I smile at Jeanne to let her know I’m listening.
“There is a gentleman here to see you and Madame Carrington.”
One of Mom’s male-servants-slash-sex-slaves, probably. The list is long on both sides of the Atlantic with very little overlap. I won’t put up with that mess now.
Mom has already joined her hands in a childish gesture of excitement. “How charming to have a visit at last, I—”
“Please let the gentleman know that we’re not receiving any visitors at the moment.” I make a point of not looking at my mother. I expect her to go into full-on pout mode.
“Lenor, please don’t be such a killjoy. I deserve—“
“What you deserve is irrelevant. What you need is some rest.” I shoot her my best mothering stare. It’s so good that I feel like I’ve just aged twenty years. Hopefully it will be enough to keep her quiet.
“Mademoiselle?” Jeanne draws my attention back to her. “You might want to reconsider.”
Obviously my attempt at authority hasn’t fooled anyone. I arch my eyebrows to show Jeanne she has better give a good reason for contradicting me.
“It is Monsieur Murdoch, Mademoiselle. I believe he rescued Madame Carrington.”
A shiver runs through my veins. My palms grip my knees tighter. I’ve been so good at filing the memory of him away, at ignoring how he crashed right back into my life at the worst possible time.
“Let him in, Jeanne.” That has come from my mother. She has dropped the little girl’s airs and her face is still.
I nod towards Jeanne to confirm the order. And we wait. I don’t check on Mom but by the sound of ruffling material, I know she’s sorting herself out, combing her hair, pinching her cheeks to give them a youthful glow. I just sit still listening to the drumming of my heartbeat, praying nobody else can hear it.
When he steps into the drawing room, his whole body sucks the oxygen out of it. It sucks the air out of my lungs too. Whoosh!
“Zachary.” Mom greets him from her loveseat with that silky voice of hers. “It is so nice to see you.”
He nods towards her and answers her greeting but he doesn’t say another word. My eyes are glued to a blind spot in the center of the pink toile-de-Jouy upholstery around the balcony window.
But soon my skin tingles. He’s not looking at Mom. His gaze is on me. All over my face, my shoulders, down to my hands clasped on my lap.
“Afternoon, Lenor.”
He doesn’t sound quite as arrogant as I remember. So I woman-up and lift my chin to meet his gaze. Goddammit, the jackass is still smoking hot. Same emerald eyes, same blond hair with fiery copper highlights. Same angular face and high cheekbones.
“Hi, Zachary. Thanks for coming over.” My lips are numb but—I hope—it doesn’t sound like it. “Jeanne, please bring some tea?”
He prefers tea, that much I remember. But who am I kidding? I remember everything. My hand flows to my stomach where every memory of him has struck me.
I gesture for him to take a seat in one of the twin Bergère chairs opposite my mother and me. I try not to stare at the cat-like way his body moves. Zachary isn’t one of those buffed-up guys you see in the magazines. He’s not like Josh in all his quarterback and Midwest glory. Zachary is tall and lean, and if I shut my eyes, I can feel the taunt definition of his muscles underneath my fingertips. There is so much power brewing underneath his skin, and that power always threatens to burst out and destroy everything in its wake.
I back off and stiffen. I swear my fingertips are burning as if I’ve actually been touching him.
“I’ve tried to call you so many times.” My mother cut the awkward silence and, for once, I salute her inability to shut up. “But your phone doesn’t work anymore.”
Zachary turns away from me—he’s been observing me with the look I used to call The Freezer. It used to make me all fidgety. It still does. But slowly he faces Mom again. “I’ve got a new number.”
“Oh.” Mom whispers. “I wanted to thank you for…” she stammers, her voice small, like that of a child, “…for saving my life.”
His gaze shoots back to me. “Eleanor had the new number.”
Now they are both staring at me. My mother looks pissed-off, and Zachary as though he’s gently telling off a naughty kid.
I shrug like a disinterested teenager. “It’s been pretty busy here with Mom coming back from the hospital.” My fingers tap on the Vogue magazine that sits on the armrest of my chair. “I’m sorry.”
Without Zachary, I might not be sitting idly in the same room as my mother, listening to her non-stop chatter and managing her demands. Without Zachary, I might not have a mom anymore.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, this time meaning it.
Jeanne comes back with a silver tray carrying delicate china, tea and macaroons. I welcome the diversion. Sweets have always been a coping mechanism for me. My mother won’t touch them, which means more for me.
While Jeanne serves, Mom and Zachary start a conversation, or rather Mom does. He simply answers with his signature smile. ‘Enigmatic,’ ‘mysterious,’ ‘cynical’… I still struggle to qualify that smile of his.
I shake myself and tear my gaze away from Zachary Murdoch, and all the adjectives I spent my teenage years collecting for him. Gratefulness should not rhyme with foolishness. I indulge in my macaroons—and Mom’s—all sweet and creamy, and get lost staring into the amber color of the tea in my dainty cup.
“I have to go I’m afraid.”
I sigh with relief.
Mom doesn’t hide her disappointment. “So soon? You’ve only just arrived.”
“We have a big night at the club. I’m expecting some good media coverage. I need to get back there and check to see if we’re ready.”
Club? Media coverage? What is that all about? Last time I checked, he was a corporate lawyer.
“Of course.” Mom’s shoulders fall. My God, she must really be bored with me. Surely I’m not that dull.
Zachary stands and goes to kiss Mom on the cheek. His manners now have that old-fashioned polish my mother is so keen on. She never warmed to Josh’s brashness.
“I’ll see Zachary out.” Because I have manners too.
The climb down the stairs leading from the drawing room on the first floor to the entrance is silent. Awkwardly silent. I’m so focused on ignoring the heat radiating from him, so close to me that I can’t switch off the mute mode.
Big mental shake.
Open the door. Say goodbye. Turn the page on him. Again.
I open the door and stand aside to let him leave. I deliver the loveliest smile I can muster.
He tilts his head sideways, his eyes searching for something inside of me. What?
“Come outside and walk with me,” he says.
Chapter 5
Twenty minutes later I’m sitting on the terrace of a Parisian café next to the left bank of the Seine. On the other side of the street stand those cute popped-up bookstores that are on so many postcards. Opposite me is this gorgeous, mysterious man sipping a glass of rosé wine. I can’t make it more cliché if I try.
What I could have done—should have—was decline the invitation and stick my butt back in the drawing room, next to my mom, and bury myself into my mostly-unread Vogue.
I stare blindly at the other customers enjoying the late August sun and luscious French wine. I fail to ignore the silence that has settled between us after we gave our order. Still I manage to loosen the stiffness in my spine, but I can’t help playing with a wisp of hair, rolling and unrolling it around my index finger.
I take a sip of rosé and steal a glance at Zachary above the rim of my glass. His eyes tease me. There’s still some of The Freezer in them, but their subtle emerald sparkles awake the butterflies in the pit of my stomach—butterflies I’ve assumed dead for quite some time.
I gulp down three large mouthfuls of wine in quick succession and let the alcohol give me a spark of liquid courage. “So what’s all this about a club
? Last time we saw each other, you were at Harvard Law School.”
The right side of his mouth curls up into a cocky smile. “I can see you haven’t checked up on me for a while then.”
I tilt my head sideways. I won’t admit I made a point of never checking on him. “I’ve been busy,” I grumble.
He chuckles. Embarrassment straightens me right back up, but the effect on Zach is the exact opposite. He leans against the back of his seat and stretches his legs underneath the table, until his ankles glance against mine. My gaze swings straight to his face. He stares back at me with a silent challenge. I feel my jaw tightening.
I’m not an eighteen-year-old virgin anymore and—hell—I’m not going to give him the upper-hand ever again.
The tiny nod he gives me tells me he got the message. “I don’t have any parents to please anymore, so I figured I could do pretty much anything I wanted. When I graduated, I left the States to travel. I started in Stockholm and some time after that I ended up in Paris and got the opportunity to buy, what was to become Le Duke, and make it mine.”
I’ve heard of Le Duke because Charlie can’t shut up about the place, but I’ve not been there yet.
“I wished my father was still alive. He’d die of a coronary all over again knowing his only son had turned into a nightclub owner.” Zachary’s voice drips with sarcasm. His dad passed away two years ago. That much I know.
“Are you happy?” I bite down on my lower lip. Damn, why on earth do I care if Zachary Murdoch is happy?
One of his eyebrows arches in surprise, and I think I see his legendary self-control fizzle a tiny bit. His gaze buries into me and I shy away. I grab the stem of my balloon-shaped glass and assault my wine again.
“I’ve stopped being angry,” he answers after a charged pause. “I grew up, I guess.” Although I’m still faking a brand-new fascination in my alcoholic beverage, I see him shrug. “I spent far too long feeling sorry for myself.” After a sip of his wine, he adds, “I spent far too long hurting the few people who loved me.”
A police car speeds by our terrace, its siren wailing. The strident noise echoes through my fuzzy brain.
I’m definitely one of the unfortunate few he’s referring to. I’ve loved Zachary Murdoch and it slaughtered me. The acute memory of my love for him slices straight through me. It’s five years old. Still, it stings like a snake bite. I realize that whatever I went through with Josh has been a stroll through Central Park on a sunny spring day.
What the man opposite me put me through was like climbing Mount Everest. Barefoot. In a bikini.
“Are you planning on staying in Paris?” he finally asks.
“I guess so. At least until Mom is out of the woods.”
“And after that?”
I answer with a shrug.
“What about work? Will you go back to London to work at Vogue again?”
Someone has been keeping tabs on me.
“I’m never going back to England.” When I blindly followed Josh to Oxford straight after Georgetown, I’d found a part-time job at Vogue in their PR department. I have no intention to get back to a place that will remind me of what I lost.
I don’t want to meet Zach’s gaze. But I also don’t want to indulge in another sip of my wine. My senses are already blurred. So I sit there drumming my fingers on the table in front of me, feeling dumb.
Then something happens. Something unexpected. He leans forward and his fingers slowly entwine with mine. For a couple of seconds, I revel in the feel of his skin against mine. I slowly let out a deep breath and my shoulders slump.
“I’m sorry, Duchess. I’m sorry for what happened to you in Oxford.”
My mouth turns dry. Tears burn my eyelids. Tears of shame. I retract my hand as if his touch has splashed me with scalding hot water. I jump to my feet, the chair beneath me screeching on the tiles of the terrace. I wobble on my heels. I blink. Once. Twice. I pull myself together and run away.
This is what denial has brought me to. It’s been one month since Josh unceremoniously dumped me and I still haven’t dealt with that pain. I’ve circled around it by sleeping with Pierre, but I haven’t yet faced the ego-bashing, future-cancelling pain head-on.
The last person I ever want to know about my humiliation is Zachary Murdoch. I hurry around the tables with the other customers observing my flight.
“Lenor!” I hear coming from behind me. “Wait for me.”
No. No. I’m not going to wait for him. Or for anybody. Not anymore. I’m going to stay on my own so that nobody will ever tell me again that they don’t love me. Or love me enough.
A pressure on my elbow forces me to twirl around on the sidewalk. I’m as stiff as a stick. Zach’s hands brush up the length of my arms to come and rest on my shoulders. I feel the familiar warmth flutter through my tummy. The warmth turns into heat as his mouth comes within inches of my ear. He whispers, “I shouldn’t have said that, Duchess. Please, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.” I feel his breath caressing my skin and I hear the lump in his throat. “I never want to hurt you again.”
He gently draws me into his embrace. His hand slides along the nape of my neck and bury itself in the mass of my hair. I nuzzle against the material of his shirt, letting the familiar scent of his skin filter through it and envelop me.
I’m eighteen again, my heart bursting with love and hope and certainty.
His voice is strained. “I can’t stand the idea of you going through the same pain. Some other jerk doing what I did to you. Again.”
I struggle to swallow and just about mute a sniffle. The clammy wave of shame rushes back over me. I break away from him.
I take a couple of steps back. “You don’t know anything about me anymore.”
“Lenor, please.”
He starts bridging the gap between us, but I stop him with a shaky wave of my hand. “Actually, you’ve never known anything about me at all.”
His face registers the hurt my words caused and I savor it. It feels good to make him pay. Even for a second. Even this late. It feels really good.
I turn my back on him and run back to the place I try to call home.
Chapter 6
After that little outburst, the last thing I expect is to end up gracing Le Duke with my presence. But Zach managed to turn our argument on its head and my fleeting sense of revenge has been very—well—fleeting.
It all started with a text message.
ZACHARY (5.34pm): NEVER MEANT 2 HURT UR FEELINGS… PLS BELIEVE ME.
ZACHARY (7.09PM): LENOR, DON’T CHICKEN OUT AND IGNORE MY TEXT.
ME (7.11PM): NOT IGNORING UR TEXT. NOT CHICKENING OUT.
ZACHARY (7.12PM): GOOD! COME 2NIGHT 2 LE DUKE.
ME (7.15PM): ALREADY HAVE PLANS.
ZACHARY (7.16PM): LIAR!
ZACHARY (7.25PM): DUCHESS, I NAMED THE PLACE AFTER U.
ELEANOR (7.26PM): LIAR!
ZACHARY (7.30PM): COME AND CHECK OUT THE FRUITS OF MY LABOR. BRING FRIENDS.
ELEANOR (8.01PM): MAYBE.
ZACHARY (8.02PM): SEE YOU TONIGHT!
The best way to prove to him—to myself—that I’m not a love-sick puppy anymore is to adorn my most vertiginous Manolos and rock Le Duke’s VIP room. Apparently, Zach gave his staff instructions on how I am to be treated tonight. The first step has been Champagne, which I sip while waiting for the master of ceremonies to show up.
I have to admit though, Le Duke would almost be worth stumbling over my pride for. It strikes the right note between cool and fun. Right in the middle of the Quartier Latin—Paris’s ‘arty’ district—the place spreads over the three floors of a townhouse, with marble floors everywhere and discreet, dark alcoves dotted around, perfect for making out. Very decadent, very French, and very expensive.
“Lenor!” Someone shouts through the crowd with a squeal.
Charlie is waving at me from the other side of the velvet rope that designates the VIP area. As always, she looks impossibly charming and causes an unexpected pang of jeal
ousy to knock at my heart. What if Zach falls for my cousin’s va-va-voom? For a night? Or longer? What if Charlie succeeds where I failed so miserably?
And why the hell should I even care? I’m about to inflict a triple mental slap on myself as my eyes catch sight of the man following in Charlie’s steps. Pierre.
Non, non, non! I’ve managed to forget about Monsieur Dark-et-Sexy. Him coming back center stage isn’t an option. I signal to the bouncer to let them into the VIP room anyway. Charlie’s arms are around me in a matter of seconds. I divert her squealing attention with the offer of champagne, which she takes. Charlie drinks like a fish.
With a glass between her fingers, she turns toward Pierre who has been undressing me with his eyes. French men do that a lot and sometimes manage to get away with it without looking entirely sleazy.
“Lenor, I’m sure you’re delighted I brought Pierre with me.” Charlie gives me a cheeky sideways glance while taking her first taste of Taittinger.
I resign myself to speak in French. “Of course I am.” I nod while killing my need to turn on my heels and flee.
One-night-stands aren’t supposed to become social acquaintances. Note to self: Seek potential sexual partners outside immediate social circle. At least, outside Charlie’s amis. Or maybe strive to sleep with a guy once and avoid any ‘rinse and repeat.’
Pierre already has his arm around my waist and his lips brush the corner of my mouth. I recognize the sweet scent of his aftershave. I stiffen after I realize that his palm isn’t going to move away from the small of my back. Judging by the covetous looks of two girls a couple of yards from us, I gather I should be honored to have such a dashing beau at my side. I wriggle awkwardly, because I’m not.
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