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

by Alix Nichols

  At least they were new.

  In regards to the formal events that require gowns, I’ve found a solution that eliminates an extra expenditure from Darcy or me.

  I borrow.

  Elorie and I are the same size, and my initial idea was to ask for one or two of her little black dresses that would be perfect for any occasion. But something stopped me. It may have to do with the way Darcy looks at me, especially when I show some skin or wear pants that are a notch tighter than my norm.

  It may also have to do with the way my stupid body reacts to those looks.

  So instead of Elorie’s sexy LBDs, I picked a few of Manon’s formless gowns she’s kept from her XL days as a reminder of what awaits her if she puts on weight again. Those gowns swallow me up, their thick material creating a shield-like barrier between me and Darcy. They’re my chastity belts of sorts. And while it annoys and saddens me that I need one around Darcy, I’m not taking any risks. I haven’t even moved in with him yet, for crying out loud.

  Hmm, I wonder if there’s an online shop that carries a high-tech twenty-first-century version of a real chastity belt… Perhaps I should order one.

  Just in case.

  TWELVE

  Dr. Muller, whom I imagined to be an old gentleman with a white beard and a cane, is in fact a pretty woman in her early thirties. With a powerful flashlight in her hand, she gives us a private tour of the Darcy Grotto, a large complex of interconnected caves just a fifteen-minute walk from the castle.

  Under normal circumstances, anyone can visit the Grotto even if, like most caves in France, it’s on private land. We follow Dr. Muller through stalactite galleries and halls. Here and there, icicle-like stalactites meet with stalagmite mounds in passionate embraces. They’re called columns, Dr. Muller explains.

  We’re headed to the Mammoth Hall, which hosts the oldest prehistoric rock paintings in France.

  Dr. Muller says they’re forty thousand years old.

  As we trek behind her, I can’t help thinking she looks like someone you’d expect to tread catwalks, rather than cave galleries, for a living. Her knee-length trench coat and snug little boots do a great job of drawing the eye to her slender and exceptionally well-shaped legs. I bet Darcy is ogling them right now.

  Even I—a one hundred percent heterosexual woman—am ogling them right now.

  There’s no denying Dr. Muller is the bomb. She’s smart, good-looking, and classy. Unlike the perky me, who doesn’t have a nanogram of class, according to my future ex-husband.

  Why didn’t he ask her to be his fake girlfriend?

  Maybe he’s reserving her for when the coast is clear of his nemesis and he can have a real relationship with a suitable woman.

  “Et voilà,” Dr. Muller says, turning around. “We’ve reached the Mammoth Hall. I invite everyone to study the ceiling and the walls.”

  Striking images of mammoths, lions, and reindeer painted in ochre and charcoal adorn the cave. They’re simple and yet perfectly drawn, the animals full of grace and easy to recognize despite minimal detail.

  “I don’t see any rabbits or foxes,” Raphael says. “Why’s that?”

  Dr. Muller smiles. “The Paleolithic Man didn’t draw the animals he hunted.”

  “So these paintings had a ritualistic function?” Genevieve asks.

  “We believe so.” Dr. Muller brushes a strand of hair from her face with the elegance of a ballerina. “But the truth is we don’t really know.”

  I raise my hand. “Did you find any paintings of people?”

  “We found a few representations of women. But no men. That is, no complete men.”

  “What do you mean?” Raphael asks.

  “I mean this.” She points her torchlight to a familiar-looking drawing on the ceiling.

  I peer and realize it’s an erect penis. Or, should I say in this context, a phallus.

  I give Darcy a wink. “A forty-thousand-year-old cock and balls graffiti, huh? Some things never change.”

  Just before we climb out of the cave, I spot a distinctly Asian sculpture submerged up to its neck in a small pond formed by water dripping from the ceiling. It looks completely out of place in this prehistoric cave.

  “Oh, it’s a Buddha,” Dr. Muller says matter-of-factly, following my gaze.

  I stare into her eyes. “A Buddha.”

  She nods.

  I clap my hand to my forehead. “But of course—stupid me! It’s the famous Ice Age Bathing Buddha of Burgundy.”

  Darcy grins.

  He actually stretches his lips and opens his mouth wide enough for this smile to qualify as a full-fledged grin, the first one I’ve ever seen on him.

  It nukes me to a pile of rubble.

  “I can explain,” he says. “The Buddha is on loan from Le Louvre. The curators there wanted to see what the special variety of bacteria in this pool will do to him.”

  “He’s been here for fifteen years now,” Dr. Muller says.

  I turn to her. “And?”

  “Nothing.” She spreads her hands. “No effect whatsoever.”

  “You need to have a word with your bacteria,” I say to my beau. “Le Louvre counts on them.”

  “Oh, that reminds me!” Dr. Muller scurries over to Darcy. “I must discuss an urgent matter with you.”

  “Of course,” he says. “We’ll talk after dinner.”

  She adds something in a hushed voice, clearly unwilling for anyone to overhear. Must be business related, I tell myself. And confidential. Maybe she caught someone on the team cheating or she wants to negotiate an additional guide position.

  Regardless, I’m rattled… and annoyed for being rattled.

  But then I catch Genevieve watching me watch Dr. Muller talking with Darcy. Am I being prejudiced and way off the mark to read her expression as gloating?

  Elorie can’t come here soon enough.

  THIRTEEN

  At dinner, I meet the mayor, who’s adorable with his seventies mustache and a polo shirt tucked into his old-fashioned jeans. His wife wears a pink tweed jacket and has an easy laugh. We get on immediately and chat away for most of the meal.

  Just as I begin to tell myself this evening isn’t as bad as I’d expected, Darcy invites the guests to move to the drawing room for a more relaxed second part of the soirée. Darcy and Dr. Muller walk over to the window and launch into a long conversation. Genevieve expertly maneuvers the mayor’s wife away from me to the other sofa across a ginormous coffee table.

  “Did you like the cave?” she asks.

  Something tells me she doesn’t really care. Her question is just an opener for something else.

  “It was impressive,” I say honestly. “I loved the paintings and I learned a lot.”

  She inches a little closer. “Isn’t Penelope—that’s Dr. Muller’s first name—amazing?”

  Et voilà. “She sure is.”

  “Such competence, such drive! You know, she comes from a long pedigree of writers and academics.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Penelope and I are very close,” she says. “I have so much respect for her achievement. In my eyes, it’s more important than money or titles.”

  She gives me a long, intense stare as if trying to gauge if the penny has dropped.

  I’m itching to say, Hey, I get it, despite my limited education. You’re reminding me I have neither merit nor money, not to mention a title. You’re suggesting I’m the odd one out in this room. But you know what? We’re in agreement. I don’t belong here, and I sure as hell don’t want to belong. If I weren’t bound by a contract, I’d be hanging out with Elorie and Manon at La Bohème instead of wasting precious minutes of my life listening to your aristocratic farts. They stink just the same as everyone else’s.

  Unfortunately, I can’t say any of it.

  Damn that contract!

  This is the hardest I’ve bitten my tongue in the past two months. There’ve been other temptations, but none of them this strong. Genevieve has been cold and indif
ferent, but not mean. Neither have any of Darcy’s other acquaintances. Most of them just try to be friendly without realizing they’re patronizing me. When we chat, they avoid long words. They find me “cute.” In their eyes, I’m Darcy’s long-overdue fling with a plebeian. They consider our amourette as his rite of passage, his brave—and brief—exploration of the world of commoners.

  And I’m forced to put up with that shit.

  If there’s one reason I look forward to Darcy’s announcement of our betrothal, it’s to see the look on their faces at that moment. Especially on Genevieve’s.

  My peripheral vision catches Darcy’s shape looming next to us.

  “Can I steal my girlfriend for a moment?” he asks Genevieve.

  “Of course.” She gives him a canned smile. “You can sit here—I was going to go chat with Raphael, anyway.”

  Darcy puts his glass on the coffee table and sits next to me. “I hope you enjoyed your first day at the castle.”

  “I did,” I say. “Up until ten minutes ago.”

  He doesn’t ask why. Instead, he takes my hand and holds it with both his. I lift my gaze to his face. He’s staring at me with an intensity that would’ve stopped my heart under different circumstances. Wow. Anyone looking at him right now would say he’s crazy for me. Even I have to remind myself he’s just playing a part.

  And he’s damn good at it, just like everything he does.

  Hmm, let’s see if I can match his skill. I peer into his dark brown eyes, remarking a hue in them I hadn’t noticed before. It’s amber gold. In fact, it’s the exact color of the Scotch he was sipping before he sat down.

  Will I taste it on his tongue if we kiss?

  Right on cue, he leans in for a smooch, and I whisper “extra hot” before I can stop myself. Surprise flickers in his eyes. A split second later, he angles his head and slants his mouth over mine. His evening stubble grates against my chin in a most pleasant way. He runs his tongue over my lips and nips gently. I open up. His tongue penetrates deep inside between my teeth, against my palate and my cheeks, pushing against my own tongue.

  He thrusts, strokes and suckles, giving my mouth the most sensual, shameless treatment it’s ever had.

  He’s making love to it.

  Desire shoots to my core in a lightning bolt of unspeakable sweetness. I find myself leaning into him, opening up more, asking for more. Me, who despises couples who can’t restrain their ardor in public—I can’t get enough of him at this moment, public opinion be damned.

  He tastes of whisky and of something quintessentially male. That taste, combined with his head-turning scent, is nudging me into an unfamiliar territory that borders on total abandon. My breasts ache for his hand to cup and fondle them. As for his other hand, I want it between my legs.

  I need it between my legs.

  There’s only one word to qualify the effect of this kiss—madness.

  I’m losing my fucking mind.

  And I don’t even care.

  Just as abruptly as he started the kiss, Darcy stops and draws away.

  I gasp for air and open my eyes.

  He’s watching me. There’s no more playfulness nor the slightest shade of amber left in his eyes. His gaze is dark, and his lips are red from our kiss.

  He turns away and says something to the person on his right.

  I blink to clear the haze from my eyes and focus on the man he’s talking to.

  It’s Raphael.

  My hearing returns next, and with it, a profound sense of embarrassment.

  “I’ll talk to him first thing Monday morning,” Raphael says.

  Darcy nods. “Be sure that you do.”

  Next to Raphael, Genevieve studies my face, barely pretending to listen to what her “very close” friend Penelope is saying to her.

  Penelope glances at her watch and stands. “I should be going.”

  “You should stay,” Darcy says. “It’s late, and there are plenty of empty bedrooms in this castle.”

  She hesitates. “The village is only twenty minutes away. I’ll be fine—I’m a big girl.”

  “Penelope.” There’s a bossy note in Darcy’s voice. “I don’t like the idea of you driving alone on dark countryside roads at this hour.”

  She stares at him, saying nothing.

  “You’ll sleep at the castle.” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll let Jacqueline know, so she can get you everything you need.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Sebastian.” Penelope smiles. “Thank you.”

  I approve of his thoughtful gesture, but I can’t help wishing Penelope had refused. The thought of her sleeping in one of the guest chambers under the same roof as Darcy is unpleasant to say the least.

  Is he going to join her later tonight, so that they could continue their conversation?

  No, he won’t. He’d never do anything that could blow our cover. This scheme of his matters too much to him.

  Just as I sigh with relief, a thought strikes me.

  I’m jealous.

  Why else would I care if Darcy and Penelope spend the night together?

  Chill out, woman.

  What you’re experiencing is a version of Stockholm syndrome, when hostages end up supporting the bad guy because they’ve spent too much time in close proximity with him. The difference between the classic version of the syndrome and mine is that instead of sympathizing with Darcy’s cause, I’ve become sympathetic toward his body. Fervently sympathetic.

  No, this won’t do.

  Repeat after me, Diane: Darcy is an entitled jerk. He ruined and nearly killed Dad. It’s sick to lust after him while plotting his downfall. My dream is to see him destroyed.

  Excellent.

  And now the refrain.

  I hate him.

  I hate him.

  I hate him.

  FOURTEEN

  Elorie’s skin glows in the soft light filtering through the tall linen-draped window of this high-ceilinged room.

  I fiddle with the controls of my camera. “Can you tip your head back a little?”

  “Like this?” Elorie asks.

  “Exactly.” I release the shutter. “Don’t move.”

  She’s straddling a polished wood chair, her back toward me. The paleness of her skin is offset by the dark wood of the chair and the floorboards. I study the image on my preview screen. It’s elegant and free of any vulgarity, yet there’s a touch of delicious decadence you can’t miss. It’s perfect, thanks to this light and this space. If I could afford a professional studio for my portraits, I doubt I could find a better setting.

  I click a few more times, gleeful.

  This is going to be the best of the three shoots we’ve done so far. It has everything going for it. Especially three things—Elorie’s lovely body, the shabby-chic charm of this room, and our mojo boosted by the best local Chablis from Darcy’s wine cellar.

  “More?” I ask, picking up the bottle.

  She grabs her glass from the floor and holds it out. “Yes, please. When do you think you’ll be done?”

  “I am done, actually.” I fill her glass and hand it to her. “I was going to take a few more pics, just in case. But if you’re tired or cold, we can stop now.”

  Before she replies, the door behind me opens and Darcy walks in. Surprise flashes in his eyes as he takes in the scene. He looks ragged with ruffled hair, dark stubble, and a glass of Scotch in his hand. Combined with the jeans and a well-worn sweater, the look is so out of character I can’t help wondering if he’s OK.

  Then I remember about Elorie and panic.

  The poor thing must be mortified. Oh, and she’ll kill me as soon as she gets over it. Our shoots were supposed to remain secret, and no one was supposed to know it was her in these photos.

  “Get out!” I shout at Darcy.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude.” He turns toward my model, his gaze trained on the floor next her feet. “Please forgive me, Elorie.”

  “It’s OK,” she says.

  He glanc
es at me again as he retreats toward the door. “I hope I didn’t ruin your project. Please continue.”

  I glare at him.

  And to my utter shock, my naked friend turns around, fully exposing to Darcy all her X-rated parts she’s been so eager to hide from my camera. “Hi, Sebastian.”

  His lips quirk before he schools them into a polite smile. “Hello, Elorie.”

  She picks up her bathrobe and pulls it on. “We were done, actually and I was leaving. So no worries—you didn’t ruin anything.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he says.

  “See you later, alligator.” Elorie waves good-bye to me.

  “I’ll get you before the restaurant,” I say as she makes a beeline to the door and shuts it behind her.

  “You never told me you did nude portraits,” Darcy says.

  I shrug. “Our contract doesn’t require that I tell you everything.”

  “Do they sell well?”

  “Elorie and I are on our third series,” I say with pride. “So yeah, my nudes seem to be appreciated.”

  He points at my camera. “Can I see one?”

  My first impulse is to say no, but I remember Elorie’s cavalier attitude and change my mind. Compared to the uncensored view she just presented him, my photos are PG-13.

  I hand him the camera.

  As he pulls up the pics, I survey him. What would he look like naked? I saw his biceps once when he wore a T-shirt. I’ve leered at the bulges of his pecs discernible through his shirts countless times. His stomach is flat, his shoulders are naturally broad, and his hips narrow. All evidence suggests he’d look very nice indeed. What I don’t know is if his chest is hairy. I picture his bared forearms as an indicator. Hmm… it’ll probably have some hair, but not too much. If I find the right aperture and exposure settings to accentuate the play of light and shadow on the planes of his chest, I could have some amazing photos.

  “Will you sit for me?” I blurt.

  He gives me a quizzical look.

  “As in pose for a few pics… maybe?” I fully expect him to snort and say no.