by Liz Maverick
Living la belle vie is the best revenge…
Hosting a fabulous party is the perfect cap-off to Cassie Hagen’s successful business trip in Paris. Living in the land of decadent macarons, French fashion and champagne is great—especially compared to her past life as the scholarship student at a tony New York private school.
Then Jack Marchand shows up. Sure, he’s hot, French and superapologetic about how he humiliated her in high school. He was all of her firsts: her first lover, the first to break her heart and the first to dump her after one night together.
Jack has never forgotten Cassie. He’s determined to prove he’s changed and win her back. As an apology, it’s pretty much perfect. Deliciously so. But Cassie isn’t quite ready to forgive him.
Dear Reader,
This is my first book since having a baby. And let me tell you, nothing makes your fantasies seem more exciting than the reality of a new baby. Apparently, my sleepless mind had an agenda, one that involved three hot Frenchmen (not all at once…although, hmm…), gorgeous designer clothes and a fabulous apartment in Paris. I’ve learned quite a bit in a very short time. Such as the fact that I can read Cosmopolitan, shop online and even type a manuscript with a sweet baby girl sleeping in a carrier strapped to my chest.
My future might look a lot different than my past, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting back to Paris anytime soon, but that’s the beauty of stories, right? They take you where you want to go and you don’t even have to leave Brooklyn.
I hope you enjoy meeting the Marchand brothers, aka “The French Revolution.” I plan to spend quite a bit of time with them, and I hope I’ll see you there, too.
Enjoy the read and definitely stop by lizmaverick.com and give me a shout!
Yours,
Liz Maverick
Liz Maverick
HOT AND
BOTHERED
Sexy, contemporary romance stories
for today’s fun, fearless female.
Cosmopolitan Red-Hot Reads from Harlequin
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter One
If it’s Friday, it’s Paris, I thought with a grin as I looked at the two open bottles of champagne clutched in my hands. Man, I loved my job. My personal life was nonexistent, but my job? Yeah, I could put a nice big green check mark in that box. I sat crossed-legged next to my sister, Anna, on the floor of the nicest kitchen this side of the Seine’s left bank, swilling French bubbly.
Our view of the rest of the apartment spanned out in front of us like something from a celebrity magazine feature. Pastel-blue drapes in duchesse satin. White cane armchairs. Cream-colored marble and gold-leaf accents. My handiwork. I traveled the world buying and decorating upscale vacation rentals for my employer, Brooks Property. Until I was out of town and the property went on the market, it was mine to do with what I liked.
This time I was throwing a twenty-fifth birthday bash for Anna. Usually, I’d just sun on the private decks or take a lot of hot baths in the ever-present “spa tubs” these tony places inevitably featured. Frankly, it was much more fun having someone to share it with. I just wished the other people Anna had invited to share it with hadn’t included the Marchand brothers. That was the funny thing about saying, “Do whatever you want.” People do. And now, after ten years of dodging, I was going to have to open my door to Jack Marchand with a smile on my face.
“We probably should have bought a baguette and some cheese,” Anna said, also double-fisting bottles. She took a gulp from the left, a gulp from the right, squinted and then finally put the bottles on the floor. “Is it wrong that I just want to go with the pretty pink stuff because it matches my dress?”
“It’s your birthday,” I said, looking with some amusement at my sister, all peaches-and-cream complexion, plump curves and pink fuzzy sweater. Of course she wanted pink champagne. Apart from our matching blue eyes, we were opposites. I had a closet full of slim little black dresses, black leggings and black sweaters to go with dark hair that I sometimes dyed darker. We had six different bottles of the finest champagne Paris had to offer in front of us, and she just wanted the pretty pink stuff.
But for the first time in my life I had plenty of money, and if my little sister wanted two thousand bottles of the pretty pink stuff, that was what she was gonna get for her special day.
Anna came back from the refrigerator with a massive brick of butter, a knife and a box of crackers we’d bought earlier in the day at the Monoprix. “Maybe I’ll meet someone at the party,” she said, handing me a slathered round.
“You know everybody. They’re your guests.”
“Yes, but people change. And people bring dates they won’t leave with. And people also get divorced. God, this butter is good.”
“You’re the only person I know who can make that sound not entirely as awful as it should.”
“I just wish I understood men a little bit better. They can be so—”
“Disappointing?” I suggested.
“Confusing. Remember, I saw Jack at the five-year reunion. He was lovely. I mean, all the Marchand boys are still…sort of…bad. But we’ve all grown up.”
I rolled my eyes, annoyed that the thought of a wealthy French bad boy still appealed to some shallow part of my soul. Some shallow, shallow, shallow part of my soul. I groaned. “Tell me again that he was unattractive and charmless.”
Anna raised an eyebrow. “Um, no. You know I never said that. He was as handsome and charming as ever.”
I grimaced. “He always was a smooth talker.”
“You used to call it a talent with words.”
“So slick.”
“You called it charismatic.”
“And those stupid leather sneakers.”
“The ones that used to make you swoon? I didn’t notice.” Anna brightened. “I did notice his sense of humor.”
“The joke was on me. Hey, you’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on your side!” Anna said, flailing the butter knife around. “Why do you think I invited him? I think he’s a good man who once did a bad thing, not a bad man who once did a good thing. Remember the business with the keg stand?”
I winced. I remembered Jack as a brilliantly fun, even-keeled guy, but he had a line. A line that was not to be crossed. And when that line was crossed, he had a temper. And someone had crossed that line with Anna, and he’d used that temper to good purpose that day. But that didn’t excuse what he did to me.
“Besides, I know he wants to see you. And you need closure!”
“Did you forget how he basically made the second half of high school a complete misery?” I asked.
Anna put down the butter knife with great ceremony and turned to me. “What is it you always say to me?”
“Living well is the best revenge.”
She gestured grandly to the gorgeous apartment and then to me. She said something else about how seeing me now would make him realize what he’d lost out on, and described some bizarre theory about how men needed to experience with all of their senses what they were missing in order to have regrets. I was busy wondering what else about grown-up Jack might be the same as the things I’d adored in high-school Jack.
“Not that I really understand men,” Anna said, punctuating her final words with the last cracker.
I grunted. “If you want to understand men, just remember that every man has a tell.”
Anna laughed, her fingers covering a bulging mouth. S
he swallowed and said, “I never noticed. I mean, beyond losing the ability for intelligent thought when confronted by a woman’s naked body.”
“That’s a universal to all men. I’m talking about something way more individual. I’m talking about the sort of tell that points out a man’s vulnerability. The almost imperceptible evidence of a man’s Achilles’ heel.”
My sister considered that and then shook her head. “I really can’t think of an example.”
“You’re not the keen observer I am,” I said. “You’re the great big golden retriever romping in the middle of everything. You’re too much in it. I’m on the side, watching. And I can say with great certainty, that every man has his tell.”
“Maybe it’s time you stopped standing on the side. No reason you should. Look at all you’ve done. And did you just call me a dog?”
“Yes.”
“You bitch.”
I giggled. “Pass the champagne.”
“Which one?”
“Is it wrong if I say I don’t care? Whichever’s closer.”
“So what are you going to do when you see him?” Anna asked. “You can’t run. You’re the host.”
“There’s nothing to be done. Standing on the side observing doesn’t automatically make you a wallflower. It makes you capable of making well-informed decisions. Like my decision to ignore Jack Marchand. I will greet him pleasantly, like the good host that I am. I will make sure he has a glass of pretty pink stuff, and then I will go host someone else. He’s not going to expect anything else. He’s zero to me, and I’m zero to him.” I demonstrated the absolute zero-ness of it all by vigorously brushing the crumbs off my leggings onto the floor. You are the crumbs I am brushing onto the floor, Marchand. The particles of the pieces of the crumbs I am brushing onto the floor. The microscopic dust on the particles—
“I think this is a grand opportunity for closure,” Anna said, eyeing the way I appeared to be rubbing a hole in the thighs of my leggings.
“Closure? Hell, this door has been closed to him for a decade already.”
“And yet you still get all hot and bothered whenever his name comes up.”
“Bothered. Just bothered. It’s not my fault he’s a bad memory that lingers.”
Anna licked the butter off her fingers and rewrapped the much-diminished cube. “You might only be bothered, but I’m willing to bet he’s still hot.”
Chapter Two
“Tall, dark and ooh la la,” Anna said, sticking her face over my shoulder. The video intercom showcased three figures on the landing below. The Marchand brothers. Luc, Christian and yes, Jacques.
Yeah, they still had plenty of ooh la la. “Your perfume is making me lightheaded, Anna,” I lied, gently head-butting her aside. The view was making me lightheaded.
One of the brothers tossed a cigarette to the ground. Probably Luc, if his high school habits hadn’t changed. The three men appeared to argue over the discarded cigarette, and then a shoe crushed the butt into the ground. A shoe very much like the one that used to press against the back of my chair in history class.
Whoa. Obviously, I’d expected to feel something in this moment. Something akin to doom-like resentment. Or bloodthirsty vengefulness. I hadn’t expected to feel…excited. “I’m thrown, dammit,” I whispered. “Thrown.”
“Um, that’s the third time they’ve pressed the button. They’re going to be just as fun to watch once they’re inside.” Anna squeezed my arm. “It will be fine, sis. It was a long time ago.”
I flushed. “Right.” I didn’t move. I stared at the leg attached to the shoe, followed it up to the chest and squinted at the tiny screen, hoping for a less-pixelated glimpse of Jacques “Jack” Marchand’s expression. Was he thrown?
“I’ll handle Jack. You take care of his brothers.” Anna reached across me to hit the buzzer and then floated to the door in a cloud of pink chiffon.
She was right. Closure would be a good thing. I should think of this as an opportunity. Besides, I looked as good as a girl is going to get in Paris. I was wearing one of my go-to LBDs accessorized with a badass updo from a fantastic salon tucked away on Boulevard St. Germain, smoky eyes thanks to a special event in the cosmetics department at Le Bon Marche and a dash of red at the soles of my precious Louboutin shoes. I wasn’t that awkward high school girl anymore, and this was my damn party.
“Zero,” I muttered, steeling myself as Luc and Christian came through the door all tanned skin and perfect hair. In school we called the trio The French Revolution, and they still deserved the nickname; I actually felt a surge in the party energy around me as they entered the hall. I moved forward as Anna expertly peeled Jack away with a hand on his back and a glass of champagne.
I resisted the urge to crane my neck in Jack’s direction, whispering, “Zero,” again. But I couldn’t force myself not to care. Okay, fine, Cassie. At least force yourself to look like you don’t care.
“Bonsoir,” I said, airily kissing Jack’s brothers on the cheeks and likewise leading them to a champagne station on the opposite side of the room. It should have been way harder to ignore Jack’s presence. Luc still looked like the wild one, more casual than his brothers in motorcycle boots under his slacks and a V-neck under his blazer. I’d never gotten more than a few words out of him in high school, and I always took Jack’s word for it that his brother’s dark glower was more bark than bite. Clotheshorse Christian was easier to put your finger on—and many a girl in my class had tried—looking entirely at home in his rich man’s uniform—full suit and tie—though he wore his tie purposely loose like a naughty prep-school boy.
Luc immediately drifted to the wall where he planted himself like a bouncer, one hand jammed in his pocket, his shoulders tight. “Is he okay?” I asked Christian, just as a platinum-blonde joined his brother at the wall. “Oh, he’ll be okay,” Christian answered with a suggestive lilt in his voice.
I suddenly recognized the blonde, and my fingers went cold. Irina Lively from high school. She was the nicest head of a three-headed hydra that included Beatrix Swan and Mary-Ann Peterson, but even a nice monster is still a monster. For a second, I was that girl again, the one who stood out in all the wrong ways. My palms started sweating. Great. Ten years had passed, and thinking about high school still made my palms sweat. Would Anna kill me if I left my own party? What the hell was Irina even doing in Paris? Were Beatrix and Mary-Ann here, too? Well, what the hell was I doing here? Anna’s birthday wasn’t really until next week, but I’d timed it this week for a reason, and it made perfect sense for Irina’s tony set to be in Paris at the same time.
Twice a year the government allowed the fashion world to officially offer sales under the unassuming moniker, les soldes, or “the sales.” Ever since discovering this secret, I’d made it my business to save my Paris business for July and January, and I can say with great certainty that nothing makes a bitter European winter more tolerable than fifty percent off. Fifty percent off during a Parisian summer is just the icing on the bon bon. I looked around nervously for the other two hydra heads and thankfully didn’t see them.
I escaped to the kitchen where I asked the servers to put out more food to accommodate Anna’s expanding guest list, got my shit together and went back to the party, which was already getting pretty crowded. There, as I stepped into the living room, was Jack directly in my sightline.
My heart pounded in my chest. He sported a sleek charcoal-gray suit that draped perfectly off his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt open at the collar to reveal sun-kissed skin, and those shoes. His trademark Italian leather sneakers, fashionably rebellious enough to say I don’t care what you think. Except I knew he did care what people thought. If he hadn’t cared so much what people thought back in high school, things wouldn’t have gotten all messed up.
Okay, look away, Cassie. If you don’t look away soon, he’s going to see you…staring. Sigh. Jack saw me, all right, and I’d be damned if I was gonna spook. We locked eyes, me staring defiantly back across th
e room, watching him process my existence. There was something tougher about him, more of a self-assurance in his air. Maybe, like me, he’d just become more comfortable in his skin. But just as I was telling myself that maybe he’d actually grown meaner, a slight smile softened his jawline, and he headed straight for me.
I’m sunk.
“You’re going to have to forgive me,” he said, the first meaningful thing from his mouth since that French kiss ten years ago.
“You’re going to have to make me,” I replied coolly. That voice. I used to pray he’d ask a question in class just so I could hear that rich voice. If you closed your eyes and just listened to him talk, it was better than standing under the Eiffel Tower with a crepe smothered in chocolate hazelnut sauce.
His eyebrow arched and then he smiled, laughing softly. He reached out and took my hand, holding it in both of his for a moment. And then he slid my palm under the edge of his suit so I pressed against the warm linen of his shirt, just over his heart. My breath hitched but no way did he hear it against the rest of the party noise.
With his hand against mine, with my fingers buried in his warmth, he looked down at me and said, “I was a stupid high school boy who didn’t stand up for what he wanted.”
I pulled my hand away and switched my champagne glass to that hand to dissipate the heat. You’re not going to seduce me this time, Marchand. I mean, he was doing a good job given that it had been about one minute, but I wasn’t falling for it this time. “You were the worst thing that could happen to a teenage girl. The ultimate high school humiliation.”
“You think of me that way? As your high school humiliation?”
“You should be flattered I think of you at all.”
“You make it very difficile for a guy to explain. You never come to the alumni reunions.”
“Have you heard of a little thing called email?”
“These things are better in person, non? And I assumed you’d have my name set up in your SPAM filter,” he added with a sheepish grin that produced a couple of killer dimples.
