“Okay, not the job, but a job.”
My heart sinks, but I play along because I know my friend, and she would not be this excited if it weren’t at least paying well. “I cannot stand the suspense anymore. Where am I playing, and what time?”
“Hotel Le Cap Estel.”
“I don’t know this hotel.”
“No, you wouldn’t, because it’s in Èze-Bord-de-Mer, and only the rich and famous go there to get married.”
I pull the phone from my ear and glare at it as if she could see me. “What are you saying?”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Yes,” I hiss impatiently. “Now tell me.”
“No you’re not. Go sit down.”
“Mon Dieu! Piaf, I am going to reach through this phone and strangle you. Just tell me already.”
“The lead singer of Taint saw your cover of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ on YouTube. He wants you to play his wedding, but Brielle, you have to sign a non-disclosure agreement that you will not tell anyone about the wedding, or the date, or where it will be.”
“Okay,” I say with a sigh. “Well, it was fun playing this little game, but April Fools’ isn’t for another three months.”
“Do not hang up on me. This is not a joke. I’m emailing the details of your flight now.” I frown, because I know Piaf likes to joke about these sorts of things—apparently my verging on poverty status is hysterical—but even she does not usually take it this far.
“You’re really serious?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t afford a flight right now, and I have students on weekends.”
“I already rescheduled your students. Everything is taken care of—the extra seat for your cello, your room, everything. His assistant booked you in first class, and you’ll be staying at the hotel the previous night, and the night of the wedding because get this ... you are the only musical entertainment they will have.” Piaf squeals so loud my ears start ringing. My stomach does cartwheels, and I take a deep breath so I won’t faint. “They even included five hundred euros for additional travel expenses and food.”
Piaf was right. I really should have sat down.
I lean against the wall and let it take my weight as I slide to the floor with my hand across my face. “How much are they paying me to play?”
“Five. Thousand. Euro.”
“What? Why?” Was he crazy? I frown. Surely there must be something wrong with these rockers. Perhaps they lost all of their brain cells while headbanging to their heavy metal music. “They could get any cellist in Europe for five hundred.”
“They could, but they want the best.”
“Well, I am that, but are you sure it was five thousand? Perhaps it was a misprint.” I can’t fathom why a complete stranger who has never heard me play live—and a rock star with no doubt hundreds of connections—would pay me five thousand euro to play at his wedding.
“They already paid in full. I’ve just transferred the money to your account.”
All the breath leaves my lungs in a rush. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
“Told you so,” she sing-songs. “Now, it’s black tie, obviously. So I’ll meet you at Printemps in thirty minutes and we can find you a dress, non?”
“I have a dress.”
“Yes, you have many dresses. That have all been worn, but Brie, you are playing a rock star’s wedding, George Clooney will likely be there.”
“George Clooney is married, and I hardly think he will notice what the cellist is wearing.”
“My point is, you are not married, and there will be many single and very rich men at this event.”
“My parents need this money more than I need a new dress.” I shake my head and get to my feet, pacing my parents’ living room, “Or a rich single man.”
“Oh, ma petite cacahuète, every woman needs a very rich man. Single or not.”
If I wasn’t still in shock about the five thousand euro, I might have agreed with her. I could use a rich man, preferably one who would die soon of old age and leave me all of his millions. And ugly. That point is imperative, because I am a sucker. Especially when it comes to the beautiful ones. I do not want to fall in love again, not ever. Love makes fools of us all. Love turns smart men into idiots, and strong women into doormats. I will be neither. I hope I never fall in love, for I cannot afford to lose my head. I like it exactly where it is, and no man will make me think otherwise.
CHAPTER SEVEN
KING OF THE FLEAS
ONE MONTH LATER
BRIELLE
I flop down on my bed like a starfish. Fitting, since my room at l'hotel Cap Estel overlooks the Côte d'Azur. Though it was only a short flight from Paris to Nice, I’m exhausted, and I contemplate taking a nap, but I’m as excited as a puppy when her master comes home, so I do not believe that sleep will come.
Restless and full of nervous energy, I get to my feet and open my bag. It’s early enough in the day that I won’t need to be at the rehearsal for several more hours, so a swim and a relaxing wine by the pool are in order.
I pull out the swimsuit Piaf made me buy. It’s far too revealing with hundreds of little straps in the back and is cut so low that it almost shows the top of my arse. I’m not even sure I know how to get into it without instructions, but on my third attempt, I have the suit on, or as close to a suit as these skimpy little scraps of fabric are going to get. I throw on a flowing emerald green dress, and complete the look with dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat to protect my face. I swipe my phone, and my key card, and leave, certain there will be hotel towels by the pool.
There’s a secluded beach and a deck with sunbeds below my room, but I head to the pool of the main building instead and select a lounge not too far from the outdoor bar. Though it’s a chilly fourteen degrees, the sun is warm so I remove my dress, and lie out in it. Cap Estel is small and private but is no less teeming with men and women so rich diamonds practically fly out their mouths when they laugh. I try not to be intimated. I grew up wealthy. My parents were very well situated in Paris, but when my father had his stroke, his partner screwed him out of his half of the business, and we lost everything. Now maman and mon père barely have enough to keep them stocked in all of the medication he needs.
A server comes to take my drink order, and I ask for wine and charge it to my room. Before long, a group of men that look as if they definitely don’t belong here slide up to the bar. Two are blond, very well built, and the other is dark. All are heavily tattooed. I recognise the dark-headed man as Cooper Ryan, my employer for the weekend, and I want to go and thank him for allowing me this opportunity, but I’m near naked in my suit and think that perhaps this is not the best place to approach him. Instead, I watch the three men closely.
There is a language between musicians that regular people do not share, a camaraderie that runs as hot and thick as blood through our veins. When you play music with another, it can never be just a job, just a thing you agree to do because you’re good at it. Non. It comes from your soul, and in the process of sharing that with others, those souls become intertwined, bonded, familiar. These men share that connection. I see it in the way they laugh, in their shared grins, and then a fourth man joins them, and the dynamic is thrown completely off balance. This man also has dark hair and tattoos. A lot of tattoos. He’s handsome in a reckless, devil-may-care kind of way that has my insides tightening, and it seems I’m not the only one feeling suddenly uncomfortable. His presence puts his bandmates on edge too, though I’m sure for very different reasons than my own.
I sip my wine and watch with rapt attention as the three others exchange a look and the newcomer rudely orders the server to bring him a bottle of whisky. After a minor disagreement, in which the waitress refuses to serve him, and the man stuffs a wad of crumpled up bills in her breast pocket, she scurries off to fulfil his drink order.
Must be nice for millionaire rock stars to be able to throw some cash around and get whatever they want.
This is exactly why I avoid dating musicians. They’re spoilt, and I haven’t met one yet who deserves such entitlement.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” the more muscular of the two blonds says, clapping Tall, Dark and Dangerous on the shoulder.
“That’s what he said,” he replies and straightens in his chair. Why is he so drunk? And more than that, why is he being such an arse? Weddings are supposed to be a happy occasion, but none of these men appear joyful at all. Tall, Dark and Dangerous looks as though he’d rather be dead than attend this wedding.
“You’re going to be sober enough for the ceremony, right?” Cooper remarks, sipping his beer.
The man just looks at him, all daggers, and barely caged aggression. “Not if I can help it.”
And avoiding Tall, Dark and Dangerous at all costs just became my new plan for Cooper Ryan’s wedding.
I shouldn’t be watching this exchange. I should be in my room practising, but I hear Piaf’s voice in my head when she’d shoved me out of her car at the departures terminal, “Go! Enjoy the sun, drink, find a hot rich sugar daddy and have sex with him on the beach.” I definitely wouldn’t be doing the last thing on her list, but I could handle a little more of the first two.
I get to my feet and toss my sunglasses and hat onto the daybed. Then I walk to the side of the infinity pool and dive in. The water is warm, and I swim the length of it and back. I head to the edge and glance at the Cote d'Azur below. It’s hard to believe I’m in paradise right now. I duck my head under again and climb out, regretting the swim because the chill in the wind is freezing. I glance up and discover that Tall, Dark and Dangerous is lying on my daybed. Surely I am mistaken. I look around for my belongings and find them secured in two heavily tattooed hands. There is something intimate in the way he fingers the fabric of my dress. And then I notice the sleek black screen of my phone, and panic. Logically, I know he cannot access any of the information within, because it’s password protected, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about him holding it hostage.
I march over. “What exactly do you think you are doing?”
“Just enjoying the South of France.” His eyes trail to my pussy and linger there. I suddenly feel very naked, and curse Piaf for making me buy this stupid suit.
“You are in my seat.”
“Am I?” He grins. My nipples that were technically already poking out from the cold harden even more and my insides tighten because he might be an arrogant, drunk son of a bitch, but that smile could unlock even the most secure chastity belt. Without a key. “How would you like me to be in something else?”
I give a sardonic smile. “That depends, are we referring to jail, because I believe you’d fit in there just fine.”
“Why are the girls in France always so angry?”
“I imagine it’s because they want you to go away.”
“Nope. That’s not it.” He shakes his head, and his brow crinkles in the centre, as if he’s deep in thought. “Maybe it’s because for all their talk, French men just don’t make very good lovers.”
“Why don’t you sleep with one then and find out? It’s the only way you’ll know for certain.”
He laughs and rises from the daybed. I am taller than the average woman, but he has many more inches on me. “I like you, Angry French girl, but I don’t do dick. I have been called the king des puces a time or two.”
I raise my brow. “King of the fleas?”
“Pussy.” He looks annoyed now, and I can hear just the hint of a slur in his voice that he’d previously hidden so well. “I’m the king of pussy.”
“Aww, how nice for you.” I set my jaw and hold out my hand. “Give me back my phone before I call security.”
“Give me your room number and you’ll get your phone. I’ll even bring it right to your door.”
“Very well.” I lean in and beckon him closer. The stench of alcohol is intoxicating in its own right, never mind how green his eyes are. I snatch my phone from his grip while he’s distracted. “Je m'en contrefous que tu sois le roi de la chatte ou le roi des puces! Jamais je ne laisserais un enfoiré de ton genre me toucher.”
“I don’t speak French, but I’m pretty sure you didn’t just give me your room number.”
The boy catches on quick.
“Meow.” I purr and walk away, feeling his eyes on my arse the entire time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A RAGING BONER
ALI
“You know, now that you’re officially going to be my sister, I think it’s time I told you to do something about that hair,” Deb says, without looking up from her issue of Vogue Paris.
“What?” I reach up and fiddle with the loose strands, making sure the pins aren’t popping out all over the place. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“What’s right with it?” she says automatically, and then rolls her eyes when she notices my glare. “I mean it looks fine today, but I’m sorry, someone with your bone structure just shouldn’t do bangs.”
I sigh and turn back to the mirror, smoothing down my dress. My insides are jelly. God, is this a terrible idea? Why the fuck didn’t we just go back to Vegas and get married there?
Oh, right, because Vegas was where Coop broke my heart for the first time and I slept with Levi. And Cooper. God damn it. Fuck you, Vegas! We are never going back there. There’s a knock on the door to our suite, and I jump.
Deb cocks a brow at me. “Jesus, Ali, jumpy much?”
“I hate being the centre of attention. Why did I let you talk me into this?” I snatch up the champagne flute and down the rest in one big gulp.
“Oh please, everyone knows you’re going to be passed out drunk within twenty minutes of the reception starting anyway,” Deb says, and then throws her magazine down on the table when she realises Tim is still adjusting his hair in the bathroom and I’m not going to answer the door. I can’t. My feet are glued to the spot.
Deb rolls her eyes and opens the door. “Really, Quinn?”
“Hey, Deb, I wish I could say it was nice to see you too, but it’s really not.”
“Whatever, waste of space. Why don’t you go and cry to mummy?”
“Jesus, brutal much?” Levi’s voice cracks, and I think even Deb decides to feel sorry for him. I can’t turn from my place in front of the mirror. I can’t look at him. I’m so happy he came. I didn’t believe he would ever talk to either one of us again after the hospital in Prague, but he’s here. If nothing else, he cares enough about Coop and me to show up.
“Ali, your other fuck buddy is here,” Deb says, and I sigh, because she needs to quit calling him that. It’s been almost a year since we had sex, and I don’t even know if we’re buddies at all anymore, let alone the fucking.
“This won’t take long,” Levi says.
“Surprise, surprise, it never does with you.”
“Deb,” I say, and she shoots me a venomous look.
“Fine, I need another drink anyway, but if you ditch my brother for this piece of shit, I will find you, Jones, and I will gut you like a fish.”
“Bye, Deb.”
“I just remembered I need something from the downstairs bar,” Tim says, finally coming out of the bathroom. He walks by me and smiles with a gentle squeeze to my shoulder. “I’ll be back in ten.”
Tim, much like Deb, doesn’t have a lot of sympathy for Levi. This is on account of him being there when Levi called me from Paris while he was fucking another woman. It hurt. A lot. I know I probably deserved it, because I’d broken his heart. In the beginning I’d toyed with Levi to get back at Cooper, but the more time we spent together, the more I fell. It had been discovering I wasn’t in love with him that had forced me to leave, along with being drugged and photographed naked by Zed’s brother Leif and a piece-of-shit paparazzo. I was in over my head, and no matter which way I turned, one of us got hurt. So I left. But I broke all of our hearts in the process, not just mine, and there was one I still couldn’t heal.
Levi steps into th
e room. He halts, his smile falling. I grimace.
“Do I look that bad?” I smooth my hands down over the black lace of my wedding gown. “Oh God, I look like an arsehole in this dress, don’t I?”
He clears his throat. “You look—”
“What? Is it too much? Should I get rid of the red lips?”
“Don’t even think about it,” he says, coming closer.
Tears prick my eyes and I fight to keep them from falling and ruining my make-up. I throw my arms around his neck, and he slides his large hands around my waist and squeezes me tightly, burying his face in my neck. “You came.”
“Not yet, but give me time,” Levi murmurs. I laugh. “You look incredible, Ali.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“Would it help if I told you I have a raging boner for you in this dress?” he says, and though I can’t be sure with all the fabric that separates us, something tells me he isn’t kidding. I chuckle anyway and step back, shaking the nervous energy out of my hands. It doesn’t work.
“Oddly enough, yes. That helps.”
“Excellent. Should I tell you that I want to push you back on that table, pull up your dress and slide my huge cock inside you right now?”
I let out a huge breath. “Okay, not helping.”
“Right,” he says with a sigh. “Marrying my bandmate.”
“Not that it’s not nice to see you, but what are you doing here?”
“I figured I wouldn’t get to see you much afterward to wish you congratulations, and I had something for you.”
My heart squeezes. “Why won’t you see me?”
“Because I’ll likely be drunk off my arse, or buried balls deep in some hot wedding guest.” I flinch, because though I know it shouldn’t, it still hurts to hear him talk like that. “Anyway, I wanted you to be the first to hear this.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket, and I stare at it. “Your phone? You know I have one, right?”
“Not the phone, what’s on it.”
TAINTED: THE COMPLETE DUET Page 33
