by Alix Nichols
Hugo and I have been talking a lot over the last three weeks about work, Fabien, common friends, and all sorts of things… except our future. We’ve been pretty good at keeping a lid on that particular topic. It was easy when we were at the hospital, surrounded by medical personnel and given painkillers 24-7. After we were discharged, it became a little more difficult, although recovering in separate apartments located across the city definitely helped.
But with every passing day, it became harder and harder not to mention the elephant in the room. So, when he asked me if I was feeling brave enough to meet him in town today, I knew it was to talk about it.
As a matter of fact, I don’t mind. Our elephant has regressed into a big hairy mammoth in the meantime. We’d better acknowledge him before he turns into a T. rex.
“So, here’s the thing,” Hugo says. “We’re alive.”
“Really?” I pinch my hands and cheeks. “You’re sure we aren’t ghosts who believe we’re alive? You know, like Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense?”
“Trust me, we aren’t ghosts. And you know what that means, Chloe?”
“That we can’t see dead people?”
He smiles but then grows serious again. “It means your curse is kaput. Assuming, of course, that it was real.”
“It was,” I say. “I mean, it is… I think.”
This is very confusing.
“Let it go, pichune,” he says. “Let me love you.”
Yes, please.
“I can’t.” I wring my wrists. “I… What if…”
His eyes are riveted to mine while I’m trying to put the biggest fear of my life into words.
“Curse or no curse,” I say finally, “how can you let another person in, knowing they might leave you? And even if they don’t, you know it’ll all come to an end sooner or later.”
He shrugs. “You hope it’ll be later rather than sooner.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it if I were me.”
“And if you were me?”
I chew on my lip.
“I come from a long line of lucky bastards,” he says. “My parents have loved each other for thirty-odd years. My maternal grandparents have been married fifty years, and my paternal grandparents, sixty. I plan to beat their record.”
“Sixty years, huh?”
“Yup. Sixty good years.”
“It’s just… my karma is a real bitch. I’m afraid it’ll trump your good luck.”
“I doubt it. But even if it did, even if we had only twenty years of happiness ahead of us, or ten, or five, just think of how beautiful those years would be. Five years, that’s roughly…”—he closes his eyes and moves his lips silently—“two thousand days of beauty. Isn’t that worth the risk?”
Two thousand days of beauty.
Is that what love is all about? Overcoming your fears to create something beautiful out of the chaos and pointlessness of your life. Giving the universe a meaning.
Will that beauty be destroyed? Yes, eventually. Nothing is permanent in this world except impermanence, as someone clever said. But as long as you breathe, you can create more beauty.
And that’s how you keep the chaos in check.
Suddenly, my chest feels as if a weight was lifted off it. As if the curse is truly kaput. Assuming, of course, that it was real. That it wasn’t just my imagination weaving the random events of my life into a neat, albeit morbid, story.
Whichever it was, I’m through with it.
Good-bye, Midas.
Thanks for nothing.
Here’s to a lifetime without you.
Here’s to a lifetime with Hugo.
Even if that lifetime turns out to be just a few years, or a few days.
Both Hugo and I have looked deep inside our hearts and determined we’d rather have a few more days together than endless years apart.
So that settles it, then.
I take his hand and gaze into his warm brown eyes.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hi,” I say.
And then I fill my lungs with crisp autumn air and kiss him.
<<<<>>>>
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Read on for an exclusive excerpt from Diane and Sebastian’s story
Find You in Paris
(The Darcy Brothers #1)
If there's one man that store clerk and amateur photographer Diane Petit really, really, actively hates, it's fragrance mogul Sebastian Darcy who stole her father's company--and wrecked the man's health in the process.
But the arrogant SOB had better brace himself because Diane has vowed revenge.
And revenge she will have.
Chapter One
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young man in possession of a vast fortune must be an entitled SOB born into money. Either that or a rags-to-riches a-hole who bulldozed his way to said fortune, leaving maimed bodies in his wake.
The ferocious-looking PA returns to her desk. “Monsieur Darcy is still in a meeting.”
“That’s OK.” I smile benignly. “I can wait.”
I place my hands demurely on my knees and stare at the portrait adorning—or should I say disfiguring—the wall across the hallway from where I’m seated.
Pictured is Count Sebastian d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, the oldest son of the late Count Thibaud d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice and the inheritor of an estate estimated at around one billion euros. Said estate isn’t your run-of-the-mill stock holdings or start-up fortune. Oh no. It’s made up of possessions that were handed down—uninterrupted and snowballing—all the way from the Middle Ages.
Even Robespierre and his fellow revolutionaries didn’t get their greedy little hands on the d’Arcy fortune.
What are the odds?
Upon his father’s premature demise ten years ago, young Sebastian moved back into the town house in the heart of Le Marais and took the reins of the family’s main business. A twenty-three-year-old greenhorn at the time, you’d expect him to make tons of bad decisions and sink the company or, at least, diminish its value.
But no such luck.
Instead, Sebastian Darcy took Parfums d’Arcy from number three to the number one European flavor and fragrance producer—a feat that neither his illustrious grandfather nor his star-crossed father had managed to accomplish.
According to my research, also about ten years ago, the new count chose to go by “Darcy,” abandoning the apostrophe and the rest of his status-laden name. I’m sure he only did it to fool those beneath him—which includes most everyone in a country that guillotined its royals—into believing that he sees himself as their equal.
The hell he does.
Sebastian Darcy is a stinking-rich aristocrat with instincts of an unscrupulous business shark. This means he qualifies in both the SOB and the a-hole categories.
No, scratch that. He slays both categories.
And I hate him more than words can say.
The straitlaced man on the wall seems to smirk. I shudder, my nerves taut to the point of snapping. Will they kick me out if I spit at the photo? Of course they will. I steal a glance at the PA stationed between me and Darcy’s office. She looks like a cross between a human and a pit bull. I’m sure she’d love to stick something other than paper between the jaws of her sturdy hole punch.
My hand, for example.
But I didn’t come here to fight with Darcy’s PA. I’ll keep my saliva in my mouth, my eyes cast down, my butt perched on the edge of the designer chair, and my knees drawn together and folded to the side.
Like the meek little mouse I’m trying to pass for.
After waiting three weeks, I’m careful not to arouse any suspicion in Pitbull’s mind so she won’t cancel my appointment with Darcy.
Eyes on the prize, Diane! Don’t forget you’re here to declare war by spitting in Count Sebastian Darcy’s face, rather than at his photographic representation
.
I look at the photo again, arranged in perfect symmetry between the portraits of his grandfather, Bernard, who founded the company, and his father, Thibaud, who almost put the lid on it. I know this because I’ve done my homework.
During my week-long research, I dug up every piece of information the Internet had to offer about Sebastian Darcy and his family. I was hoping to find dirt, and I did. The only problem was it was already out in the open—common knowledge, yesterday’s news.
And completely useless as leverage.
Pitbull looks up from her smartphone. “Monsieur Darcy is delayed. Do you mind waiting a little longer?”
“No problem.” I smile politely. “I’m free this afternoon.”
She arches an eyebrow as if having a free afternoon is something reprehensible.
How I wish I could stick out my tongue! But instead I widen my already unnaturally wide smile.
She frowns, clearly not buying it.
I turn away and stare at Darcy’s likeness again. In addition to the now-stale scandal, my research has revealed that Darcy is close to his middle brother, Raphael, and also to a longtime friend—Laurent something or other. Our vulture-man even managed to have a serious girlfriend for most of last year. A food-chain heiress, she looked smashing at the various soirées, galas, and fundraisers where she was photographed on his arm. Darcy was rumored to be so into his rich beauty he was about to propose. But then she suddenly dumped him about six months ago.
Clever girl.
He has no right to be happy when Dad’s life is in shambles.
I won’t stop until I crush him, even if it means I go to jail—or to hell—for using black-hat tactics. It’s not as if they’d let me into heaven, anyway. I’ve already broken the arms and legs on Darcy’s voodoo doll.
There’s no turning back after you do that sort of thing.
The next step is to let the world know who he really is and hurt him in a variety of ways, big and small. And then, just before delivering the deathblow, let him know he’s paying for his sins.
That’s why my first move is to show him my face and make sure he remembers it and associates it with unpleasantness. That way, when the shit hits the fan, he’ll know which creditor is collecting her debt.
Pitbull breaks me out of my dream world. “Monsieur Darcy’s meeting is running late.”
“That’s OK, I can—”
“No,” she cuts me off. “There’s no point in waiting anymore. As soon as the meeting is over, he’ll head to the 9th arrondissement, where he’s expected at a private reception.”
I stand up.
She glances at my bare ring finger. “Mademoiselle, I can reschedule you for Friday, December twelfth. It’s two months away, but that’s the only—”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” I say.
I know exactly which reception Sebastian Darcy is going to tonight.
Chapter Two
Three months later
“It might snow tonight.” Octave holds my coat while I wrap a scarf around my neck. “Will monsieur be taking his supper at home?”
As always, I wince at “monsieur,” but I do my best not to show it.
Grandpapa Bernard hired Octave before I was born. Roughly Papa’s age and a bear of a man, Octave has worked for my family for thirty-odd years, rising from valet to majordome. He’s seen Raphael, Noah, and me in all kinds of embarrassing situations young boys tend to get themselves into. I’ve asked him a thousand times to call me Sebastian.
All in vain.
Octave Rossi claims his respect for my old family name, my noble title, and my position in society is too strong for him to drop the “monsieur.”
So be it.
“Yes,” I say. “But I’ll come home late, so please tell Lynette to make something light. And don’t stay up for me.”
He nods. “Oui, monsieur.”
Chances are he’ll be up until I get home.
Since I moved back into the town house after Papa’s passing, Octave has been helpful in a way no one, not even Maman—especially not Maman—has ever been. All the little things, from paying electricity bills and hiring help to undertaking necessary repairs and planning reception menus, are taken care of with remarkable efficiency.
When he offered to assist me with my correspondence, I insisted on doubling his salary. My argument was that he’d be saving me the expense of a second PA for private matters.
He caved in only after I threatened to move out and sell the house.
I trust him more than anyone.
“Morning, Sebastian! To the office?” my chauffeur, Greg, asks.
He, at least, doesn’t have a problem calling me by my first name.
“We’ll make a detour,” I say as I climb into the Toyota Prius. “I need to see someone first.”
I give him the address, and he drives me to the Franprix on rue de la Chapelle in the 18th arrondissement. Greg parks the car, and I march into the supermarket, scanning the cashiers’ counters lined parallel to the shop windows.
There she is!
Diane Petit smiles at a customer as she hands her a bag of groceries. She’ll be finishing her shift in about ten minutes, according to the private eye I hired to locate and tail her. I’ll talk to her then.
Right now, I pretend to study the selection of batteries and gift cards on display not far from her desk. What I’m really doing is furtively surveying the firebrand who smashed a cream cake in my face in front of a few dozen people last October. At the time, the only thing I registered about her through my surprise and anger was foxy.
I’ve had ample opportunity to pour over her pretty face and eye-pleasing shape in the numerous close-ups the PI has supplied over the past few weeks. I’ve studied Diane in all kinds of situations and circumstances—at work with her customers, hanging out with her friends, and roaming the streets with her camera, immortalizing everyday scenes of Parisian life. She’s hot, all right, but there’s also something endearing about her, something unsophisticated and very un-Parisian.
In spite of her extravagant outburst at Jeanne’s bash, Diane Petit seems to be an unpretentious small-town bumpkin through and through.
I’ve learned a good deal about her since that memorable evening. I know she works part time at this supermarket, lives in a high-rise in the 14th, and hangs out with her foster sister Chloe, a coworker named Elorie, and a waitress named Manon.
She enjoys photographing random things, going to the movies, eating chocolate, and drinking cappuccino.
More importantly, I know why Diane did what she did that night at La Bohème.
And I plan to use it to my advantage.
Someone gives me a sharp prod in the back.
“Why are you here?” Diane asks as I spin around.
“To give you a chance to apologize.”
She smirks. “You’re wasting your time.”
“No apology, then?”
“You’re here to let me know you’re on to me, right?” She puffs out her chest. “Read my lips—I’m not afraid of you.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“How did you find me, anyway?”
“I hired a professional who tracked you down within days.”
She tilts her head to the side. “And you’ve waited three months before confronting me. Why?”
“I wanted to know what your deal was, so I gave my PI the time to compile a solid profile.” I hesitate before adding, “Besides, your foster sister was shot, and you were busy looking after her. I wanted to wait until Chloe had fully recovered.”
“You’ve met Chloe?” She sounds surprised.
“Of course.” I shrug. “Jeanne introduced us.”
She blows out her cheeks. “What do you want, Darcy?”
“Just to talk.”
“About what?”
“I have a proposition that might interest you.”
She looks me over. “Unless your proposition is to give me a magic wand that would turn y
ou into a piglet, I’m not interested.”
“I obviously can’t do that, but what I can do is—”
“Hey, Elorie, are we still on?” Diane calls to a fellow cashier who passes by.
Elorie smiles. “Only if you and Manon let me choose the movie.”
“Fine with me, but I can’t vouch for Manon.”
While Diane and Elorie discuss the time and place of their outing, I resolve to draw Diane somewhere else before making my offer. Preferably, somewhere that’s on my turf rather than hers.
“Can we go someplace quieter?” I ask Diane after Elorie leaves.
She sighs. “OK, but don’t take it as a good sign.”
“Understood.”
I do take it as a step in the right direction, though.
She follows me outside and into the car.
“To Le Big Ben, please,” I say to Greg.
He nods, and thirty minutes later, Diane and I are seated in a private booth at my favorite Parisian gentlemen’s club, which I also happen to co-own with Raphael as of three weeks ago. We’ve kept the old manager, who’s doing an admirable job. I’ve continued coming here with Laurent or Raph, as a longtime patron who enjoys the subdued elegance of this place and its unparalleled selection of whiskeys. The staff may not even realize the club has changed hands. It’s easier this way—and it removes the need for socializing with them.
“So,” Diane says after the server brings my espresso and her cappuccino. “What’s your proposition?”
“Marry me.”
She blinks and bursts out laughing as if I just said something outrageous. Which I guess it was without prior explanation.
Maybe I should start over.
“Here’s the deal,” I say. “You and I will date through April.” I make air quotes when I say “date.”
She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
“You’ll move in with me in May,” I continue. “About a month after that, we’ll get married.”
Diane makes a circular motion with her index at the side of her head and mouths, “Nutcase.”
“A month into our marriage, I’ll cheat on you,” I continue, undeterred, with a quote unquote on cheat. “And then you’ll leave me.”
