Prosecco & Paparazzi (The Passport Series Book 1) by Celia Kennedy

the bottle of wine. Rejoining them, I continued, “I propose that next year we meet at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Not too much can happen there.”
    Whomever Marian had seen approaching now tapped on the door. “Who is it?” she called out in a tone that asked, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
    “My name is Daniel LaRivière, I’m from the law firm of Chapdelaine & Dussault,” came the reply.
    “Oh god,” I said for the thousandth time in the last three days.
    All eyes in the room quickly swiveled from the door to me.
    “What do we do?” Kathleen whispered after a few moments of silence.
    “Well, darling, there’s only one thing to do. Open the door. We’ll take it one step at a time,” Tiziana replied, freakishly calmly.
    There was a certain amount of logic there. After all, how long could we stay hidden inside?
    Marian looked back at me, questioningly. I gave her a tentative nod and let out the breath I’d been holding. She carefully opened the door, leaving her foot behind it just in case the paparazzi made a rush and we had to shut it quickly. By now we were all standing up, gazing through the narrow gap, trying to size up our visitor.
    “Well, he looks like a lawyer. I don’t see any cameras or tape recorders. Should she let him in?” Hillary asked.
    I walked over to the door, taking deep breaths along the way. “Monsieur LaRivière, given everything that has happened, I’m sure you would understand our asking you for identification, to take off your coat and turn your remaining pockets inside out.”
    “As you request, mademoiselle.” He entered, a business card in one hand, his black cashmere coat in the other. He placed his coat over the back of a chair and then deposited the contents of his pockets on the table. Hillary, Kathleen, Marian, Tiziana, and I watched him carefully.
    “Should we pat him down to see if he’s wired?” Marian asked with a glint in her eye as she handed me his embossed business card.
    My brain sent a message causing me to recognize he was pretty hot, while my nervous system encouraged me to flee.
    That question was answered by Monsieur LaRivière. “Ladies, I can assure you that I’m not with the paparazzi or any other group associated with the media. If you allow me to open my briefcase, I believe I can answer all your questions suitably.”
    It was only then we noticed the briefcase. So much for our detective skills! As he was looking at me, I uncertainly said, “Certainly.” Feeling the need to fill the quiet while he made a show of unlocking the leather case, I continued, “No one here has anything to hide.” I prayed I was correct.
    “Interesting choice of words,” Monsieur LaRivière replied. “If I may explain why I’m here.” He paused briefly to make sure the documents were organized correctly and then continued, “I’m here to deliver documents.” This seemed quite ominous. The urge to flee grew bigger. Still looking at me, he said, “Could Ms. Charlotte Young please identify herself and provide me with a piece of legal identification?”
    I felt five pairs of eyes on me, four pairs waiting with concern, one pair disinterested.
    I stepped forward and took my passport from my purse, which was hanging on a hook beside my jacket. I briefly debated making a break for it but handed it over instead. After looking my passport and me over, Monsieur LaRivière handed it back with an envelope.
    The stationery was quite heavy, indicating its high quality. My name was printed in an elegant font and the letterhead was from Meade, Jameson, and Kelly.
    “Give us just a minute,” I requested.
    “I think that would be best, mademoiselle. It would make certain that all your questions are answered.”
    Feeling my friends peering over my shoulder, I turned the envelope over and carefully opened it. I unfolded the document and several important words leapt out at me. “Restraining Order,” “Charlotte Young,” “Mead, Jameson, and Kelly,”