by Alix Nichols
As we kiss, I begin to feel the ache and the emptiness in my core, exactly the way I did before our first time a week ago.
I hope he has protection because I really don’t see how I can make it to the bedroom.
The urge to touch him overwhelms me. I undo his belt and zipper, draw his boxer-briefs down, and wrap my fingers around him.
He makes a noise deep in his throat and pulls a condom out of his pocket.
My famished body cheers and pops champagne.
“When we get to the bedroom,” he says, sheathing himself, “I’m going to kiss and lick you absolutely everywhere.”
“Including the toes?”
“Oh, yes.”
I sigh theatrically. “Do your worst.”
“Trust me, I will.”
“If you’re trying to impress me,” I say, raising my chin in defiance, “it isn’t working.”
It’s working just fine—I’m soaking wet.
He smiles. “I’m not trying to impress you. I’m just giving you a heads-up.”
I zoom in on his erection, proud and unapologetic, like the rest of him. “What if I walked away now and left you hanging… er, getting it up?”
He stares at me. “You wouldn’t.”
“I could.”
Gripping my hips, he pulls me close enough for our sexes to brush. “But you won’t.”
As he says those words, Sebastian tugs the crotch of my panties to the side and drives in.
You’re right—I won’t.
Chapter 21
Diane
“Another cappuccino?” Lynette asks.
I smile at her. “Thank you, but two is enough this early in the day.”
Actually, it isn’t that early.
The others have been up for at least a couple of hours. Three, in Sebastian’s case. Lynette and I are the only late risers, so we’ve gotten into the habit of taking our breakfast together. Besides, everyone else favors the minimalistic French breakfast of coffee, orange juice, and croissant. Lynette and I like real breakfasts.
And real breakfasts require prep work.
So, it goes like this: Lynette makes pancakes or porridge, fries eggs, and brews coffee that’s second only to Manon’s. I pick and wash a handful of strawberries from the garden and then toast some bread. When everything’s ready and we sit down, Lynette opens the paper Sebastian has left for her, and I check the newsfeed on my phone. Sometimes we chat, but mostly we just enjoy our big, fat, and infinitely rewarding breakfast in companionable silence.
I help Lynette clear the table and head upstairs.
Today Octave is out of town visiting his mother’s grave and taking care of some private matters. I’ll be using this opportunity to snoop around his quarters. He’s Sebastian’s most trusted staff member, so I figure maybe I’ll find something.
But the moment I open the door to Octave’s office, the knot in my stomach doubles in size, forcing me to stop and take a few fortifying breaths.
I inspect my palms.
Clean.
Funny, I would’ve bet they were smeared with sticky mud.
What I’m about to do feels so wrong I’m a hair from backpedaling. It’s one thing to nose into Sebastian’s life, but intruding on an innocent man’s—a good man’s—private space isn’t something I can easily justify.
However, considering I still haven’t found any dirt whatsoever on my betrothed, I have no choice.
How naive I was to imagine that once I lived here, I’d gain access to his financial information or the inner workings of his business! The documents he keeps in his home office are as innocuous as a document could be. He may as well publish them online. He never discusses sensitive matters with me or when I’m around. Or when anyone is around.
Sebastian’s life is so perfectly and hermetically compartmentalized it should be used as a case study in management books.
When working, he’s a steely business shark. In his private life, he’s a loyal friend and brother, and a respected master of the house. He’s also the most gallant of men with yours truly… on camera. At night, his alpha side comes out again, only in a different way. He forgets his good manners and becomes demanding and greedy.
It seems duplicity is his second nature.
As for me, I’ve taken a page from his book, forcing myself to compartmentalize, too.
I crave his brand of sex. I enjoy his conversation. I have a hard time keeping my eyes or hands off him.
All true, all undeniable.
But deep inside, I’m still the person who attacked him with a cream cake last October. I’m not impressed by his riches. Well, maybe just a little. It would take a saint not to be. And I’m no saint—not even close.
What Sebastian will never have is my forgiveness.
Even if I’m soon to become Madame d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, I’m still me. And I still care more about justice than I do about money.
On that thought, I force myself to step in and look around.
The first thing I notice is a black-and-white portrait of a smiling young woman on Octave’s desk. Her hair is huge, its ends curled and flipped up, and she wears more eyeliner than Sophia Loren and Aimee Winehouse combined. The portrait screams “the sixties” in all their rock ’n’ roll glory.
This must be Octave’s mom.
I note there’s no portrait of his dad anywhere. From what I gather, the man is still alive, even if Octave never talks about him. Maybe they don’t get along.
But I should stop distracting myself—it isn’t Octave I’m after.
I spend the next hour going through the perfectly organized and labelled files on the wall shelves. They contain nothing but bills, contracts, bank statements, and administrative correspondence.
A roomy cabinet next to Octave’s desk hosts an unusual-looking audio device and headphones. Maybe he’s an amateur radio broadcaster or something in that vein.
Next up, his desk.
When I realize that some of the drawers are locked, I’m relieved. This means I’ll get out of here sooner.
The guilt is killing me.
I open the unlocked ones. Pens, scissors, staplers, paper… One drawer contains Octave’s passport and his birth certificate.
Octave Bernard Rossi, born March 14, 1958.
Ha! I didn’t know his middle name was Bernard, like Sebastian’s grandfather’s. But let’s face it, if my middle name was Bernard, I’d keep mum about it, too. It’s undeservedly but irrevocably démodé and even mossier than Octave, which, at least, is original and even appears to be making a comeback.
As I close the last drawer and tiptoe out the door, I beg Heaven to forgive me this particular trespass.
And then I beg for a memory wipe so my tongue will never slip and call poor Octave by his unfortunate middle name.
Chapter 22
Diane
“Welcome back, madame.” Octave performs his signature head bow and takes a suitcase from Sebastian. “Monsieur, it’s good to see you smiling and tanned. I hope everything went as planned.”
“Better than planned,” Sebastian says, heading upstairs with the rest of our baggage. “It was a perfect wedding.”
And in many ways, it was.
Now that I’ve faked a marriage to the man, I find it hard to believe it’s been only a month since I moved in with him in mid-May. This has been the speediest month of my life. Almost every night, we’ve gone out or hosted a dinner at home. Sebastian has been acting as a man utterly and completely smitten with his fiancée. When I took him to Nîmes, he charmed the bejesus out of Mom and all my childhood friends.
I didn’t dare to take him to Marseilles.
In fact, I didn’t even have the courage to tell Dad about him. Chloe did that for me.
As expected, first he was shocked. And then he was mad.
I hope he’ll forgive me one day after I’ve completed my mission and he’s put two and two together.
If that day ever comes, that is.
Because so far, the muddiest, stinkiest dirt I’ve found on my fiancé is a speeding ticket.
Our wedding was an “intimate” affair, held in the privacy and extreme luxury of a paradisiac Bahamian island. My fiancé told everyone we couldn’t wait for the chateau wedding scheduled for next May, to which everyone and their cat will be invited. This gave rise to rumors that I’m pregnant, which both of us denied so vehemently that a lot of people decided they were true.
The ceremony took place on a pristine sand beach with only the minister, Sebastian, a handful of guests, and me to stain its unspoiled purity. I wore a bespoke wedding dress of hand-embroidered silk and exquisite Alençon lace. It hugged my body like a glove, pushing my breasts up and flaring out at the hem.
Now that Sebastian and I are on shagging terms, wearing sacks is kind of pointless.
Our handpicked guest list included Raphael and his bestie Genevieve, Sebastian’s aunt and uncle, and a few of his closest friends including Laurent, who arrived alone, and Mat, who came with Jeanne.
Sebastian’s mother and his youngest brother Noah were “unable”—read “unwilling”—to attend.
My side consisted of Mom, Chloe and Hugo, two childhood friends from Nîmes, and Elorie. Manon couldn’t make it.
Unsurprisingly, neither could Dad.
A couple of weeks before the wedding, Sebastian published the banns, which made me jittery.
“Are you sure our marriage is truly fake?” I asked him for the umpteenth time.
“Better than that,” he said. “It’s genuinely fake. Everything is real and legit, in case anyone wants to check.”
Color drained from my face.
“Don’t look so terrified!” He laughed. “I forgot to submit a crucial piece of paperwork to the closest French consulate in Miami. I’ll be sure to keep forgetting for three more months, after which our marriage will be null.”
I exhaled in relief.
“My dearest, Diane.” He patted my hand. “I have just as little desire to marry you for real as you do. So relax and enjoy your fake wedding and honeymoon.”
And so I did.
We both did, judging by my new husband’s insatiable appetite throughout the week. We fooled around at the hotel, on the beach, up against a palm tree, in the sea, in the pool, in the Jacuzzi, in the shower, on the bed, on the couch, on the floor, and against the wall in our palatial suite.
Against every wall in our suite.
The whole week was a nonstop sexfest, leaving certain parts of my body a little sore, but also pleasured beyond my wildest fantasies.
On the way home, I sat next to Chloe for a good part of the endless flight. We talked about her physical and emotional recovery, and how she was beginning to see life in a different light. She said it felt like putting on Technicolor lenses after years of gray scale. Happiness still scares the shit out of her, but she’s learned to breathe through her fear and carry on.
“I’m grateful for every day with Hugo,” Chloe said, staring at the blue expanse above the clouds. “It took me a while to recognize that he’s the love of my life. But now that I have…” She paused, her expression dreamy.
“What has changed, now that you have?” I asked.
“I keep falling in love.” She smiled. “Every day, I tell myself it isn’t possible to love a man more than I love Hugo, and yet the next day I find myself loving him more.”
“Your fiancé is a wonderful man,” I said.
And I meant it.
“And you”—Chloe gave me a wink—“still haven’t told me how you went from hating Sebastian Darcy to marrying him six months later.”
“It’s a long story,” I said, borrowing his favorite excuse.
Fortunately, Chloe didn’t point out that we were stuck on a plane with nothing to do for a few more hours.
Good girl.
Chapter 23
Diane
Finally in the quiet and comfort of the master bedroom at Darcy House, I stretch out on the bed and catch a quick nap while Sebastian showers.
Lucky bastard—he had no problem sleeping on the plane.
“I’m off to the office,” he says, emerging from the bathroom all crisp and kissworthy. “Lots of catching up to do.”
“Go catch them all up, darling!” I produce a nauseatingly saccharine smile. “What’s a little jet lag to a captain of industry?”
He laughs. “What about you?”
“Bath. Pajamas. Sleep.”
“It’s only four in the afternoon.”
I give him a “so what” shrug.
As soon as Sebastian is gone, I take a long bath and put on my PJs. The problem is I can’t sleep. With no industry to captain and no catching up to do, I should’ve dropped off the moment I shut my eyes. But my wayward brain has decided otherwise. After thirty minutes of vain attempts to cop some z’s, I give up and get dressed.
Too tired to read, I decide to explore the last unchartered area of Darcy House—the attic. Vast and high-ceilinged, it’s used for storage—an unpardonable waste of space in any normal person’s point of view. As I climb the wooden staircase and step into the loft, I remember Sebastian telling me his father wanted to install an indoor swimming pool in here. But the city of Paris denied him the permit, what with the mansion being classified as a historic building.
Poor rich man, he must’ve been heartbroken!
I wander around, running my hand over mismatched pieces of furniture and unveiling old paintings stacked against the walls. Specks of dust dance in the light coming in through dormer windows. The place smells of old wood and the lavender hanging from the ceiling beams in little dried bunches. The attic has so much character and charm that if I were the real mistress of this house, I would’ve wiped the dust, washed the windows, and set up my workspace here.
But as things stand, I’m the fake mistress of this house, and my goal is to find dirt on my fake husband.
Get to work, Diane.
I begin with the massive chest of drawers in front of me and work my way through the loft, leaving no object unturned. Two hours later, just as I begin to tell myself this is pointless, I pull out the middle drawer of an unpretentious little desk that’s hiding behind a gigantic throne-like armchair and stacks of old magazines.
Weird… The drawer looks shallower than its siblings.
Using my tiny Swiss army knife—Lionel drilled into me to always have it handy—I hook the false bottom of the drawer and lift.
Bingo!
Concealed underneath is a secret compartment that holds a bundle of four letters. I open the first one. It’s from Sebastian’s mom, accusing her ex-husband of having turned their older sons against her and insisting Raphael would be much better off living with her in Nepal than with him in Paris. Why only Raphael, I wonder before remembering that Noah was already with her and Sebastian must’ve been around twenty by then.
The second letter is more or less the same as the first with the addition of a few choice adjectives I wouldn’t’ve expected from a high-society lady.
The third letter, again from her and again on the same topic, ends with this passage:
I was hoping it would never come to this, but your blatant refusal to meet me halfway leaves me no choice. So here goes. Do you remember how I was already pregnant with Sebastian when we married? I’m sure you do. What you don’t know is that I wasn’t pregnant by you. That’s right—Sebastian, your adored firstborn, your rock and your heir, is not your son. He’s Emmanuel’s. If you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to steal a few hairs from Sebastian’s comb and have them tested. Once you’ve done that, it’s up to you to wait until I tell him the truth or to send Raphael to live with me.
Marguerite
I reread the passage twice more and then open the fourth—and last—letter and read the following:
Thibaud,
I’m glad you did the paternity test. Now that you have proof that I wasn’t bluffing, will you please send Raphael to me? I promise that if you do, I’ll never t
ell Sebastian the truth. It would break his heart. But I’m prepared to do that if you leave me no choice. It is my duty to shelter Raphael, who lacks his older brother’s sense of purpose and moral rectitude, from your debauched lifestyle. I hope you understand my motives and will do the right thing.
Marguerite
The letter is dated a month before Darcy senior overdosed.
This revelation must’ve been the straw that broke his back. He’d already lost his wife, his good name, and his youngest son. He was being blackmailed and pressured to send his middle son to a faraway country. But, perhaps worst of all, he’d been robbed of his oldest and favorite boy. Not in the literal sense, but on that fundamental fruit-of-my-loins level, which means more to us than it should.
With shaking hands, I fold the letters and stick them in the back pocket of my jeans.
That’s it.
My mission is accomplished. I’ve found the muddy, stinky dirt that I’ve been looking for.
The dirt that could destroy Sebastian Darcy.
Chapter 24
Diane
The round-faced pastry shop assistant gives me a bright smile. “What can I get for you, mesdemoiselles?”
“A small bag of coucougnettes, please,” I say politely.
Elorie snorts. “Did you just ask for testicles?”
“I did.” I pay and offer a soft pink sweet from my bag to Elorie. “I promise you’ll like it.”
She studies the almond paste “ball” spiced with ginger and candied in sugar and pulls a face. “Really?”
I nod to encourage her. “They’re a Southwest specialty, but I discovered them only a month ago here in Le Marais.”
Elorie puts the coucougnette in her mouth and chews it slowly.
“So?” I ask.
“Tastes better than it sounds.”
I grin. “Told ya.”
We step out and amble along the cobblestone streets of this medieval quartier until our next stop—the European House of Photography. The exhibition space is located in an eighteenth-century hôtel particulier at 5 rue de Fourcy. Impressive as it is, the building can’t hold a candle to the splendor of Darcy House.
