“Father and I,” Pascal says casually.
“You said you wanted him out of it.”
“I did say that. But you have to understand, he has experience in this sort of thing. I told him what I was having you do, and he told me to tell you to knock it off.”
“Why didn’t he tell me himself?”
He smirks. “Because. He’s busy. But hey, thank you for that. You were a great help.”
I stare at Pascal, feeling more hopeless with each snowflake that melts in my hair. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing for you to worry about.”
“But you see, you brought me into this, and so I have the right to know.”
Pascal sighs, tapping his cigar so that the ash falls into the slush at his feet. “How much do you care about Seraphine? I mean, really? Honestly, truthfully?”
I’m careful. “She’s family.”
“But not really,” he says. “She wasn’t born into our family. She doesn’t have our blood.”
“But family is more than blood, isn’t it?”
Pascal narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “That’s almost poetic coming from you.”
“She’s been with us since she was nine, Pascal.”
“And we were a lot older when she came around. Frankly, I thought of her the same way I thought about the children of our help. Beneath us. Not one of us.”
He sounds just like our mother. I recall her once talking about Seraphine to my father, saying, “I just don’t know why they had to adopt a child from India. Everyone is going to think they couldn’t afford a white one. It’s just like charity.”
“Well, I told you how I feel,” I say with a shrug. “I feel the same way about her as I do about Olivier or Renaud. They might annoy me, but they’re family and they’ve always been there, whether I like it or not.”
“Mm-hmm. But how much do you care?”
A drop of melting snow falls on the tip of my nose and I shiver. “I don’t know what you’re getting at. I care enough that I don’t want her to fuck anything up, and so I’m going to go inside now and get to work.”
“You do want her job, don’t you?”
Suddenly I’m tired. Just overwhelmingly exhausted by all this. This same battle—us against them—that’s been waged and has raged for far too long.
I want to be free of this.
“I don’t know,” I tell him truthfully and shrug one shoulder. “Most days I think I really don’t care anymore.”
I’ve annoyed him. I can tell. Good.
“You spent a good part of your twenties just flitting from place to place, burning through money, having zero responsibilities,” Pascal remarks, sounding almost bitter. “Then one day you came back to Paris and wanted a job at the company, and we gave you that job. Any power you have isn’t because you’re a Dumont—it’s because we let you in and we gave you that power. Now you want to throw it away.”
I’m not sure how it’s possible for my brother to be both delusional and right at the same time, but there you go.
“Maybe I think I’ve outgrown the company,” I tell him.
“Maybe your loyalties lie with the wrong side.”
I take a step toward him, sick of him beating around the bush.
“Is there something I should know?” I ask. “Because you keep harping on about Seraphine. If you don’t want her to work for the company, then have Father fire her. And find someone else to take over her position, because I won’t do it. And if you don’t want her to look into the death of her father, then say something to her. Deal with it. But stop dragging me into this mess. Whatever problems you have with her are with her, not me.”
He studies me for a moment before puffing back on his cigar. His hair at this point is black with wet snow and stuck to his head, but he doesn’t seem to notice the weather at all. He never does. Sometimes I wonder just where my brother came from, because he doesn’t seem of this world.
“You’re very good at pretending you don’t care, brother,” he says as he stubs out the cigar on a nearby chestnut tree. “You’ve done that well your whole life, but you’ve never been able to fool me. You care deeply about some things, and I’ve always found it curious just which things—or people—capture your attention. Certainly it’s never been anything worthy. Remember when you were in Thailand for years, training in martial arts? Where did that get you? Is that training still in your blood, or did you cast it aside, looking for something else to tide you over?” He pauses and his eyes take on a weakened gleam that makes my hackles rise. “Remember when we were in Mallorca and you decided to seduce your cousin? That also didn’t get you anywhere, did it?”
I still, my breath catching in my throat. So he knows. I figured he did, but even so, it’s a shock to hear it now, after all this time.
I don’t say anything. There’s no point.
“Oh, don’t act so surprised,” he says reproachfully. “I know you saw me. I would have thought you’d at least be a little grateful that I managed to keep it a secret all this time.”
This has got to be a trap, but still . . . “You didn’t tell anyone?”
He flicks the cigar into the snow and shoves his hands in his coat pockets. “No. Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Because you’re fond of blackmail?”
He shrugs. “With my own brother? No. Now if it were someone else and Seraphine, perhaps a pool boy, then you can bet I’d drag her and her fake French name through the mud. Just for fun. But you? I should feel insulted that you’d even assume that.”
I’m not convinced. “You didn’t tell Father?”
“What do you think?” he says dryly. “If I told Father, you would have heard about it right away and in more ways than one. No, really it was none of my business, and so I treated it as such. Unfortunately, with what I know and what I see now, well, you’re making it my business.”
“Is that why you asked me to watch her?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Yes. I was curious to see if you’d do it and you did. You did fine. You impressed me. That first night, anyway. The second night, well . . . then you decided to get involved.”
I have a hard time swallowing. “You were watching me?”
“I had to know if I could trust you with all of this,” he says mildly. “Now I know that I can’t.”
My fists clench and unclench. “You do know she was being attacked, don’t you?” Then the realization of what Pascal would have witnessed comes over me. “Did you even know I’d step in? You would have seen what happened with Jones, what he did to her.”
He doesn’t look the least bit concerned. I’m two seconds away from punching his fucking head inside out. “I figured it taught her a lesson. He scared her, that’s all—and she deserved it, with her high and mighty attitude. But your reaction right now, well, now I know that when it comes to this predicament, we can’t quite trust you to do the right thing.”
“And what is the right thing?”
His lips twist into a sour smile, like he ate something out of spite. “Leave her to us. That’s all.”
We’re locked in a staring contest, and the more I search my brother’s eyes for signs of how genuine he is and how big a threat to Seraphine he is, the more I can’t make out anything except that he’s serious.
Dead serious.
“Fine,” I tell him. “Can I go now?”
“I was never keeping you,” he says, suddenly blasé, the intensity in his eyes fading to nothing.
Bullshit.
I hurry along my way, and by the time I get to the office, I look like a drowned rat.
“Interesting,” my father remarks as he passes me in the reception area, heading outside. “I know the cold-and-shivering look was a hit with our runway models during the spring show, should have figured you’d be the first to emulate it.”
I give my father the fakest grin I can manage. “Can’t help that you’re so damn influential, can I?”
I turn around and head to my office just in time
to see his smile falter.
I can’t remember the last time I talked back to him.
Back when I was young.
Back when I was in love.
Back when I thought I knew what I wanted, and what I wanted was a million miles away from this.
When the fuck did I lose that version of myself?
When did I get so fucking scared?
I walk right into my office, relieved that my father left, and take out my Post-it notes from my drawer. I lean over my desk and quickly scribble something down, making a conscious effort to hunch over my writing, as if cameras from above are recording my every move.
Then I head over to Seraphine’s office on the other side—fucking hell, how my father drilled in how much of an other side it was—and I knock.
“Come in,” she says, sounding as tired as I feel.
I open the door to see her at her desk, talking to one of the interns, who is sitting across from her. This particular intern is exceptionally bright and has a million worthy marketing ideas that she keeps bringing to the table. She’s the type of person who should be working alongside Seraphine, not me.
Seraphine’s initial reaction is to look shocked to see me, but she hides it well under her professionalism. This is the first time we’ve seen each other since last night, and even though she has dark shadows under her eyes, she looks as beautiful as ever.
Every cell in my body pulls toward her, like my veins have been filled with iron and she’s the magnet. I literally have to hold myself back and keep it together. I have to look away from those big beguiling eyes of hers—the ones I know mistrust me, the ones that sometimes hate me—and focus on the desk, on the floor, on anything else.
“What is it?” Seraphine asks tersely.
I give the intern a warm smile, and she blushes in response. At least my charms work on someone, as rusty as they are. I place the note on the desk, folded in half.
“Message for you,” I say, and then I quickly leave the room before I lose my mind.
It was Pascal’s idea that I start working in Seraphine’s department.
I’m starting to think that it was a test all along.
To find out where my alliances were.
To see if I still cared for her.
To see if I would protest should anything bad happen . . .
Something tells me it’s coming.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SERAPHINE
I stare down at the note in my hands.
Watch yourself. They know.
A chill runs down my spine as I say the words out loud, as I’ve been saying them to myself over the last few hours. After Blaise slipped me the note, I waited until I was done with work and sitting in my car before I read it. Call me paranoid, but I’ve always assumed there are cameras and hidden microphones all over the office.
And judging by not only the fact that Blaise had to pass me a note like we’re in fucking high school but that it said I had to watch myself, I’m probably right.
They know.
I don’t have to ask who they are.
I already know that.
He already told me.
This note is telling me something else.
What, I’m not sure.
What I do know is I spent a good hour in my apartment with the hair standing up on the back of my neck, jumping at every single sound I heard, before I decided I should go to my favorite café and be around people and civilization. I thought about contacting Blaise, but I wasn’t sure how since we’ve resorted to paper forms of communication, and to be honest, I’m still torn over my feelings for him.
The other night, he said everything that I’ve always wanted to hear.
He answered a question that had been burning through me for nine years.
He became the person I always wanted and needed him to be. Not in the dreamy teenage-crush kind of way, but a man. A man who wants to protect, a man who wants to be with me, would choose me over his family.
And even though he is my cousin, that’s no longer the outstanding issue between us. We’re both adults, and from the world looking in, I suppose it would be strange if we ever got together. As teenagers it felt hopeless, but now, if I look deep enough, I can see there’s a way out, and it has a lot to do with not giving a shit what people think.
But we still need to care what his father would think—he’s only gotten more dangerous. He’s become a murderer, after all. And beyond the threat of, well, death, there’s the fact that Blaise might just be lying about everything.
He sounded sincere, he looked sincere, but his brother is the master of acting and deceit, and I have no reason to believe that Blaise hasn’t learned a thing from him. After all, Blaise used to be the boy that hated his family. Then he ended up working for them. Now he’s back to saying he hates them. I have no idea what to believe with him, but I would be a complete fool to think that he’s actually placed his loyalty with me instead of them.
Who am I really to him, anyway?
Is it actually true that he was pining for me all these years, eschewing sex and relationships, carrying a torch for me while I was married?
I don’t want to think about that. I know that my heart will latch itself to the idea; it will want to believe that I’ve had that effect on him, it will tell me that it’s all I’ve ever wanted.
I also don’t want to think about the fact that he kissed me.
That when he did, everything came flooding back, like time was held behind floodgates and finally released in a raging torrent that flowed through every hollow and forgotten bend inside me.
I was a teenager again, giving myself away with a kiss.
I was feeling all those years of pent-up sexual tension and frustration and yearning around him being let loose for the first time, and had I kept kissing him, had I not stopped him out of fear, I would have drowned.
No man has ever made me feel like that.
It’s just so fucking fitting that it happens to be the man I can’t have.
No—the man I shouldn’t have.
Not if I expect to survive with my heart and pride and perhaps even life intact.
I’m just about out the door when my phone beeps, and I get the text I’ve been both waiting for and dreading.
It’s from Jones.
My time to pay him has been ticking to a close, and even though I texted him throughout the day, telling him I had a cheque ready to go or the means to do a wire transfer, he never replied until now.
I thought maybe he’d forgotten.
Silly me.
Meet me by the community garden in Jardins d’Eole at eleven p.m. Bring cash.
I stare at the text, blinking.
It’s not just that he wants to meet me in a park that’s considerably unsafe at night, but that I have to bring cash.
I don’t fucking have €50,000 in cash!
Fuck me. What the hell am I going to do?
Panic starts to claw up me like a wild animal.
Think, Seraphine, think.
I can only take out so much from the distributeur, and the banks aren’t open. I do have about ten thousand in cash in my safe, but that’s not going to be enough.
I start wildly looking around my apartment, searching everything I have and quickly assessing their apparent value. I have valuable art, rare printed books, handbags, but none of those things will do.
I’m going to have to give him everything in the safe.
Which includes a lot of jewelry I inherited from my mother—jewelry I don’t ever want to part with.
It also includes a gun.
Not valuable cash-wise but perhaps valuable in saving my own life.
I head over to the safe, enter the code, and open it.
The handgun gleams. It’s completely illegal. But my father always taught me to protect myself. He said that being part of a famously wealthy family like ours only opens ourselves up to kidnappings and the like.
If only he knew that the real threats were comin
g from inside the family.
I take out the gun, the jewels, the cash, though I leave behind Ernest, the teddy bear I’ve had since I was adopted, and I know I’m going to need help in this. Help I don’t want to ask for, help that might backfire.
But if he does help me, maybe there is more to what he’s been saying.
I text Blaise: Want to grab a drink? Meet me at the café at eight?
I don’t know how things work, if his texts are monitored by his father or if that’s even possible, but I want to be as vague as can be, and I assume he knows what café I’m talking about.
He responds immediately: see you soon.
Damn. The tiny little thrill that rushes through me at seeing that response is completely inappropriate, considering I’m not sure I can trust him and I’m about to ask for a whole load of cash to pay off a thug who threatened to kill me if I didn’t.
Blaise lives in the Right Bank, almost right across the Seine from me, so it doesn’t take him long to show up at the café. It’s too cold and miserable outside to sit on the terrace, so I’m inside the shop, tucked away in the back corner. I’m alternating between a cappuccino and a glass of red wine, wanting a clear head but also trying to temper my nerves and my heart, which are all over the place and making me feel nuts.
I hate to admit it, but he’s a sight for sore eyes as he walks toward me; his black wool coat with the popped-up collar matches his dark hair and even darker eyes.
He takes the seat across from me and studies my face for a moment before he says, “I need to apologize to you.”
I should wave away what he’s about to say, because I’m about to ask him for €40,000, but I want to hear it.
“For what?”
He gives me a look like, You know what I’m talking about. “For being inappropriate with you. Right now, that’s the last thing you need, the last thing I should be doing. We have bigger problems, and acting on my impulses isn’t going to get us anywhere.”
He’s completely right, and I’m impressed he admitted it.
Still, when he talks about impulses . . .
Stop it. Don’t be a fool. You’re not a teenager anymore. You’re a woman with her own life in her hands and a gun in her purse.
Disarm Page 16
