“I must get the name of his tailor,” Owen said. “If they can fit a gorilla for a tuxedo, they should be able to work wonders for me.”
Claude hid her frown with a sip of champagne. “Do you know him?” she asked.
“My father invests with him,” the young man said. “He says he’s brilliant. Grew up in France in the years after the war. He told my father he ate rats to survive. Apparently, he has no formal education to speak of, and yet—” He gestured at the grand ballroom with his free hand.
“And they say the American dream is dead,” Claude quipped.
“Yes, only in America could a rat-eating French peasant corner the market on nineteenth-century portraits of American aristocracy. Funny, I would have taken him for a Koons or Hirst man. And this house. It’s magnificent. I assumed he’d married someone with taste, but my father told me he’s single.”
“I believe his wife passed away many years ago,” Claude offered.
“I wonder who she was,” Owen mused. “It must have been hard crawling into bed with that every night.”
“Not if you’re another rat-eating French peasant,” Claude replied and Owen laughed heartily as their host took his place at the front of the room. “I can’t wait to hear what this one has to say.”
“Good evening,” their host said. “Thank you all very much for coming tonight. I am a man of numbers, not words, so rather than bore you all with a terrible speech in a thick French accent, allow me to introduce you to the person who made this all possible, my charming and talented daughter, Claude Marchand.”
“Will you excuse me?” Claude asked Owen, whose horror was just beginning to register on his face. “Daddy needs me. What did you say your last name is?”
The young man cleared his throat. “Van Bergen.”
“Nice to meet you, Owen Van Bergen. I’ll have someone pass along the name of my father’s tailor.”
Later that night, after the guests had gone, Claude cuddled up next to her father on the sofa in his study. The two often ignored the rest of the house when they were alone. With the lights off and a blaze in the fireplace, the study reminded them both of the little house in Brittany in which Claude had been born. They’d been happy there, the two of them, just as they were happy in the mansion her father had purchased when Claude was thirteen. As long as they had each other, Claude figured, they could be content just about anywhere. From time to time, Claude felt a pang of remorse that she’d never gotten to know her mother, who’d died during childbirth. But her father had always done everything he could to compensate for the loss. No father could have loved a child any more.
“You hired the perfect caterer, my dear.” Her father patted her on the knee as he praised her. “The food was delicious.”
“I can see from your shirt how much you enjoyed the paté,” she teased.
He pulled his shirt out to take a look and sighed at the sight of the pink smear. “Your father is a pig. I don’t know how you acquired your gift for all this,” he told his daughter.
“Anyone could do it,” she said, dismissing his praise. “All it takes is money.”
“No.” Her father was adamant. “You cannot buy taste. It is a rare gift. One we both know I don’t share. You make me look presentable, and for that I am grateful.”
“Grateful enough to grant my fondest wish?” she asked, keeping her tone light.
“Of course. Whatever you want, it is yours,” he replied.
“I want to come work with you at the hedge fund. I want to learn everything about your business and join you after I graduate.”
He frowned. It wasn’t the first time the subject had been raised, and they both knew it would not be the last. “No,” he said. “Money is filthy. A beautiful girl should keep her hands clean.”