by Alix Nichols
Time for another lie. “It’s not about his money—I fancy him.”
“No kidding.” She smirks. “Why would anyone fancy a tall, dark, and handsome billionaire? Who happens to be single. And young.”
And a jerk.
But that’s beside the point.
She purses her lips. “Where did you meet him?”
“He’s a friend of Jeanne’s husband, Mat.”
Elorie blinks. “Jeanne from La Bohème?”
“The very same.” I take a fortifying breath—here goes one more lie. “It started as casual sex a few weeks ago and grew into something bigger… really fast.”
Elorie says nothing.
“Will you forgive me for keeping you in the dark?” I ask.
She keeps silent for a while and then smiles. “Still waters run deep, eh?”
I smile back.
“OK,” she says. “I’ll forgive you on one condition.”
“Shoot.”
“Introduce me into his circle.”
I grin at Elorie’s ever pragmatic attitude. “Consider it done.”
“OK,” she says. “You’re forgiven.”
I blow her a kiss.
“Let’s rewind to where you said it was getting serious,” she says. “What did you mean by that?”
That I’m marrying him in exactly two months.
“Just that we’re not hiding anymore, which, by the way, will make it easy to bring you into the fold.”
She nods, her eyes bright. I can almost see smoke coming out of her ears as her mind spins with possibilities. Let’s hope she meets the man of her dreams through Darcy, so at least someone will have a happy ending when our farce is over.
“Wait,” Elorie says. “Will you be quitting the supermarket job?”
I look at my beautifully painted nails. “Why would I do that?”
She shrugs. “Because he can use his connections to get you a better job, dum-dum.”
Makes sense, but that’s not why I’ll quit. I’m going to give in my notice later this week because my contract with Darcy says so.
On page five.
We leave the salon and head to the nearby movie theater for some superhero action accompanied by popcorn and gummy bears.
“Hey, maybe he’ll help you become a photographer for fashion magazines,” Elorie says with enthusiasm as we slump into our armchairs in the back of the darkened room. “That would be so cool!”
Fashion photography is cool, except it isn’t my thing. But Elorie’s comment reminds me of another matter I wanted to discuss with her.
“I hope I can make it as a photographer on my own,” I say. “One of the depositories where I upload my pics asked me for a series of artful portraits in black and white.”
She mouths, “Ooh.”
“They want tasteful feminine nudes.” I hesitate before adding, “Will you pose for me?”
She chokes on her popcorn. “You serious?”
“Yes. You’re beautiful and fit, and so much more real than those anorexic fashion models… Not that I’m in a position to ask one to sit for me, anyway.”
It’s like a lungful of fresh air to be able to say something honest. I’m going to miss that feeling. I already do.
“I’m flattered,” Elorie says. “But I have to be careful about my image. Considering my plans.”
“Not to worry!” I lean in. “I’ll make sure nothing scandalous, such as a nipple, can be seen. The series will be more about the shapes, arches, skin, light, and shadow than about the body.”
Elorie chews her lip.
I give her a pleading look. “Please, pretty please?”
“Have you done it before?”
“No,” I say honestly. “You’ll be my first nude.”
“OK,” she says. “Why not. Could be fun.”
“Thank you, Elorie, you’re the best!” I give her a quick hug. “And, by the way, I’ll split my fee.”
She grins. “Why didn’t you start with that, dum-dum?”
Elorie, you rock.
When I get home after the movie, my thoughts return to my Greek weekend. Last night, when Darcy walked into our bedroom, I was already under the covers, pretending to sleep. I even produced a loud snore or two for good measure. Because I’m an ace at fake snoring.
And because I have no class.
In reality, it took me several hours to fall asleep. I was annoyed with my fruitless search, with Darcy’s mean comment, and with the whole fake relationship thing. Suddenly, I was uncertain my plan would work. What if I don’t find any incriminating evidence? Maybe Thibaud d’Arcy wasn’t murdered. Maybe the family’s closets have been purged of all skeletons. Maybe Parfums d’Arcy doesn’t sneak carcinogenic components into its flavors and fragrances.
Maybe Sebastian Darcy is the only billionaire in the world who doesn’t tuck his money away in offshore accounts.
Nah, I don’t believe that.
What’s more likely, though, is that the money is hidden too well for me to trace.
As our “relationship” is about to go public, some of the implications I’ve been ignoring hit me hard. Dad will be devastated. He’ll be so disappointed he might even stop talking to me. I’ll have to lie to him, lie to Mom, Chloe and all my friends. I’ll spend the next four to six months pretending I love the man I hate.
And all I’ll get out of this may be two hundred grand at best and fifty at worst. If my hidden agenda fails, I won’t get any revenge or satisfaction out of this—just money.
It’s a terrifying prospect.
Part III
Castle
NINE
March is my least favorite month.
The weather is just as depressing in Paris as it is in Burgundy, London, Montreal, New York, and pretty much everywhere else in the northern hemisphere where I travel for work or leisure. Of course, there’s always Tahiti and Australia, but those trips are notorious time eaters. Even Raph’s paradisiac Ninossos gets too gray this time of year. Raph doesn’t care—he’s happy to go there rain or shine, but I’d rather brood in a big city than on a rock in the middle of the sea.
Notice that I haven’t done much brooding lately. I’ve been working my tail off, consolidating the headway Parfums d’Arcy made last quarter and overseeing the launch of three new manufacturing facilities. Not to mention Le Big Ben. Raph and I purchased it last month, and it needs a loving hand to recover its old luster.
Thank God Octave is there—always in good health, remarkably fit and imperturbable—to manage the town house! Because whenever I have a free moment, I spend it with Diane.
That woman makes it virtually impossible to brood even when you’re determined to. Not that she makes a special effort to divert me, but she achieves that without meaning to. Sometimes, even despite herself.
Over the past few weeks, she’s accompanied me to several society galas and soirées, where we’ve held hands and smiled for cameras. I’ve taken her to dinner at exclusive places such as La Tour d’Argent and Jules Verne and for drinks at Royal Monceau and Le Crillon. She didn’t seem impressed. I bought a Cartier watch and Chopard earrings for her so she’d look more presentable. She gave me a signed note, saying she’d wear those items while working for me and return them as soon as we were done.
Strange woman.
Last week she mentioned she loved musicals, so I flew her to New York to see one on Broadway. She seemed to enjoy herself. But when we returned to Paris, she demanded that I slash the extravagance of my courtship from overkill to gallant.
Because, she said, she didn’t want any perks.
The demand was made just as I was about to hire a personal shopper and a stylist for her. Not because the things she wears are ugly or cheap—which they are, by the way—but because they don’t do her justice. Now that I’ve had ample opportunity to watch and hold her, I know she has a delectable figure underneath her sack-like gowns and baggy pants.
And I want to see that figure in a formfitting dress that stops well abo
ve the knee.
Beats me why I want that, but I do.
“Diane,” I say as I offer my hand to help her out of the car. “You’re quitting your job and moving in with me in less than two weeks. You must allow me to upgrade your outfits.”
She takes my hand and puts a foot on the red carpet rolled out in front of the nightclub. Her delicate foot is shod in a clunky boot, which begs this question—is that all she can afford on her salary or is it what she actually likes? Above the boot, flaps the hem of an ample gown that reminds me of the traditional dress women wear in North Korea. I catch a glimpse of a slim ankle between the boot and the dress, and my fingers burn to touch it. I ignore that urge. It’ll pass, eventually. It always does.
“Define upgrade,” Diane says.
“Let me rephrase it—I’d like to buy you new clothes. And shoes.”
“What’s wrong with what I wear? Not classy enough?”
I hesitate, but only for a second. “Exactly.”
Sometimes you have to be blunt to get your message across.
I close the car door behind her and instruct Greg to go home. He argues that he doesn’t mind waiting, but I insist. Whether it’s out of decency or to avoid Diane calling me a heartless exploiter is an open question.
She’s quiet as we enter the club and join my friends partying in one of the larger booths. I decide to drop the subject of her wardrobe.
For now.
With the exception of Laurent, the rest of the company aren’t really my friends in the original, pre-Facebook sense of the word. They’re just people who entertain me enough to spend a couple of hours with them once in a while.
“Hey, look who’s here!” Laurent stands to greet us.
The others follow suit, and a few minutes later, my girlfriend and I are cozying up to each other in one of the roomy armchairs, sipping our elaborate cocktails.
Unlike the last time I hung out with this group, the conversation is dull, dominated by Jean-François, who can’t stop gushing about his new Ferrari. He’s been droning on for at least fifteen minutes now, killing Laurent’s and his date Yasmina’s attempts to change the topic. The women study their nails, and even the men look bored.
“Let’s dance,” Yasmina says suddenly.
She grabs Laurent’s hand and stands up.
“Great idea!” Laurent looks mighty pleased as he follows her to the dance floor.
One by one, the occupants of the booth follow Yasmina’s example, and before we know it, it’s just Diane, Jean-François, and me. I don’t usually dance, but I’ve heard enough about Ferraris to last me a lifetime. As far as I can tell, so has Diane.
I stand and offer her my hand. “A dance, chérie?”
“With pleasure.” She gives me a dazzling smile.
Considering the circumstances, she might mean it for once.
Diane isn’t a very skilled dancer, but she has a good sense of rhythm, and the way she moves is nice to look at, despite her unfortunate outfit. Something else that’s nice to look at are her eyes. Diane is the only person I know whose eyes always hold a private smile. As if she could see something amusing in everything and everyone, at all times. Even when she’s angry or sulking, that little smile is still there, illuminating her lovely face and lifting my spirits in a most unexpected way.
A flash of light draws my attention away from Diane’s eyes. Ah, paparazzi. I used to turn my back or walk away whenever I spotted one, but these days, their interests and mine are perfectly aligned. I put my hand on the small of Diane’s back and draw her closer.
“There’s a photo op at three o’clock,” I whisper in her ear. “We need to kiss.”
“Mild or medium?” she whispers back.
Diane has come up with a four-level Smooch Heat Index to help us navigate the murky waters of pretend affection. Her scale goes from mild to extra hot. The former is a peck that we use to greet each other and say good-bye in public. Medium involves a longer “docking” time and more pressure, but it’s still just a brush and our lips remain sealed. I’m allowed to initiate it without asking, albeit a heads-up is always appreciated.
Hot corresponds to an openmouthed kiss, suggesting tongue play to an innocent onlooker.
That level requires a prior clearance and is reserved for special occasions. I presume our upcoming betrothal will qualify as such.
Finally, level number four—extra hot—is a passionate, shameless kiss, “tongues and all,” which she included in her index as a point of reference rather than a workable option. Diane is adamant: Extra hot is and will remain out of bounds, unless warranted by exceptional circumstances such as an impending apocalypse or a real danger of exposure.
I cup her cheek and slide my hand to the back of her head. “Hot. We’re in a nightclub.”
I’m taking a risk here, well aware that a midnight dance can hardly be called a “special occasion.” My request isn’t justified, and I fully expect her to call my bluff and mouth “no way.”
Diane arches an eyebrow as if to say she needs justification.
I just stare at her, holding my ground.
She gives me a small nod.
Before she can change her mind, I pull her into me with my hand at her nape and press my mouth to hers. Every time we kiss, it strikes me how much I enjoy it. My goals, my company, the whole world becomes unimportant as her delicious scent fills my nostrils and the softness of her lips overtakes my mind. So warm, so yielding. I’ve tried meditating with the best coaches in France and abroad to achieve the state of mindful relaxation wherein I empty my head and let go of all my worries.
I swear I have yet to find a shorter path to that coveted state than kissing Diane Petit.
She wraps her arms around my neck, melding her body to mine.
A camera clicks.
I graze her lips and tease them apart.
She lets me. Holding her tight, I stroke her back. My right hand slides to her glorious bottom and stays there, fingers splayed but not daring to squeeze. The temptation to slip my tongue between her soft lips and drink in the taste of her mouth is so strong I can barely resist it.
No tongues, I remind myself. She doesn’t want tongues. She was very clear on that point.
Diane’s hand runs up and down my nape, clutching the back of my neck as if she means it.
It’s just for show. It’s just for show. It’s just for—
She removes her hand and draws away.
“We should go,” she says.
I’m so drunk on her I need a moment to adjust.
And so does my erection.
She stands on tiptoes and whispers into my ear, “Now, Sebastian. If you grab my hand and we rush out, everyone will think we’re running off to fuck.”
TEN
I hail a cab.
“Rue Didot in the 14th,” I say to the driver.
Our drill is that I accompany Diane to her place before going home. Sometimes I stay for an hour or so, checking emails on my phone and reading a paper while Diane does chores or edits photos.
She calls that a “quickie.”
The few times we’ve gone to my town house after a date, I’ve insisted she stay the night, but she always has a good reason to return to her apartment.
As we drive across the city, I’m painfully aware of Diane’s thigh next to mine.
Get a grip, man.
She isn’t even my type. I’m sure I’m reacting this way because I haven’t had sex in months, ever since Ingrid left me. That’s it; this isn’t about Diane, this is just about me having gone too long without a woman. It’s decided—I’m getting laid as soon as Diane and I are done, and I won’t be picky. The first pretty face who falls into my lap will do just to take the edge off.
Because, heaven help me, that edge will be the size of Everest by then.
I stare out the window, surprised to see we’re passing by the imposing red gate of the Hôtel d’Hozier and other familiar buildings on rue Vieille du Temple. The taxi is taking us to the left bank th
rough Le Marais. This itinerary is practicable only by night. By day, my neighborhood’s mesh of one-way streets makes it a nightmare to drive through.
My town house is just a few blocks away, hidden from sight behind a walled garden, as a self-respecting Parisian hôtel particulier should be. It hasn’t been in the family for very long—only half a century—but I hope it’ll stay for generations to come.
Half an hour later, the cab pulls up outside Diane’s building. I pay the driver and follow my intended upstairs.
“I’m not very good with cocktails,” Diane says, opening one of her kitchen cabinets. “But I can fix us a gin and tonic.”
I sit at the kitchen table. “Sure.”
A Scotch is what I’d really like, but I already had two glasses of the best single malt at the nightclub, so I’m fine with a gin and tonic. Or anything, for that matter.
Diane hands me my drink and sits down across from me, nursing her own glass in her hands.
“When you walked me through the contract,” she says, “you said something about waiting for ‘a certain person to make his move.’ ”
“Did I?”
She nods. “Did he?”
“Make a move?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Not yet.”
“What kind of move are we talking about?”
I sigh and spend some time gulping down my drink. Diane is already halfway through her glass.
“My father worshipped my mother,” I finally say. “Fifteen years ago, he made a terrible mistake and slept with another woman—a much younger woman, as it happened. She posted their sex tape online the next day.”
“She didn’t try to blackmail him first?”
“No, and that is additional proof her seduction of Papa was planned by someone who’d paid her.”
“A booty trap.”
I nod.
“Did your dad try to talk to her, find out more?”
“She disappeared.”
“And your parents?”
“Maman said he’d broken the sacred vows of marriage and humiliated her. She packed up and left.”
