Find You in Paris: A fun and sexy enemies-to-lovers romance (The Darcy Brothers)

by Alix Nichols

  Maybe both. And thus avenge Dad.

  My brain prefers Option A, while my gut craves Option B. But here’s the best part—I win, no matter how the dice roll, and Dad gets either money or satisfaction. Or both, if I can find dirt and be patient enough to hold onto it until after I am paid. That would make me a villain, and a nasty piece of work, but who says being ruthless is men’s prerogative?

  Sebastian Darcy is a vulture. He deserves a taste of his own cruelty.

  It’s in that crucial instant, right after I’ve shampooed my hair and just before I rinse it, that I decide I’ll marry him.

  * * *

  We meet in his office because Darcy’s schedule for today has only one thirty-minute slot that could be freed.

  “I’m glad you were able to see that my offer represents a unique opportunity for you and your family,” he says, motioning me to the informal area of his ginormous office with comfy leather armchairs and a designer coffee table.

  His arrogance is unbearable, but I hold my tongue. If I want my plan to succeed, I need him to trust me.

  Pitbull enters with a tray loaded with drinks, pretty little sandwiches, and mouthwatering pastries. She gives me a perplexed look, which tells me she remembers me from my cancelled appointment back in October and wonders if she’s pegged me right.

  “Could you maybe clue me in on the whys of your offer?” Rather than sitting down, I go to the floor-to-ceiling window and take in the breathtaking view. “It would help to know what I’m getting myself into.”

  “I explained last time,” he says. “And I can assure you it’s not illegal or dangerous.”

  I turn around and give him a stare. “You didn’t explain anything. You just said ‘I need you to be my pretend girlfriend for a couple of months and then my pretend wife for another month or so.’ ”

  “And that’s as much as you need to know,” he says, his voice dry. “Take it or leave it.”

  Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll find out on my own.

  “Will you please sit down?” He points to the sofa. “I’d like you to look at the contract.”

  Ah, so there’s a written contract. Well, what did I expect?

  I amble over to one of the armchairs, plonk myself down, and pick up an éclair. “I’m not going to sign your contract right away.”

  “I don’t expect you to.” He sits down opposite me. “You can study it tonight and call me tomorrow morning, but you can’t discuss it with anyone. That’s why you’ll need to sign this before you can see the contract.”

  He nudges a sheet of paper across the coffee table. The title at the top of the page says, “Nondisclosure Agreement.”

  How clever of him.

  I read and sign the agreement while Darcy wolfs down a few sandwiches, explaining he hasn’t had time to eat yet.

  Who knew billionaires were such busy people?

  “We’ll use your dramatic appearance at Jeanne and Mat’s party to our best advantage,” he says, wiping his fingers with a napkin.

  “How?”

  “I’ll tell everyone we’d been seeing each other discreetly for a few months until you were led to believe I’d cheated on you. But now the misunderstanding is cleared up and we’re back together, madly in love.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Why go out of your way to give a reason for what I did when you can just fall madly in love with a fresh face who won’t require any explaining.”

  “Because what you did suggests you’re the kind of woman who doesn’t put up with cheating.”

  “And that’s good becaaaause…?”

  “I can’t tell you, but trust me, it’s good. In fact, it’s perfect for my plan.”

  I sigh. “Whatever you say.”

  “Let’s look at the contract now, shall we?” He glances at his watch. “My meeting starts in fifteen minutes.”

  I open the manila folder and stare at the document inside it.

  “Most of it is legalese that we can go over next time once we agree on the terms,” Darcy says.

  I nod.

  “You can go straight to this part.” He turns several pages and points at a paragraph with bullet points. “Please read this and let me know if you have questions. Or, if you prefer, I can just walk you through it.”

  I scoff at him. “Coming from a family that’s been sending its children to private schools for generations, you may not be aware that France has had free universal education since the 1880s.”

  He blinks, clearly taken aback. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “No, it’s me who’s sorry to shatter your aristocratic illusions,” I say. “But cashiers can read.”

  “I was just trying to be helpful,” he says.

  I know he is. And it aggravates me. I’d be much more comfortable with him if he’d stop hiding his ugly face behind this mask of polite concern.

  Darcy looks at his watch again and taps his index finger on the highlighted passage. “Read this at home, then reread it, and write down all your questions. I’ll call you tomorrow night.”

  Aha, now he’s showing his bossy side.

  I’m so intimidated.

  Not.

  “Oui, monsieur.” I bow my head with exaggerated obedience, noting in passing that Darcy has handsome hands—lean wrists, large palms, and long fingers.

  At least the right one, which is currently pinning the contract to the table.

  Let’s hope his left hand is teeny-weeny. Or super fat. Or excessively hairy.

  He doesn’t deserve two handsome hands.

  “The gist of this paragraph,” Darcy says, “is that you recognize you’re entering a financially compensated transaction with me, which is couched as a relationship, but is not a relationship, be it physical or emotional.”

  A relationship with an a-hole.

  God forbid.

  “Consider it recognized,” I say.

  “It also says here somewhere…” He slides his finger along the lines and halts on one of the bullet points. “Here—it says you commit to moving in with me at about the two-month mark on our timeline.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “This has to be credible for it to work.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his other hand, which, unfortunately, is as nicely shaped as the first. “A month after that, I’ll propose, and another month after that, we’ll marry.”

  “It’ll look rushed. Besides, how are you going to stage a town hall ceremony and—”

  “I won’t have to. We’ll fly to the Bahamas for a week and get married there.” He uses air quotes.

  “Wow, you’ve thought this through.”

  “I have, indeed.” He clears his throat. “As you can see, the bullet point just below states that sex is not a requirement but you will need to touch and kiss me in public.”

  “Good.”

  He raises his eyebrows in surprise.

  Crap. That came out all wrong.

  “What I meant was it’s good that sex isn’t required. It would’ve been a deal-breaker.”

  He nods. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Do I have to kiss you?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t have to be torrid. But if we never kiss, our relationship won’t look convincing.”

  “OK, if we must.” I sigh. “So we date, move in together, and smooch on camera. Then what?”

  “Then we wait for… a certain person to make his move.”

  “How very enigmatic.” I roll my eyes. “You do realize I’m going to hate every moment of our time together, right?”

  “You won’t be the only one,” he says. “In any event, if nothing happens within six months, we’ll break up and I’ll pay you for your time. But if my plan works, you’ll walk away a rich woman.”

  Or if my plan works, you’ll be left a ruined man.

  Part II

  Island

  FIVE

  “Did Belle Auxbois at least say she’d think about it?”

  I turn to glance at Dad, who’s slumped in the passenger seat,
fuming. I take it the pop star made no such promise. It doesn’t surprise me. The diva demonstrates typical rich-person behavior—exploit whomever you can, whenever you can, for as long as you can. Come to think of it, this credo must be the most important qualification for joining the Rich Club.

  The only real difference between Belle Auxbois and Darcy is that her fake sweetness and angelic voice have misled millions of people into thinking she’s a nice person.

  Dad and I are in his car, and I’m driving him home from his physical therapy session. The poor man hates these sessions with all his heart. I don’t blame him. His therapist is a hulk of a woman with sadistic propensities. She would’ve made a formidable Grand Inquisitor in another time and place, wringing confessions of witchcraft and heresy from innocent souls. But luckily for the medievals and unluckily for us, Troll Queen isn’t an officer of the Inquisition. She’s employed by a public hospital just outside of Marseille.

  It took me six weekends with Dad and trips to the hospital’s rehab center to figure out her deal. This meant hours of watching her walk and talk—in fact, “bark” would be a better word for her unique communication style—and listening to grown men and women begging for mercy behind her door.

  Have you ever tried to read a book while your beloved daddy screams, “Please, I can’t take it anymore!” next door?

  I have.

  And I didn’t enjoy it.

  Anyway, Mamma Grizzly is convinced that stroke rehab protocol has to be painful to be effective. And God forbid someone confuses what she does for a living with massage. Because, you see, madame isn’t a masseuse. Hell, no. Her job is not to rub and knead people into comfort. Her job is to twist and contort patients into recovery.

  To be fair, Dad has improved dramatically since the dominatrix first laid her hands on him. He can now move his fingers and speak more distinctively.

  And that’s the only reason I haven’t sued her. Instead, I always make sure my smartphone is fully charged before we head to the hospital. When we get there, I stick my earplugs in my ears and let System of a Down outshout Dad.

  “What exactly did Belle say when you called her?” I ask again.

  He turns to me. “It’s a no-go. She cited the contract.”

  That damn contract! Why hadn’t he shown it to me before signing?

  “Did you try to appeal to her humanity? Explain how much it would mean to you in your current situation?”

  “Yeah, I did.” He sighs and turns away to stare at the road. “She said she was sorry, but she couldn’t do it.”

  “Not even to admit you gave her a hand? Or that she consulted you?”

  “You see,”—he lets out a bitter snort—“Madame Auxbois was featured on some morning show a couple of days ago, where she told the whole country she’d concocted the perfume in her kitchen. All by herself.”

  I blow my cheeks out. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Stupid cow!

  I glance at Dad’s defeated face, and my heart aches with pity. If I want to help him—and God knows I do more than anything in the world—I must get better at channeling my anger into something constructive.

  Count your blessings, Diane.

  For one, Dad’s arm is on the mend, and his speech has improved so much it’s hard to imagine I had trouble understanding him a year ago. He’s joined AA and hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since his stroke.

  And last but not least, I’m about to get an unhoped-for chance to hurt his archenemy—Sebastian Darcy.

  We met briefly yesterday to sign the contract and iron out the details. I tried all the powers of persuasion I’m capable of to waive the requirement of living under his roof. But he was firm. He said his immediate circle had to believe we were consumed by mad passion. It was crucial to the success of his scheme. I’m deducing—clever me—that his scheme targets someone in his entourage.

  I also tried to persuade him to let Chloe and Elorie in on our charade. Chloe is family and Elorie is my best friend in Paris. They know me well, especially Chloe. It would be hard to lie to them.

  The answer was no way. The only person in the loop besides the two of us is his brother Raphael, but only because they hatched the plan together. Aside from that exception, no one else must know. Every additional person who has the info increases the risk of a leak and, consequently, the failure of his plan. With an icy gleam in his eyes, he reminded me I had committed to secrecy by signing the nondisclosure agreement and he had every intention of holding me to it.

  You do that, genius.

  Whoever drafted that agreement—I suspect it was Darcy and his bro all by themselves, seeing his obsession with confidentiality—left a loophole. The text focuses too much on the fake relationship and things around it. But there’s nothing in it that says I must keep my lips sealed with regards to unrelated trivial secrets I might stumble upon, such as tax evasion or financial fraud.

  Or less trivial ones, such as murder.

  I almost drooled as I pictured myself finding proof that the senior Darcy’s death wasn’t accidental. Lo and behold, he was killed in cold blood by his oldest son, Sebastian. The golden boy will be investigated, found guilty, and sent to prison where he’ll rot for rest of his days.

  Wouldn’t that be a hoot?

  “Any other questions?” Darcy asked, breaking me out of my favorite fantasy.

  I’d told him my biggest concern was how Dad would handle the news of our association once it reached his ears.

  “He’ll get over it,” Darcy said, all dry pragmatism.

  “He’ll stop talking to me.” I wrung my hands. “He’ll think I’m a traitor.”

  “If it’s any consolation, my mother thinks I’m a traitor.”

  Does she now? Is that why Marguerite d’Arcy has been holed up in Nepal doing charity work for over a decade? Voilà Paris called her “the French Mother Teresa” in the feature they ran about her a couple of years ago.

  “Why would she think that?” I asked.

  He sighed and waved my question off. “Long story.”

  I made a mental note to investigate.

  Before we said good-bye, Darcy informed me that our first “post-reconcilliation” outing will be a “small, informal gathering” to celebrate his brother Raphael’s twenty-ninth birthday. I pointed out I didn’t know anyone in his circle. He said he’d invited Jeanne and Mat. Mat is an up-and-coming politician he believes in and backs. I’m friends with Jeanne. We can spend most of the weekend chatting with the couple. That way, neither of us will appear stiff to anyone watching.

  I nodded, dropping my head so he wouldn’t see me roll my eyes.

  Because, honestly, who are you kidding, man?

  You never smile. I’ve never seen you slump or stoop, be it in photos or in real life. Regardless of what you say or do, your body language, accent and manners scream, “Stuck-up aristocrat.”

  You don’t just appear stiff—you’re Count Stiff. No, you’re King Stiff.

  Brace yourself, your Majesty.

  I’m here to depose you.

  SIX

  I sip my iced tea and stare out the bay window at the waters of the Mediterranean. I’m no longer in Dad’s cheap divorcé pad deep inside the ugliest industrial suburb of Marseille. This place is lush and unspoiled by construction folly. In fact, the only construction here is an unobtrusive energy-efficient villa overlooking the beach.

  The “small, informal gathering” Darcy had told me about turned out to be a weekend party for over fifty guests. Held on a Greek island.

  A private Greek island.

  The guests were flown to Crete this morning by private jet—of course—all white leather and overwhelming sleekness. While up in the air, I met Darcy’s middle brother, Raphael—the CEO of a large audit firm—his best friend, Laurent, and a bunch of other people, all of whom eyed me with unrestrained curiosity.

  After we landed, I was eager to see the sites, but it looked as if I was the only one who’d never been to Crete before. Even Jeanne, the only oth
er “normal” person in this jet set, had visited it when she backpacked around Europe at twenty.

  “Another time,” Darcy had said to me, all bossy and curt, before we were all ferried to Ninossos, farther south, on board a private mahogany-paneled yacht.

  How else was a poor rich man to transport guests to his island?

  “Papa loved this place,” Darcy says, planting himself next to me. “The weather is mild here almost all year round.”

  I can definitely believe that, considering how sunny and warm it is right now in the middle of winter. The island is small and kept in its natural state, except for this villa. Perched on a hillside and separated from the sandy beach by terraced gardens, it offers a breathtaking view over the sea.

  What’s not to love?

  “It’s Raphael’s now,” Darcy says.

  I give him a sidelong glance and turn away quickly, embarrassed by the effect his jeans and shirt are having on me. Dammit! When he wears one of his bespoke suits, I can tell myself it’s not him, it’s the cut. The second I catch myself eyeing his torso, I bring up the image of a Savile Row tailor wielding his magic scissors and turning amorphous men into hunks.

  The problem is no sane person with functioning eyes would call the man standing next to me amorphous.

  I force a sneer. “Is the boat his, too?”

  He nods.

  “And the jet?”

  “We co-own it, the same as Le Big Ben.”

  “I hadn’t pegged you as someone who’s into sharing, even with family members.”

  “You’re wrong—I do share, and not only with family. My other jet is used for corporate travel by all Parfums d’Arcy managers and sales reps.”

  I shake my head, tut-tutting. “How disappointing. Billionaires aren’t what they used to be.”

  He says nothing.

  I sneak a peek at him. Darcy’s expression is as stony as ever. It’s not as if I expected him to crack up or anything, but… I don’t know… maybe smile a little?