Of course.
Cole is indeed leaned back, almost horizontal in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
“Please rib me. I’ve missed that,” Cole says, as dry and deadpan as he’s always been.
Cole looks the part of a classy tourist in the early evening, decked out in slacks and a sharp polo, enjoying his glass of red wine in the City of Lights. He rises and drops air kisses on my cheeks.
“So good to see you,” I say.
He smiles. “It’s always good to see you, Scarlett. You’re our better third. But I wish I could say the same thing about this cad.”
Cole claps Daniel on the back, and the Englishman laughs, flashing that fantastic smile. It makes him seem like the most lighthearted man in the world—wearing a permanent vacation grin.
I’ve learned, though, that smile is his mask. The free-and-easy way he has isn’t the whole truth.
While I don’t know the details of his family—he doesn’t share that with me—I do know he’s lost both his parents. I know, too, that the scar on his hand has taken something away as well.
But he keeps that to himself as well.
And I don’t pry. It’s not in my nature.
Secrets have a way of coming to light on their own, I’ve learned. Sooner or later, you open a drawer, unlock a cupboard, and they tumble free.
I take a seat, and Daniel and Cole follow, the three of us settling in at the small round table as Parisians scurry by on the sidewalk, muttering into their cell phones, the smattering of plans for dates, for rendezvous, for affairs, even, floating past my ears.
“You always love seeing me,” Daniel says to Cole. “You can’t stay away. Why else would you come all the way from Las Vegas to Paris?”
Cole taps his chin. “Let’s see. I believe I’m here with my fiancée for a crazy little thing called a vacation.”
Daniel adopts a shocked expression, complete with the head jerk and jaw drop. “I didn’t know you knew how to take a holiday.”
Cole stares daggers at Daniel. “I know how to vacation just fine. Sage and I even went on a bike tour through Tuscany, visiting wineries, before we came here.”
“Bikes and vino. Sign me up,” Daniel says as the waiter swings by and asks if we’d like a drink.
Daniel orders a red, then asks if I want my usual chardonnay. He winks like he did earlier in the day when we pretended to be married.
Cole chuckles, almost to himself. “You two are like a married couple.”
“Funny you should say that,” Daniel begins, then meets my gaze. “Want to tell him?”
Our American partner sits up straighter. “You went to the South of France and got hitched?”
I scoff. “No, we simply pretended to be husband and wife this morning when we checked out another property. Which is one of the things we wanted to chat with you about. So, thank you, Cole, for taking an evening out of your vacation to meet with us.”
“Business doesn’t wait,” he says. “Besides, Sage is meeting with a friend who started a business running off-the-beaten-path tours of Paris. They’re roaming F. Scott Fitzgerald’s old haunts as we speak.” He lowers his voice. “If she likes it, we might partner with the tour company, add it to our exclusive tours at our Rue de Rivoli property.”
A smile takes over my face. “Oui, oui, and more oui.”
Cole smiles. “I thought you might like that.”
“I love it. I take it Sage doesn’t have any plans to expand here?” I ask. Cole’s fiancée is our rival in Vegas. She owns the hotel across the Strip from ours, as well as other properties around the world, but none in Europe.
“She doesn’t mind, since this city is still ours. The whole continent, in fact. So let’s talk about expanding our dominance in Europe.”
“Yes, now that we’ve stolen you away from your vacation with your fantastic fiancée, why don’t we dive right into our devilishly brilliant plans?” I say, rubbing my palms together. I can’t help it. Business excites me. Deals thrill me. The chase of a new acquisition turns me on.
Business and Paris and beauty—those are the cornerstones of my life. After I learned the truth about my marriage, these have been the things seeing me through.
“Yes, what do we think about the Avignon property? Is it the beginning of a new line of boutique hotels?” Cole asks, a glint in his eyes.
Daniel quirks his lips up into a grin. “Actually, we think the Aix-en-Provence one could be the start. We took a little detour out that way this morning.”
Cole shoots him a look that says tell me more. “And what did you do there?”
We almost kissed.
I don’t say that, of course.
Instead, I chime in, “We came across a rather lovely property that we think could be a perfect acquisition target. We’ve been looking for a chain of boutiques to invest in.”
Cole’s eyebrows lift. “You found one?”
“Yes. While in Avignon, we got a tip on another inn, Le Pavillon de Aix-en-Provence, part of Le Pavillon group of hotels. So we did a little recon. It seems to have a lot of promise. The Aix-en-Provence hotel is one in a small chain of hotels across France and England. It doesn’t need as many renovations as some others we’ve seen. I don’t think we’re going to run into a situation where we buy something and it turns out all the chandeliers are falling down. Nothing that can’t be remedied, but I don’t want to be in that situation again if we can avoid it,” I say.
I fill him in on this morning’s issue at the Avignon hotel, then tell him more about what we encountered on our visit to Aix-en-Provence, about the property we saw, and about the research I did on the train ride home. “Le Pavillon and its sister hotels are owned by an investment group eager to sell. I want to do our due diligence, conduct some research, and be ready to make an offer once we know exactly what we might be getting into. That requires on-site visits to the properties.”
“Honestly, the three of us should go check out all of them,” Cole says. “I could probably slip away for a day or so. We could see a handful together.”
I shoot him a don’t you dare look. “You’re on vacation.”
“I know, but this is important if we’re talking about an investment this large.”
Daniel shakes his head. “You have business partners for a reason. You don’t have to do everything.”
“Besides, you’re the only one among us who’s happily besotted and betrothed. I insist you enjoy it,” I say with a smile.
“And I do,” he says, a little naughty undertone to his voice.
“Good.” I pretend to zip his lips. “Then don’t speak a word about it again. We can handle it.”
“I could probably convince Sage,” Cole mutters, trying once more.
Daniel will have none of it though. “You could. But you won’t. She’s a junkie, like you. Let the lovely woman have a break from work.”
“Tell me what you really think, Daniel,” Cole deadpans.
Daniel remains steadfast, and I’ve always admired their relationship—they tease and mock, but they are equally protective and caring. They are like brothers in some ways, looking out for each other as only family can.
Makes sense, since Daniel doesn’t have his own family.
“Say nothing more,” Daniel adds, his tone remaining intensely serious. It’s not one I hear often from him. But when he uses it, he means it thoroughly. He’s a concrete wall.
Cole huffs, a sign that he’s relenting, as the waiter stops by with our wine. We thank him, then I turn to Cole. “Stay with your fiancée. Daniel and I can go check them out.”
“But you’ll report back? Take photos?”
Daniel rolls his eyes as he lifts his glass. “Yes, I think we can manage that much.”
Cole hums, like he’s deep in thought.
I sip my wine and wait. Daniel swallows some of his wine too, then sets down the glass.
“I’ve known you for fifteen years, mate,” Daniel prods. “That means the wheels are tur
ning. Serve it up.”
Cole draws a deep breath. “You said you pretended to be married?”
I arch a brow, unsure where he’s going. “Yes.”
He points from Daniel to me. “Why don’t you do that as you check out these hotels? It’ll be easier to fade into the woodwork, so it won’t be so obvious we’re kicking the tires. If you go as honeymooners, you’ll blend in even more.”
I’m quiet for a beat. So is Daniel.
I mull over Cole’s idea. Checking in as Daniel Stewart and Scarlett Slade, owners of a luxury hotel chain, might be suspect. Until we know whether we’d like to bid and, indeed, how much we’d be ready to offer, it would be best to catch the group owners unaware. Using secret identities could work.
But this is a dangerous game Cole’s suggesting we play. Only, it’s a game that admittedly holds some appeal.
Still . . . I need rules.
Surely he can’t be suggesting we share a room together—so what exactly does this game of make-believe involve?
“What would being honeymooners entail?” I ask.
“You could appear as a couple as you check in, visit the bars, stop into the restaurants. Make it easier to blend in.”
“I still have a passport with my married name on it. We could use that for photo ID. And a credit card that hasn’t expired,” I offer.
Daniel grins. “You’re brilliant. And the idea is brilliant too, Cole.”
Cole points from Daniel to me. “People won’t look at you like you’re two top hoteliers checking out a property. You’ll seem like a couple.”
I turn to Daniel, nerves in my chest, goose bumps on my skin.
I like this idea more than I should.
This one alluring chance to pretend.
6
Daniel
After we finish our dinner meeting, Scarlett kisses Cole’s cheek, then mine.
Since I’m a competitive bastard, I take note of the fact that her kiss on my cheek lasts a few seconds longer.
I could dismiss this as a courtesy given to a taken man.
But I like to look on the bright side—the bright side being her lips swept over my cheek for longer than they swept over his.
Maybe she craved that almost-kiss in the hotel room this morning too. Craved it like I did.
I’m damn, damn sure we both wanted it.
Certain, too, that we both ought to resist the dirty energy that seems to flow between us.
But as she says goodbye then heads off into the Parisian night, the golden streetlamps casting her in a warm glow as she walks down the block, my eyes don’t stray from her silhouette. Not until she turns the corner and disappears out of sight.
Cole clears his throat. “Stare much?”
I glance at my friend, whom I’ve known for a decade and a half. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re so transparent.”
“Haven’t I always been?”
“I suppose you have. You’re not one to hide the fact that you love to look at beautiful women.”
“She’s beautiful and brilliant.”
“She is brilliant. As for her beauty, it’s probably not my place, as her business partner, to comment on it.”
I lift a brow and tuck my phone into the pocket of my trousers. “Are you saying it’s not my place either?”
“I’m saying I know you admire her for her brain. I’m saying, too, that I’ve never seen you have this sort of chemistry and connection with someone.”
I bark out a laugh. “Are you an anthropologist now? Observing humans?”
“Maybe I am. And when I do, I see how you are with her. I’m not stupid, Daniel,” Cole says as we walk down the street in the opposite direction of Scarlett, heading toward our hotel where he and Sage are staying.
“Stupid? I never once thought you were.”
He smirks. “And yet you think I don’t know you have ulterior motives?”
A scoff bursts from my chest. “I didn’t think they were hidden. But they aren’t truly ulterior motives. They’re ulterior desires, but not ones I will act on.”
“You sure about that? The way you look at her is sometimes rather relentless,” he adds.
“You think I’m relentless when it comes to the chemistry and connection?” I ask, trying to figure out what he’s getting at exactly.
He nods crisply. “I do. So be careful.”
I’m not one to mince words. “Are you worried I’ll capsize our partnership if I fuck her?”
He stops in his tracks, administers a terrific eye roll, then scoffs. “I know you’re well versed in how to mix business and pleasure. I don’t worry about that or about you. I say this because I see the two of you. I know you. I understand you. I see things you don’t see. But I also care deeply about her. And I worry about her. She’s not cut from the same nihilistic cloth as you.”
“Aww. Thank you for noticing my tailor’s fine work in stitching me together from my favorite philosopher.”
“Your tailor is a regular Nietzsche.”
“Indeed. And nothing to worry about, mate. Scarlett and I are friends. Scarlett and I go way back. Scarlett and I have a good time together.”
He tosses his head back, laughing. “Scarlett and I, Scarlett and I, Scarlett and I,” he says, imitating me. “And yes, you do. You two have quite the friendship indeed. I remember the two of you pulling the strings that made sure I met Sage.”
I shrug happily. “What can I say? We both knew that she would be perfect for you.”
“You’re like a little matchmaking agency.”
“And we have an excellent success rate.” Cole and I reach the corner, slowing to a stop near the train station. A few blocks away, the Palais Garnier looms, rich and opulent. My mouth waters as I look at it. My fingers tingle. My dreams, shelved but not forgotten, jostle their way to the front of my brain once again, like riders on the metro trying to shove their way onto the last train of the night.
My eyes lock on the grand structure, sweeping over the palatial expanse. The steps. The columns. The balustrades. The spectacle of it, commanding a most regal spot in a most beautiful city. As I stare, my bones hum with desire that I have felt for only two things in my life.
Women. And music.
As we draw closer, the desire threads through me, wraps around me, tries to whisk me to a place I once thought would be my home.
The opera house.
The apex of classical music.
My first love.
It’s a battle to tear my gaze away, a war waging inside me. I want to march up those steps, grab hold of the huge metal handle, and yank open the door.
I want to step inside.
I want to feel like I belong, like I deserve to inhale the scent of time, of art, of Brahms, Bach, and Beethoven—of all the violin concertos ever played there. I deserve to smell the rich red velvet of the seats. Gaze up at the chandelier. I bet Scarlett would get a kick out of those chandeliers.
But I need to find the will to look away. My mind cycles to topics that hurt less.
Business.
That’s easy enough.
“Remember our first hotel?” I toss out as we move past the opera house.
“They say you never forget your first time. And of course I remember her.”
A smile tips my lips. “Because it’s a she.”
“All the best things in life are. I remember everything about our one-hundred-and-fifty-room beauty in Tuscany. The views were gorgeous, the rooms sublime, the service impeccable.”
“Like we planned back in university,” I say as we slow our pace at the street corner, waiting at the light as night falls, darkening Paris.
I keep my focus trained entirely on the conversation so I don’t stare lustily at the opera house behind us.
“Thank God you were such a card shark. If we hadn’t teamed up, we would never have planned that bold move,” Cole says as the light changes and we cross the street, turning down an avenue that curves away fr
om the object of my lust.
My chest starts to relax. The tension, the longing unwinds the farther away we go from my unrequited love.
“We also never would have had any cash,” I add, since those games swindling rich kids out of their easy-earned coin saw us through some difficult times.
Cole gives me a most devilish grin. “Neither one of us seemed to have a single cent until we started those kinds of games. Those games that sent us down the path we’re on now. Now we are the rich sons of bitches. Do you think they’d hate us now too? The college kids whose wallets we emptied after two in the morning in the basements of the dorms?”
“I can only hope so,” I say. Then I sigh, a little wistfully, a lot happily. “Money does indeed make some things better.”
But even as I say that, I’m keenly aware of how utterly untrue it is. Money doesn’t bring back your family. Money doesn’t repair mistakes. Money doesn’t ease your regret.
But it does one wonderful, miraculous thing—it makes the here and now delicious.
And since the here and now seems to be all that matters, I like money. I like what it allows. I like how it makes it possible for me to enjoy the twenty-four hours we have each day, and to enjoy them in ways I didn’t think I ever would for the longest time.
Back when my life was ripped from the headlines.
Can you believe what happened to the Culpeppers?
Oh, I feel so sorry for that family.
I wince, the memories lashing me.
I have another name now—Daniel Stewart. One so generic I could be anybody, rather than the survivor named in all those news stories many, many years ago.
“Money certainly makes things easier,” Cole says. “But better?” He deals me a questioning and serious look.
“What are you getting at?”
Cole sighs. “You know what I mean.”
I laugh, because deflecting is easier. “Is this where we have a man-to-man? And you tell me exactly what I need for my life to finally be satisfying, just as yours is now that you’ve met the love of your life?”
“I would think you, of all people, wouldn’t mock someone for falling in love.”
“I’m not mocking you for falling in love,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder, meaning this from the bottom of my black heart. “I am incredibly happy for you, Cole. You met a woman who gives you everything you’ve ever wanted. Who satisfies you. Who fills the empty spaces in your heart and makes it bigger.”
My One Week Husband Page 5
