Roman chuckled. "Don't worry about it, Jean-Luc. Mortals have very short attention spans. If you stay hidden for a while, they'll forget about you."

"And forget to buy my merchandise," Jean-Luc grumbled. "I am ruined."

"Ye're no' ruined," Angus argued. "Ye now have five stores in America."

"Stores selling clothes from a designer who has disappeared," Jean-Luc growled. "It's easy for you, Angus. Your company exists in secrecy. But when I vanish, all interest in my clothing line may vanish along with me."

"We could make a statement to the press that ye did have cosmetic surgery," Robby offered. "It might put an end to the speculation."

"Non." Jean-Luc glared at him.

Gregori grinned. "Or we could tell them you're locked up in a psycho ward, completely loony. Everyone would believe that."

Jean-Luc arched a brow at him. "Or I could tell them I'm in prison for murdering an obnoxious marketing vice president."

"I vote for that one," Angus said.

"Hey." Gregori adjusted his tie. "I was just joking."

"I wasn't," Jean-Luc muttered.

Angus laughed. "Whatever ye do, Jean-Luc, doona let anyone take a photo of you. Ye must remain hidden for at least twenty-five years. Then ye can return to Paris, posing as yer son."

Jean-Luc lounged back in his chair, staring mournfully at the ceiling. "Exiled to a land of barbarians for twenty-five years. Just kill me now."

Roman chuckled. "Texas is not a land of barbarians."

Jean-Luc shook his head. "I've seen the movies. Gun-fights, Indians, someplace they keep fighting for called the Alamo."

Gregori snorted. "Dude, you are so behind the times."

"You think so? Have you seen the people down there?" Jean-Luc rose to his feet and strode to his office window that overlooked the store on the ground floor. "The men are wearing strings around their necks."