by Alix Nichols
Finally, level number four—extra hot—is a passionate, shameless kiss, “tongues and all,” which she included in her index as a point of reference rather than a workable option. Diane is adamant: Extra hot is and will remain out of bounds, unless warranted by exceptional circumstances such as an impending apocalypse or a real danger of exposure.
I cup her cheek and slide my hand to the back of her head. “Hot. We’re in a nightclub.”
I’m taking a risk here, well aware that a midnight dance can hardly be called a “special occasion.” My request isn’t justified, and I fully expect her to call my bluff and mouth “no way.”
Diane arches an eyebrow as if to say she needs justification.
I just stare at her, holding my ground.
She gives me a small nod.
Before she can change her mind, I pull her into me with my hand at her nape and press my mouth to hers. Every time we kiss, it strikes me how much I enjoy it. My goals, my company, the whole world becomes unimportant as her delicious scent fills my nostrils and the softness of her lips overtakes my mind. So warm, so yielding. I’ve tried meditating with the best coaches in France and abroad to achieve the state of mindful relaxation wherein I empty my head and let go of all my worries.
I swear I have yet to find a shorter path to that coveted state than kissing Diane Petit.
She wraps her arms around my neck, melding her body to mine.
A camera clicks.
I graze her lips and tease them apart.
She lets me. Holding her tight, I stroke her back. My right hand slides to her glorious bottom and stays there, fingers splayed but not daring to squeeze. The temptation to slip my tongue between her soft lips and drink in the taste of her mouth is so strong I can barely resist it.
No tongues, I remind myself. She doesn’t want tongues. She was very clear on that point.
Diane’s hand runs up and down my nape, clutching the back of my neck as if she means it.
It’s just for show. It’s just for show. It’s just for—
She removes her hand and draws away.
“We should go,” she says.
I’m so drunk on her I need a moment to adjust.
And so does my erection.
She stands on tiptoes and whispers into my ear, “Now, Sebastian. If you grab my hand and we rush out, everyone will think we’re running off to fuck.”
Chapter 10
Sebastian
I hail a cab.
“Rue Didot in the 14th,” I say to the driver.
Our drill is that I accompany Diane to her place before going home. Sometimes I stay for an hour or so, checking emails on my phone and reading a paper while Diane does chores or edits photos.
She calls that a “quickie.”
The few times we’ve gone to my town house after a date, I’ve insisted she stay the night, but she always has a good reason to return to her apartment.
As we drive across the city, I’m painfully aware of Diane’s thigh next to mine.
Get a grip, man.
She isn’t even my type. I’m sure I’m reacting this way because I haven’t had sex in months, ever since Ingrid left me. That’s it; this isn’t about Diane, this is just about me having gone too long without a woman. It’s decided—I’m getting laid as soon as Diane and I are done, and I won’t be picky. The first pretty face who falls into my lap will do just to take the edge off.
Because, heaven help me, that edge will be the size of Everest by then.
I stare out the window, surprised to see we’re passing by the imposing red gate of the Hôtel d’Hozier and other familiar buildings on rue Vieille du Temple. The taxi is taking us to the left bank through Le Marais. This itinerary is practicable only by night. By day, my neighborhood’s mesh of one-way streets makes it a nightmare to drive through.
My town house is just a few blocks away, hidden from sight behind a walled garden, as a self-respecting Parisian hôtel particulier should be. It hasn’t been in the family for very long—only half a century—but I hope it’ll stay for generations to come.
Half an hour later, the cab pulls up outside Diane’s building. I pay the driver and follow my intended upstairs.
“I’m not very good with cocktails,” Diane says, opening one of her kitchen cabinets. “But I can fix us a gin and tonic.”
I sit at the kitchen table. “Sure.”
A Scotch is what I’d really like, but I already had two glasses of the best single malt at the nightclub, so I’m fine with a gin and tonic. Or anything, for that matter.
Diane hands me my drink and sits down across from me, nursing her own glass in her hands.
“When you walked me through the contract,” she says, “you said something about waiting for ‘a certain person to make his move.’ ”
“Did I?”
She nods. “Did he?”
“Make a move?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Not yet.”
“What kind of move are we talking about?”
I sigh and spend some time gulping down my drink. Diane is already halfway through her glass.
“My father worshipped my mother,” I finally say. “Fifteen years ago, he made a terrible mistake and slept with another woman—a much younger woman, as it happened. She posted their sex tape online the next day.”
“She didn’t try to blackmail him first?”
“No, and that is additional proof her seduction of Papa was planned by someone who’d paid her.”
“A booty trap.”
I nod.
“Did your dad try to talk to her, find out more?”
“She disappeared.”
“And your parents?”
“Maman said he’d broken the sacred vows of marriage and humiliated her. She packed up and left.”
“To Nepal?” she asks.
“You’re well informed.”
She arches an eyebrow. “As your significant other and soon-to-be better half, it’s my duty to be informed.”
I guess she has a point. “The first year, she took an apartment in Versailles, and a year later, she moved to Nepal.”
“What’s she doing there, by the way?”
“Running a charitable foundation. She hasn’t set foot in Paris in years.”
“Really?”
I nod. “I was nineteen when she announced she was leaving the country, Raphael fifteen, and Noah only eleven. Raph and I chose to stay here with Papa. Noah went to Nepal with her.”
“What happened?”
“Papa… he just… lost his way. Half the time he was depressed, and the other half he tried to have fun, often with the help of drugs. Ten years ago, he was found dead.”
She nods sympathetically. “Suicide?”
“Overdose, more likely.” I shrug. “The report was inconclusive.”
“That’s a very sad story.”
I set my empty glass on the table next to Diane’s.
She refills both. “So you believe someone orchestrated the affair that led to his downfall and will now try to do the same to you? Isn’t that a bit farfetched?”
I can see how it would seem so.
“A year ago, I met a woman. I really liked her. She came from one of the country’s most respectable and wealthiest families, and she was a rare beauty, to boot. We started dating, and things were going in the right direction. She moved in with me. I was thinking of proposing.”
She nods as if she already knew this. Well, I guess she might if she reads gossip magazines.
I gulp down half the liquid in my glass and point at Diane’s. “You have some catching up to do.”
“Oh.” She smiles and takes a good swig. “So what happened?”
“I suddenly became terribly popular with gorgeous women.”
She cocks her head. “What do you mean by suddenly? You’re rich, you’re handsome—”
“Wait, did you just call me handsome?”
Diane brings her glass to her face, tips it toward her mouth, and mutte
rs into it, “Did I?”
“I’m positive.”
She sets her glass down and puts her chin up in defiance. “So what if I did? You are handsome. It doesn’t make you a good person.”
I suppress a smile, not sure why Diane’s admission pleases me so much. “Fair enough.”
“Finish your tale,” she says.
“Where was I?”
“The Siege of Darcy by Hot Chicks.”
“Right. So, all of a sudden, exquisite creatures were wooing me left and right. Naturally, I became suspicious. It was like somebody was trying to stage a remake of my dad’s story.”
“Or maybe you were just reading too much into someone’s flirtation,” she says with a wink.
I smirk. “You’re right. I’m paranoid. Who would want to hurt me, the harmless do-gooder that I am?”
She doesn’t look so amused anymore. I’m sure she’s thinking of her father now and what I did to him. It bothers me. I wonder… Does she still hate me as much as she did before I hired her? Or have our conversations and kisses, no matter how fake, mellowed her? Is there a chance she actually enjoys my company?
And my kisses?
She stares at her hands, visibly peeved.
I shouldn’t care. She’s not my girlfriend, not even a friend. It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me. It doesn’t matter if she likes talking to me or kissing me. It’s strictly business between us, and it’ll stay that way.
“My gut feeling is very trustworthy,” I say to break the silence. “And it tells me someone was pulling the strings behind both affairs, Papa’s and mine.”
“So how did the Siege end?”
“Ingrid grew jealous, and no matter how many assurances of my loyalty I gave her, her trust was broken. She kept saying there’s no smoke without fire. It drove me mad.”
“You should’ve told her about your suspicions.”
“I did. But she was too far gone. She said I was grasping at straws and inventing ridiculous conspiracy theories to justify my frolicking.”
“Because you didn’t frolic at all, did you?”
“Of course not! I was merely being polite with the ladies.” I give her a pointed look. “Anyway, Ingrid and I broke up a few weeks later.”
“Who dumped whom?”
I shrug. “She told me she was leaving. I did nothing to stop her.”
“I see.”
“Miraculously, the lustful supermodels disappeared shortly afterward. Don’t you find that strange?”
“Maybe…”
“Anyway, I got over the whole thing more easily than I’d expected. I just plunged into work and moved on.”
She smiles. “Your imaginary nemesis must have been disappointed.”
“I assure you he or she is very real. But yes, I believe, that person regretted putting things in motion too soon. I’m sure this time he’ll wait until I’m married to launch the attack.”
“Uh-huh.” She looks like she’s trying not to smile.
I rub my forehead. “Diane. I know how it sounds. Even Raphael, who witnessed Papa’s debacle, isn’t fully convinced… But I know I’m on to something.”
Her expression becomes less amused and more sympathetic.
“Put yourself in my shoes,” I continue, eager to capitalize on that seed of sympathy. “Can you imagine how hard it is to suspect everyone around you? And I mean everyone—family, friends, relations, help, competitors, subordinates… the whole damn world!”
She nods. “Must be tough.”
“I’ve ruled out a bunch of people, but only Raphael—and now you—knows about my suspicions and my plan. Everyone else must remain in the dark to avoid leaks.”
“Makes sense.”
Opening up to Diane is a huge relief. Her natural intelligence and inquisitiveness were making it hard for her to play her part without having read the full script. Not that she didn’t do a good job, but… let’s just say I’m looking forward to having her hundred percent onboard with this.
“There’s someone very dear to me,” Diane says, “who’s been… troubled for a long time—in a different way than you, but still. She’s doing much better now.”
Oh, great.
She thinks I’m crazy. Hundred percent onboard, my foot. Why did I tell her all this? Why didn’t I keep my motives secret, as I’d intended? The gin and tonic must have loosened my tongue.
“I’m not troubled,” I grate.
“OK.” She stares into my eyes. “Whatever you say. I’m just here to do a job and collect my paycheck.”
“That’s right.”
“When do you think your nemesis will make his move?”
“During our honeymoon.”
“Why?”
“To be sure to strike while the iron is hot and to maximize the devastating effect it would produce on me.”
“What if he decides to wait?”
“He—or she or they—won’t. He’s running out of time and out of options. With my previous girlfriend, he didn’t even wait for us to get engaged.”
“And you’re sure you’ll catch him this time?”
“Oh, yeah. As soon as my new admirer makes an entrance, I’ll have a private eye tail her 24-7. I’ll be prepared.”
She nods.
We finish our drinks in silence.
“You should go home now,” Diane says.
She’s right.
I pull out my phone and call a cab. I should get some shut-eye. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be up at six thirty, as usual. I’ll work out for an hour and head to the office. Sleeping in isn’t an option. Even on weekends. There are simply too many things to take care of—new markets to conquer, old competitors to decimate, and a backstabbing Judas to unmask.
Chapter 11
Diane
I gasp and forget to shut my mouth.
The view that opens up before me as Greg turns the car from the sinuous countryside road onto a gravel driveway lined with tall oak trees blows my mind. It’s early April, and the ancient oaks have fully woken from their winter sleep, their branches spawning clusters of buds and pale green baby leaves. I scoot to the door and peep out the window. On either side of the driveway, green lawns stretch far and wide, smelling of freshly cut grass.
God, I love that smell!
We don’t have nearly enough of it in Paris.
But it isn’t the majestic oak trees or the vast expanses of grass that take my breath away. Set back at the end of the driveway is the Chateau d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars. A mixture of medieval and Renaissance, the castle reminds me of the Chateau des Milandes in Perigord that I visited with Mom, Dad, Lionel, and Chloe back when Lionel was still in good health. It’s smaller, but just as elegant and romantic. As for its grand staircase leading up the main entrance, it totally deserves a red carpet sprinkled with movie stars.
I’m half aware I’m having a most ridiculous Elizabeth-at-the-sight-of-Pemberley moment, but I can’t help it. The view is just too damn gorgeous.
And, yes, I’m still a convinced socialist.
And no, I don’t think privilege is something people should be born into—it should be obtained based on merit.
And yes, again, I still think that aristocracy with their archaic titles, pompous names, and unwarranted sense of entitlement should be a thing of the past.
But right now, all those righteous thoughts scatter away into the deepest recesses of my brain, letting fascination and awe take center stage.
“What do you think of the castle, mademoiselle?” Greg asks, smiling in the rearview mirror.
I realize my mouth is gaping and quickly shut it, cheeks aflame.
He shifts his gaze to the chateau. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is.”
“Monsieur Darcy landed at the Auxerre airport an hour ago. I’m not sure he’s at the castle yet.”
“He is,” I say. “He just texted me. Raphael has been here since last night, and a few other people, too.”
“You’ll love it here,” Gr
eg says.
I’m not so sure.
Darcy insisted we spend a long weekend at his ancestral chateau in Burgundy, arguing it would be strange if he didn’t bring his soon-to-be fiancée here. Incredible as it may seem, I’ve never visited this region. Well, now I’m going to get an insider tour of it.
Aren’t I lucky?
On the program for the weekend is a tour of the castle, its surrounding English-style park, and its wine cellars. We’ll also drive through some of the nearby villages and towns and sample their best restaurants. But the highlight of our weekend will be the main local tourist attraction—the Darcy Grotto and its Ice Age rock art.
As soon as Greg stops the car, a youth with a shy smile opens the door for me, mumbling, “Hello, and welcome to the chateau.”
Before I can introduce myself, he grabs my overnight bag and rushes inside.
I stare after him, blinking.
“Thank you, Roger,” Darcy says to him as the two men pass each other on the staircase, one running up and the other down.
I take in my boyfriend’s casual look—and quickly avert my gaze. His jeans and fine wool sweater hug his lean, muscular frame in a loose-fitting, conservatively masculine way.
I’m sure he hadn’t meant it to be sexy.
Except it is.
He gives me a mild kiss. “Did you have a pleasant trip?”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “It’s just two hours’ drive from Paris.”
“Could’ve been an unpleasant two hours,” he says, arching an eyebrow.
Did he just make a joke? I study his face. His mouth is unsmiling, and there are no laugh lines around his eyes or any other noticeable signs of humor.
Hmm… Hard to tell.
He’s been doing this more and more lately—saying things which, coming from any other man, I would immediately recognize as jokes. But from Darcy… he’s just not that kind of guy.
Can a man develop a sense of humor after thirty like some develop arthritis or a bald patch?
“Your chateau is awesome,” I say.
“It’s nothing special, really. There are dozens of similar castles here in Burgundy, and a few are more awesome this one. But there’s one aspect of it that’s unique.”
