Secret Baby Scandal(8)

That was a long time ago, but Jack held the kind of grudges that grew deeper with age.

"You've given me little choice."

"I have two weeks with her in New Orleans and even she won't back out  of that." He wouldn't break his agreement with Tatiana by implying a  union     she might not agree to. But he also couldn't afford putting more  pressure on the Gladiators by ticking off his coach further. "I hope  that attending my brother's wedding will make her reconsider marriage."

"I'm not so sure about that plan. She ought to keep the child secret  longer down there," her father mused. "Old Leon must have the family  compound locked down like Fort Knox with a foreign princess on the  grounds."

"It's secure. There will be no media unless Tatiana chooses to speak  with reporters." He hadn't really considered that option-keeping César a  secret from the press for a while longer. But maybe Jack had a point.  There would be pressure enough on them with the media interest already  brewing. "I won't be budging on that."

"Good." Jack set down the cat on a wingback chair. "By the time I see  an announcement about my grandson in the papers, it will coincide with  news of your marriage."

He didn't argue with Jack. But as he stood to exit the study with him, he couldn't help but remind him of one important fact.

"It has to be her idea to get married since she's already put her foot  down on the subject." He understood that much about her. She was a  strong-minded woman and she didn't budge once she made up her mind. He'd  seen it in the courtroom last year.

"And so it will be." Jack opened up the door and gestured for  Jean-Pierre to go ahead of him. "Because if it's not, you can start  looking for a new team. I can guarantee that if I'm not happy with you,  son, I'll do everything in my power to bury your career."

* * *

"I've missed this place." Tatiana stared out the window of the  chauffeur-driven luxury SUV that had met them at the private airport  just outside of New Orleans.

Spanish moss dripped from live oak trees on either side of the private  driveway leading into the Reynaud estate on Lake Pontchartrain in an  exclusive section of Metairie, Louisiana, west of the city. Pontoon  boats were moored in the shallow waters while long docks stretched into  the low-lying mist that had settled on the surface. The green of the  gardens was rich and verdant, the ground so fertile that a team of  gardeners was needed to hold back the wild undergrowth that could take  over land like this in just a few short weeks' time.

She knew because her family's yard had been like that, full of kudzu  back when her father had been with the Texas football team. The Doucets  didn't have the same level of wealth as the Reynauds and even now, the  apartments on Central Park West were relatively new luxuries. Back when  Tatiana had attended prep school nearby, her mother had taken a condo in  Baton Rouge while her father remained in East Texas for his job with  the Mustangs.

Jean-Pierre sat beside her while César napped in his car seat in the  bench-row seat ahead of them. The trip had been smooth, from the car  service in New York to the quick private flight to the spacious SUV with  a Reynaud family driver to load their luggage. She wished she knew what  exactly had transpired between Jean-Pierre and her father when they  left to speak privately, but she'd only learned that her father  suggested they keep news of César out of the press for as long as  possible, an approach that made sense while they figured out how to  share custody.                       
       
           



       

After leaving her parents' home, Jean-Pierre had assured her that he  would immediately outfit a nursery in Louisiana for César, so she hadn't  brought much for him. The baby's night nurse would fly to New Orleans  later, but until then, local staff had been retained to help Lucinda.

Tatiana had to admit, Jean-Pierre had made things as easy as possible  for her. And while she'd guessed he would probably step up and be  supportive of their child, a small part of her had feared otherwise.  That he would be too angry at being shut out of César's birth to treat  her with so much thoughtfulness. She'd hardly slept the night before,  wondering how today would be with him, not to mention all of his family.

"I miss this city every time I'm away," he confided to her now. Leaning  forward to look at the lake with her, Jean-Pierre was a warm, vital  presence in the vehicle.

The tinted windows ensured their privacy as they rounded the first  bend. She spotted a Greek revival mansion that hadn't been there before.

"Wow." She marveled at how well the new home complemented the existing  one where Jean-Pierre had grown up, a home she'd visited as a teen even  before they dated since her father had worked with Leon Reynaud. "Did  Gervais build this for his soon-to-be bride?"

Speculation about Gervais and Princess Erika's wedding had filled the  tabloids for weeks. Tatiana had devoured the articles during those  uncomfortable last weeks of pregnancy when she had done little more than  read and wait.

"No. Dempsey had this built when he took over as head coach of the  Hurricanes. Gervais and Erika are in the original home." Jean-Pierre  pointed to the mansion, which was almost double the size of the Greek  revival house, on the other side of the street. "Henri and I share time  in the big Italianate monstrosity that Leon purchased for guests when we  were young. You remember it?"

"The abandoned house where you wanted to celebrate my seventeenth  birthday?" Her skin warmed at the memory. She'd had such a crush on him  back then, she would have followed him anywhere. Even into a house that  had been fenced off and marked with construction-zone signs.

But he'd just started attending the same school as she and they'd been  spending more time together. Their families had been friends for  years-before the big rift-so they'd had an easy relationship marked by  meetings at football games or summer homes. But once Jean-Pierre had  enrolled in her school, things shifted between them. She couldn't keep  her eyes off him.

That weekend at the Reynauds' house-her birthday weekend-had moved  things out of the friend zone. He'd kissed her that night and everything  had changed.

"You have to admit I made you one hell of a birthday cake." His gaze lingered on her. Was he thinking about that kiss, too?

"Or your family chef did." She refused to be charmed by old memories. There were too many unhappy newer ones.

"But how do you think he knew to make a raspberry almond torte with purple frosting?"

"I was in a serious purple phase."

She had all but melted at his feet when he brought it out with  seventeen lit wooden matches in place of the candles he'd forgotten.  They'd eaten it on the dock outside the boathouse, and she'd informed  him that at seventeen, she was officially old enough to be his  girlfriend.

The night had only gotten more romantic after he fed her that first piece of cake.

He'd been eighteen, worldly beyond any other boy she knew, and wary of dating someone younger. But she'd been persistent.

"Not much has changed." He gave the hem of her skirt a light tug for emphasis, the lavender silk edged with darker plum fringe.

Through the fringe, the back of one knuckle grazed her bare knee and  sent a jolt of adrenaline buzzing up her thigh. She bit the inside of  her cheek.

"I've only just returned to bright colors, though. For years, I draped  myself in navy and beige when I went in front of a jury." She'd grown  tired of the conservative wardrobe her career dictated, but she hadn't  realized how much she'd reined in her fashion creativity until her more  recent wardrobe choices had all been bright colors, sequins, feathers  and fringe.                       
       
           



       

"Anything to win a case," he remarked dryly, no doubt thinking of the civil suit she'd won against his friend.

"I hope you don't expect me to apologize for being good at my job."  They might as well address it since it had been the source of their last  argument, the reason he'd walked out on her and said their time  together had been a mistake. "It's not up to me to determine right from  wrong. That's a jury's job. I'm simply paid to win. Just like you are."

She tucked her phone into her purse as the vehicle stopped in front of  the stucco Italianate mansion that had been updated and whitewashed  since the last time she'd been here. Their driver, a former Hurricanes'  player named Evan, opened the back door for them and began to bring  their bags inside.

"You didn't use to believe in winning at any cost." He didn't move to exit the vehicle.