She stiffens and pulls back enough to give me a look. A jealous one.
“Don’t worry, she’s an ex-employee. A maid,” I clarify. “She’s here visiting her mother.”
“A maid and she’s staying here?” she asks quietly, a wash of disdain on her face.
I shrug. “Perhaps she’s cleaning the rooms to pay for it. I don’t know. But I did have an appointment with her today, and she never showed up, nor is she answering her phone. So if you could . . .”
Aurelie seems to think about it for a moment and then nods. “Okay. But I could get in trouble for this.”
I lean in closer again, grazing her earlobe with my lips. She smells like vanilla, and if I remember correctly, that’s exactly the way she likes her sex. Oh well.
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
She lets out a shaky breath and checks for Gabrielle on her computer.
“Room 512,” she says quietly.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“And dinner?” she asks, her tone anxious.
“I’ll call you,” I say and then head through the spacious lobby toward the elevators. I probably will keep my word, but Friday is days away, and I’m going to need to fuck someone before then.
Naturally, after that exchange, I start thinking about Gabrielle. She would most likely be twenty-five now. When I think back to the way she was back then, I have a hard time seeing her as anything beyond the age of thirteen. Even though she was around eighteen when she left, I can only see her as something blank and disposable.
I get to her floor, find her room, and knock on it.
I wait.
Hear nothing.
Knock on her door again.
Press my ear against it.
For some reason I have this insane image of a room filled with blood, with a body on the floor, blonde hair spilled out and sticking to it.
The door opens an inch, caught by the chain lock.
The biggest, most intensely blue eyes stare back at me. They stare at me with such ferocity that I’m momentarily stunned. I’ve forgotten why I’m here or even where I am.
“Can I help you?” she says, and it takes a moment to realize that this is not only an actual person—not some nymph or princess from a fantasy, her white-blonde hair spilling around her in waves—but that it’s Gabrielle.
It has to be.
“Gabrielle?” I ask.
“Pascal Dumont,” she says coolly, eyeing me up and down. “What are you doing here?”
I frown. “Well, we had a meeting at noon, and when you didn’t show up at the office and didn’t answer your phone, I decided to track you down.”
Her eyes narrow just a bit, just enough to break the spell. I swear she was fucking hypnotizing me. “Is stalking something you do for fun? What if I didn’t want to be tracked down?”
I blink at her. “Excuse me? We had a meeting.”
“No,” she says. “You tried to set up a meeting with me through my mother, who of course agreed on my behalf. The truth is, I don’t like you and have no desire to work for you or the Dumont name, in any shape or form. Have a good day.”
Then she closes the door in my face.
CHAPTER TWO
PASCAL
I stare at the door for a few moments. I’ve had quite a few doors slammed in my face by women, but this one feels different. For one, this should have been business-related but instead feels personal, and two, she wasn’t irate. Just cool and calm, like I was beneath her.
Me . . . beneath a maid. How she figured that, I have no idea, but this woman needs to be reminded just where I stand in this world.
I take in a sharp breath through my nose, trying to calm down and soothe my ego, and knock again.
The door opens right away.
Gabrielle stares at me, brows raised.
I don’t ever remember her being this . . . alluring. She always had the potential of being pretty, but now it’s like she either grew into her features or she amassed a world’s worth of confidence. She’s gorgeous in the most ethereal, almost supernatural way.
“You back for more?” she asks.
I swear I see a glimmer of something playful in her eyes, but that might be wishful thinking on my part because fucking hell if I’m not turned on just looking at her.
I clear my throat, trying to shake it off and focus on the task at hand.
“I’m just a little confused,” I admit carefully.
“I thought the Dumonts never got confused,” she says. “That’s how you built your empire. With the belief that you’re right, no matter what the cost.”
What the hell is her deal?
“Do you want the job or not?” I blurt out, strangely flustered.
She bites back a smile. “No. I thought that was obvious when I told you that much and then closed the door in your face. I’m about to do it again . . .”
She starts to close the door, but I jam my foot in between so she can’t.
“I just want a moment to speak with you,” I tell her as I wedge in my shoulder. I know pleading probably won’t work with her—nor does it work with me—so I switch tactics. “You should have seen your mother’s face this morning when I asked about you. She lit up, so happy just thinking about you working alongside her again.”
I’m watching her face closely, noticing even the slightest emotions that show up in her eyes. First she’s struck with guilt or shame, but then it turns into something hard and bitter. Not exactly what I was going for.
“This isn’t about her,” she says, her voice stiff. She raises her chin.
“Then what is it about? Why are you back here? If you don’t want to work for me, fine, but you did once live with me; what’s so wrong with us catching up?”
She lets out a sharp laugh. “You’re kidding me. First of all, I never lived with you, Pascal. I lived with my mother in the servants’ quarters.”
“It’s a guesthouse,” I interject, “and a very nice one. And because it’s my family’s guesthouse and you frequented my house, that counts as living with me.”
“You never even gave me the time of day. You treated me like how you treat all of your servants or really anyone you deem beneath you, which is pretty much everyone.”
“I’m insulted,” I say mildly.
“Oh, sure you are. You’re proud of it.”
“That’s not part of my reputation.”
“And that’s another thing you’re proud of. Your reputation. You’re arrogant, misogynistic, womanizing, vain, greedy, immoral, and slightly off.”
“Slightly off?” I repeat and try not to roll my eyes. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“If you think I’m gleaning this from the tabloids, you’re wrong. I know you. I’ve seen it firsthand.”
“I thought we didn’t live together.”
“We were close enough. You learn a lot about someone when you have to clean up after them. And that’s enough for me to know that I don’t want to work for you.”
Damn. She’s a stubborn-as-hell, feisty little thing. I don’t remember her being that way when she was young, but I have to admit, I like it.
“So what’s the second thing?” I ask.
“Second thing?”
“You said, first of all, you never lived with me. Which is a lie that you’re bending to suit your own truth but whatever, we can overlook it. What’s the second of all?”
I think I’ve caught her off guard because she frowns, thinking. Finally she says, “You’re not the type to catch up with anyone.”
“No?” I ask, holding out my hand and ticking off my fingers. “I believe you just called me vain, arrogant, womanizing, greedy, immoral, and . . . what was the phrase you used again? A little off?”
“Don’t forget misogynistic.”
“Wherever would you get that idea?”
“Goes part and parcel with the womanizing thing,” she says. “Not to mention the fact that you’ve forced yourself in my doorway.”
&n
bsp; “Thank God you have that chain across, right?”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you threatening me?”
I lean in as close as I can, and to her credit, she doesn’t move away. “Oh no, my little sprite. I rarely threaten. I just do what needs to be done. Why give warning? Why ruin the element of surprise?” I give her a wolfish smile until she finally looks away. “At any rate, you mentioned I am many types but not the type who wouldn’t catch up. So. Shall we?”
“Shall we what?” she asks cautiously.
“Let me take you out for lunch,” I tell her. “And we can talk. Dare I say, catch up. I haven’t seen you in years.”
She scoffs to herself and shakes her head slightly, still avoiding my eyes. “You act as if we have a past. We have nothing. I was a maid, and you were the rich prick son.”
“My father had two rich prick sons.”
“Yes, well, you were the worst.” She pauses, eyes darting to me. “Almost worse than him.”
I stiffen, my palms feeling clammy all of a sudden. “Worse than who?”
“Worse than whom,” she corrects. “And what will happen to me if I don’t have lunch with you?”
“I’ll keep hounding you.”
“You’re the head of the company now; I doubt you would have the time.”
“I would find the time. I always do for what’s important.”
“You just enjoy harassing women.”
I shrug one shoulder. “Eh. What can I say, I like the chase, and I refuse to believe any woman wouldn’t be interested in me.”
“If I have lunch with you, will you leave me alone?”
My mouth cracks into a grin. “I promise.”
But she probably knows my promises aren’t worth shit.
She tilts her head, a piece of blonde hair falling across her face. I’m itching to reach out and push it behind her ear, but I think she might slam the door on my arm and sever it.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “Do you want me to wait here or in the lobby?”
“You mean now?” she asks, wide-eyed.
“Yes, now,” I say. “You look decent enough. Grab your purse and let’s go.”
She sighs as she shuts the door. “Just . . . give me a minute.”
I stand back against the hallway wall, wondering if this is her way of faking me out, when I hear the chain slide across, and then the door opens.
Gabrielle steps out.
Now that I can look at her fully, not just a slice of a face in the doorway, she looks nothing like the girl I remember. Her strange eyes now have a captivating beauty; her gangly limbs and awkwardness have turned into sleek arms and legs, moving with grace and purpose in her rust-colored dress with kimono sleeves. Her pale blonde hair is half–tied back, spilling over her shoulders. On her feet, simple slides, and in her hands she carries a black clutch that looks well made, though certainly nothing like the Dumont label.
“Nice dress,” I tell her.
She raises a brow and closes the door behind her. “You’ll take that back when you know where it’s from.”
“Where?”
“H and M.”
I laugh. “I guess what I’m trying to say is you look nice. And just because fashion is my job doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the work that the chain stores do.”
“Even though they rip off labels like Dumont on a daily basis?”
I bite my lip and smile. “Imitation is just a form of flattery, my little sprite.”
She grumbles. “Can you try and make it through lunch without insulting me?” She starts walking down the hall, and my eyes take a moment to pause on her extremely shapely ass. She must have been doing squats for the last eight years or something.
“How am I insulting you?” I say, catching up with her. I’m six feet tall and have long legs and she’s got to be at least six inches shorter than me, but she’s awfully quick.
She presses the elevator call button and folds her arms, staring straight ahead at the closed doors. “Your little sprite? Please. How demeaning can you be?”
“Oh, I can be extremely demeaning.”
A hint of a smile ghosts her lips.
Her lips.
Not sure I even noticed them until now, all pouting and full and wet, like she’s been using them for something she shouldn’t.
Stay focused, I remind myself. It’s a very strange feeling to keep myself in check. Not sure I like it. Usually I let myself do and say what I want without consequences. But I have a feeling that Gabrielle will take any opportunity to call the whole thing off, and for reasons I don’t completely understand, I need to have lunch with her. I need to convince her.
I’m not even sure of what.
“You do know what a sprite is, don’t you?” I tell her, hoping she’ll see it as a compliment.
“A tiny winged creature of the supernatural, closely related to plant life, as imbued with the natural world as possible,” she says, like she just riffled through a dictionary in her head.
“And you take that as an insult?”
“I take issue with the words ‘my’ and ‘little,’ since I am not little in any way and I’m most certainly not yours.” She pauses. “I can deal with being a sprite, especially since they’re harmless . . . until they’re threatened.”
She gives me a warning look as the elevator doors open, revealing an elderly couple dressed to the nines. I give them a polite nod and gesture to Gabrielle to go in first. I may be all those things she mentioned, but I do know my manners when it counts.
Elevators are small in Europe, and this hotel is no exception. I’m nearly pressed right up against Gabrielle’s back. Her hair smells like honey, and it’s just as alluring. I have to close my eyes and breathe in deep through my nose to keep from reaching out and seeing if her hair is as soft and silky as it looks, but that only makes things worse. The blood in my veins starts to run hot and fast, my cock increasingly stiff.
After what feels like an eternity, the doors open, and we step out into the lobby. It feels like I can breathe again.
We pass by the front desks, where Aurelie is watching us carefully. Now that she sees what Gabrielle looks like, perhaps that accounts for the suspicious expression on her face. Though Gabrielle is walking ahead of me, head high, like she doesn’t know me at all.
“Where are we going?” Gabrielle asks me once we’re out on the street, her eyes scanning her surroundings like she’s unsure of where she is and needs to be on alert.
“Anywhere you’d like,” I tell her. “My driver is around the corner.”
“I’d rather not get in the car with you.”
Ouch.
“What do you think is going to happen?” I ask curiously, taking a step closer to her.
She stiffens up and keeps her attention on the road. She nods across the street. “There’s a café. That will do.”
She’s avoiding my question but still I look. It’s a total tourist trap, the kind that serves escargots and croque monsieurs to unsuspecting travelers who think that is what real Parisian cuisine is. I wouldn’t be caught dead in there.
Which is probably why she picked it. She knows that.
She’s staring at me now with a look of challenge in her eyes, which only confirms it.
“No problem,” I tell her. I look both ways to cross the street and try to take her arm, but she deftly escapes my grasp and trots ahead of me, her sandals smacking the pavement as she goes.
I guess the bright side of eating in a place like this is that the tourists who frequent it have no idea who I am and therefore can’t judge me for being here. They probably just think I’m some ridiculously handsome Frenchman on a date with a lady.
A lady who hates me, but I think in time I’ll win her over. The Dumonts are persistent, if nothing else.
We take a booth in the corner, and the waiter tosses some menus at us with disdain.
Gabrielle gives him an unimpressed look in return, takes her menu, and peers at it. “I�
�d forgotten how the service was in Paris.”
“Compared to where?”
“Everywhere else,” she says, watching as the waiter does the same to a few other tables, rarely speaking or looking at the customers.
“Is that a bad thing?” I ask. “Why should a waiter spend his time pretending to be your friend? You don’t tip here. There’s no money involved in it.”
“So you think people should only be nice if money is involved.”
I give her a look that says, Oh come on. “Look who you’re dealing with here.”
“Dealing with is one way to put it,” she mutters under her breath.
I flag down the waiter and order myself an espresso in French, which seems to take the waiter by surprise. Doesn’t make him any friendlier, though, but I respect that.
After Gabrielle orders a cappuccino, I fold my hands together on the table and say to her, “How about we put the fact that you don’t like me, for whatever poorly formed reason, to the side and pretend like we’re long-lost friends. Fill me in on what you’ve been doing.”
“I thought you don’t pretend if there’s no money involved.”
I can’t help but smirk. “I think I really like you, you know that?”
She rolls her eyes and tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. It’s then that I catch a glimpse of her left hand. A ring on her wedding finger.
Normally that doesn’t bother me. I was married once, and those vows didn’t mean a thing in the end. Maybe not even in the beginning. But there’s a hot poker in my stomach at the thought of Gabrielle with someone. She seems too free-spirited for that, though I obviously don’t know her at all.
“How about we start with who you’re married to,” I say, nodding at the ring.
She glances down at it and smiles sheepishly. “Oh. No. This is just for show.”
“Just for show?”
“It’s just glass, not a diamond,” she says, holding out her hand. “It’s from a dollar store in the US.”
“I see that now. The question is why? Are you married or not?”
“No,” she says emphatically, sitting back in the booth and slipping her hand underneath the table. “But it helps keep creeps away.”
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