a widow.”

      “Ohh. So, if Dream Villas needs someone from the company to go…” Abigail raised one eyebrow. Shelley nodded.

      Paul waved from his side of the table. “Hell-o? Am I missing something here?”

      Shelley turned her head in his direction. “About that condolence call…”

      “Yeah?”

      “Well, I’ve just been promoted from newsletters.”

      There was silence.

      “Well?” Shelley looked around expectantly. “Any opinions? I realize this would be an entirely new direction for me to take. So I really, really want your input. In my own mind, I’d like to think I should try my hand at it. Expand my horizons. Push the envelope, so to speak.”

      Paul looked horrified. “Why don’t you let someone else push their own envelope? Let them wine and dine the grandson and heir.”

      Shelley pulled back. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous?”

      He made a face. “Of course I’m not jealous. It’s just that you’ve never dealt face-to-face with clients. You’re used to being support staff, handling the paperwork and stuff like that.” Paul furrowed his brow sincerely. “I mean this with all the best intentions, of course.”

      Shelley blinked. “God, Paul. You think I’m a total wuss, don’t you? No wonder our relationship didn’t work out. And here I thought it had something to do with the fact I never made your mother’s recipe for salt cod.”

      “Forget the salt cod,” Abigail interrupted.

      Shelley nodded. “Gladly.”

      “And to get back to your question, despite what the Boy Wonder here says, I think you’re perfectly capable of being a front man—front woman, really. The thing of it is, you just haven’t given yourself many opportunities to shine in that venue. Not surprising when you consider that family of yours.” Abigail accompanied the last comment with a dismissive wave of her hand.

      “Please, it’s not as if I were abused as a child. Many people have parents who get divorced,” Shelley said, downplaying.

      “But how many people have a father who runs off to join the circus?”

      “It’s a common enough fantasy.”

      “For little boys, not for a thirty-five-year-old insurance salesman from Schenectady. Then there’s your mother.”

      “Mom’s not so bad,” Shelley protested.

      “We’re talking about a woman who communicates with daisies!”

      “It’s bromeliads, a completely different family. They’re epiphytic tropical plants—pineapples, for example.”

      That silenced Abby. But only for a moment. “I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, it just proves my point. Despite growing up amidst these familial peculiarities, you’ve definitely got the right instincts. Just look how you extricated yourself from an academic profession that would have left you buried in library stacks and instead made the switch to the business world.”

      Paul snorted, aquiline nose and all. “Where she spends her time in a stuffy office on the phone with foreign repairmen.”

      “Ah, but what she does with those repairmen,” Abigail said forcefully. “Do you realize Shelley’s the only woman I know who can get repairmen to do what she wants when she wants—and in several foreign languages? Darling, with that kind of talent, you could run most Fortune 500 companies.”

      Shelley shrugged. “So I know how to say sump pump in French, German, Italian, Spanish and, if I stretch it, Portuguese. That’s not the issue. What’s really at stake is whether it’s wise for me to drop everything—and we are in the busiest time of year for finalizing arrangements—and rush off to try to retain the biggest contract that Dream Villas has under what are extremely delicate circumstances. Why, just last week when I met with my landlord, I was the one who offered to raise the rent by three percent when he told me Medicare no longer paid for his mother’s home health care. I mean, how do you think I am going to fare with a grieving French count?”

      Paul shook his head. “You should have had me talk to your landlord. You always were too softhearted.”

      “But thankfully not so softhearted that she made your mother’s salt-cod recipe,” Abigail argued in rebuttal. “Salt cod! It sounds like something the Pilgrims would have eaten!”

      “Some of your relatives, no doubt,” Paul shot back.

      “Enough!” Shelley threw up her hands. “I’ve really had it. I want to discuss something important to me and not have to negotiate between people who go at each other like the West Side Story’s Sharks and Jets.”

      “Actually, I always secretly wanted to be Chita Rivera,” Abigail let drop offhandedly.

      Shelley narrowed her eyes. “I mean it. This is not about you. It’s about me—rather I.”

      “All right.” Abigail shrugged. “You want my opinion on you?” Shelley nodded. “I think that you’ll do a fine job. That said, you should feel free to call me at any time during contract talks to recommend tactics or counteroffers—or even things like what fork to use at a formal dinner party. You know these aristocrats—they’re big on elaborate table settings.”

      Paul