“Well, where shall we start?” my mother says a little too brightly. “Oh, we should get you into uniform.”
“Uniform?” I ask. When I was younger, I never had to wear one.
“Yes,” she says. She disappears into her room and comes out with a black dress with a scoop neck in one hand and black ballet slippers in the other. “I have extra but figured you had probably gained some weight and wouldn’t fit. I was right. So Camille went and ordered this in. I hope it works. We can get another if not.”
I take the dress from her and the shoes and while I’m inspecting the material, finding a Dumont tag, she goes back to her room and grabs a frilly apron, shoving it into my hands.
Really? A frilly apron? Are we stereotypical French maids now? Might as well change my name to Fifi.
“Go on,” my mother says, ushering me toward my bedroom.
Well, it’s time to face this place and get it over with.
I step inside, and she shuts the door behind me.
It looks exactly like it did, down to the gray pillow with faded yellow flowers and the pastel pink bed cover, the same one where Gautier pinned me down, one hand over my mouth, the other wrapped around my wrists above my head. I can almost hear him in my ear: “Don’t breathe, don’t scream, don’t make a sound.”
I shut my eyes, filling my lungs with air. When I open them, I realize I’ve been holding on to the uniform so hard that it hurts my hands to release it.
You can do this, I tell myself. You’ve survived the worst. You’ll survive this.
And remember—this is your choice.
You don’t have to be here.
I square my shoulders as if posturing against an invisible opponent and face my room again.
It’s just furniture. A single bed, a desk, a small bookshelf that is still stocked with the same books. Most in French, some in English when I wanted to teach myself. The window looks out—well, unfortunately it looks right out at the house and, in particular, Pascal’s bedroom window.
I draw the airy curtains shut to block him out, and before I can change my mind about any of this, I get dressed in the uniform, finishing by pulling my hair back into a bun. I didn’t think I would be put to work right away, but I should have known better.
When I step out of the room, my mother appraises me with a shaky smile. “Why, don’t you look perfect? Now come on and help me clean the dining room. There was a dinner party last night for some of Mrs. Dumont’s friends, and things are still in a bit of disarray.”
We set off to the house with my mother’s trusty cleaning organizer, and I do my best to listen to what she’s saying and not get swept up in the memories.
They weren’t all bad memories here. At first, this place seemed like paradise. We were dirt-poor, living with my father, who used to beat my mother on a regular basis and who berated me with emotional abuse. How we got here was kind of a fairy tale, and the first few months of living in the guest quarters and attending a new school felt like we were both starting over.
I used to feel safe here.
Until I learned I wasn’t.
The conversation between my mother and me seems so forced. There isn’t a moment of silence—my mother would never let it lapse into that—so she goes on and on about trivial things about the Dumonts, as if I’d find it fascinating. The more I talk to her, the more it becomes apparent that she doesn’t have anyone else and that this family is her whole life, and that convincing her to leave is going to be even harder than I thought.
While she starts working upstairs, I start dusting the study downstairs. I’m peering at some of the books on the shelf behind the desk, noticing something peculiar just as I hear the crunch of gravel and a car door slam.
I freeze, duster in my hand.
It can’t be him.
He can’t be home yet.
I’m not ready to face him.
I’m especially not ready to face him alone.
I hear the front door open, and I close my eyes, offering up a silent prayer.
“Well, well, well.” Pascal’s voice echoes across the foyer.
I exhale loudly in relief and turn around. Pascal is standing outside the archway between the study and the foyer, placing his car keys in a bowl on a side table. He’s dressed in a black suit, maroon tie, and as usual he has a wicked grin on his face.
That’s one thing about Pascal; he’s rarely serious. That’s a good thing. If I remember correctly, if he is serious, he’s rather terrifying.
But today, right now, his pale eyes are dancing with amusement, his smile crooked. If he wasn’t a Dumont, I’d probably think he’s as strangely handsome as everyone else seems to, but I have a hard time being objective.
Nor should you be objective about that, I remind myself.
“What on earth are you wearing?” he asks, looking me up and down and running his hand over his distinctive chin. “Not that I’m complaining, but it does look like you raided a costume place.”
I give him a steady look. “It was my mother and your mother’s idea, apparently. Guess I should be relieved to hear it wasn’t yours.”
“Yes,” he says, striding into the study, “but now that I’ve seen you in this, I don’t think you should ever take it off.” His eyes linger on my ass, and I have to remind myself to try to play nice with him.
“Let me ask you something,” I say as I ignore that comment and wag my finger for him to come forward.
He does so, and I can feel the heat of his body at my back, the smell of his cologne, which I don’t think is the one he wears in the ad campaigns at all. He smells like the ocean, something sweet, and a bit of cigarette smoke.
I wave my duster at a book with a splintering hole through the spine. “Are my eyes deceiving me, or is this a bullet hole?”
“Ah, yes,” he says, and I glance at him over my shoulder.
“Really? What happened?” Who was shooting guns in the study?
He bites his lip and raises his arched brows for a moment. “I’m going to need you to sign your contract first.”
“I thought you trusted me?” I ask, though I know he shouldn’t trust me at all.
“I do,” he says, stepping away from me. He pauses by the desk and picks up a cane that was resting against it and raps it into his palm a few times. “But I’m not an idiot. If you’re going to work for me, you’re going to learn a lot of things. Some of them aren’t pretty. If I know that you’re locked in with an NDA, then I’ll sleep better at night.”
“You don’t seem like the type that has anything keeping him up,” I tell him.
“Well, I have been told I lack a conscience,” he muses thoughtfully. He puts the cane back and then gestures with his head. “Here. Come with me to my office. This is your mother’s area anyway. Your job is to tend entirely to me.”
As much as I hate that idea, I hate the idea of being among Gautier’s stuff even more, so I follow him as he exits the study and heads up the spiral staircase to the second floor, the crystal chandelier glittering above us.
“Why are you home so early?” I ask as we reach the second floor and go down the east wing of the house, past the rows of portraits in gilded frames that hang on the wall, their eyes following our every move.
“Everyone is a fucking moron,” he says, glancing at me quickly over his shoulder. “I don’t have patience for idiots.”
“I assume these are the new hires since Seraphine and Blaise left?”
He stops and gives me a look I can’t read. “I’d like to hear what you know about Blaise and Seraphine. But that can wait for later.” He pushes the door open to his office, and I follow him inside. “Besides, I guess the real reason I came home early is because I wanted to see if you really were here.”
“You didn’t think I’d show?”
He gives me that crooked grin again while his glacier-blue eyes spear me. He’s got quite an unusual way of looking at you, always has. Like he can see right through you, but it’s also more than that. Like he knows all your
secrets, and plans on using them against you later. “After you left the café, I spent the evening convincing myself that our conversation actually happened. You’re very bewitching, you know that? Anyway, I couldn’t be sure that you actually meant what you said. You were so adamant against working for me, and then you suddenly changed your mind. I get that you needed a favor, but still . . .” He sits down at his desk and stares up at me. “I wasn’t counting on you.”
I give him a quick smile and stand on the other side of the desk. I knew I shouldn’t have been so standoffish with him at the beginning. I also knew that he was the type who loved the chase, and if I had shown up at his office like I was originally supposed to, I doubt I would have held any power with him.
“You can count on me now,” I assure him.
He raises a brow and opens up his laptop. “We’ll see, my little sprite.”
My cheeks go hot at that. God, that infuriates me so much. This is where I’ve learned that it’s best to just ignore whatever Pascal says or does, especially if he’s doing it to get a rise out of you. The more you fuss, the more he’ll do it, like the boy who used to pull my hair in grade school.
He’s watching me closely, that sly smile on his lips. I raise my chin in response, hoping to look nonplussed.
“Here we go,” he says after clicking a few keys, and the printer on the bookshelf behind him starts printing.
“Don’t we need a lawyer to get involved?” I ask him as he goes to the printer and removes a few sheets of paper.
Another crooked smile. “These NDAs are airtight. If you’re not convinced, you should just try and break it and see what happens to you.” He signs with a fancy-looking pen and then holds it out for me. “Your turn.”
I come over to his side of the desk with caution and stand beside him as he hands me the pen. Our shoulders are touching, and again my nose fills with his scent, something that’s becoming more alluring in a way I wish it wouldn’t.
Taking the pen from him, I stare at it for a moment and then give him a glance. He’s so close to me that I can see how clear his eyes are. There are barely any lines of color or serrations in his irises; they’re just blue, like the kind a child would draw with a single crayon, coloring over and over until it’s completely saturated and ringing the outside with a thick, dark line.
“Having second thoughts?” he asks, his voice on a lower register and gravelly, those eyes of his skimming over my face, focusing on my lips.
I blink and look back at the document. The truth is, I am having second thoughts. I wasn’t exactly looking for a job when I planned to come back here. I had made it an option, a last resort. Now that the opportunity has opened up, though, I know it’s the best way to do what I need to do.
But there’s a chance that I’ll have to break his NDA.
There’s a chance of a lot worse than that, I remind myself.
I clear my throat and pick up the pages. “I should probably look it over.”
“Take your time,” he says, turning around so that he’s leaning back against the desk, feet casually crossed at the ankle. I feel his eyes burning through me, watching my every move, especially my face, as I try to concentrate on the contract.
I won’t admit this to him, but I don’t really have much experience looking over contracts. The only one I had to sign was my lease of the last place I lived in New York, and that was a whole other ball game. So far there doesn’t seem to be anything strange or damaging in the contract, basically just says that I won’t tell a soul of what happens here at the Dumont house.
Here goes nothing.
With a nod, I place the papers down on his desk and I sign on the line. My hand wants to shake, but I think I hide it well.
“Perfect,” he says, taking the papers from me when I’m done. He opens his desk drawer and slips them inside, quickly closing it. If my eyes weren’t deceiving me, I think I saw a handgun in there.
The corner of his mouth ticks up as he notices my focus. “One can never be too careful,” he says, putting weight in his words.
“Are you the one who shot the book in the study?” I ask. I wave the pen at him. “I signed the contract; you can tell me everything now.”
“Mm, how about we start with you telling me everything,” he says smoothly, and for a moment I think he must know. But his eyes are merely curious as they study me.
“Tell you what?” I ask, putting on my most innocent look.
“Everything,” he says. “We’re now in a contractually secure working environment. The NDA goes both ways—didn’t you read that?”
“What do you want to know?” I ask, because I should have read that contract a little better.
“I want to know who I’m working with. Who is working for me. I want to know what you want out of life, I want to know what makes you tick. I’m starting to think I do. I think I infuriate you a lot. Which begs the question, why would you work for a man you so despise?”
We’re still standing close to each other, and now it’s starting to feel suffocating. I make a move to inch back, but he quickly reaches out and grabs me by the wrist, and his grip is tight.
It’s enough to make me raise my arm in defense, to set off alarms throughout my body, to remember that this is the son of the devil, and the apple never falls far from the tree.
“Easy now,” he says, frowning at my raised arm, and yet he doesn’t let go. “You’re a little reactive, don’t you think?”
“I’ve had some bad experiences,” I say, my voice hard, my head echoing with my heartbeat.
“I can see that,” he says, peering at me closely. I stare right back, not willing to give him anything. Finally, he lets go. “I suppose I can relate in some way.”
Not even close, I think, quickly stepping back so I’m on the other side of the desk again. Out of habit, I rub at my wrist.
He stares, brows raised in surprise. “Did I hurt you? You can’t be that fragile . . .” His eyes trail over my body. “Even if you do look like you might dissolve into fairy dust at any given time.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him quickly. “Being in New York teaches you a lot about boundaries. I’ve taken self-defense. You can never be too careful, as you say.”
“No,” he says slowly. “But New York’s crime is no different from Paris or London.”
I shrug. “Then I guess I can handle myself anywhere now.”
“As long as you can handle working for me,” he says. “Now, how about we begin by giving you my schedule for the week.” He reaches across the desk and hands me a smartphone. “Here. This is yours. This is my link to you. It’s your job to keep up with it, to check in on me regularly in case there are appointments made that I forget to tell you about. This includes all appointments, including dates.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Dates? Do you even go out on dates?”
His eyes narrow just a bit. “You think I don’t?”
“I think you’re not one for formalities. That whole getting to know each other business.”
“How can you say that when all I wanted to do yesterday was catch up? And I still want to know more about you.”
“That’s different . . .” You’re not trying to fuck me.
I don’t think.
At least I sure as hell hope not.
I start to slip the phone into my apron pocket, but he jerks his chin at it.
“Don’t put it away yet; I happen to have a date you need to add,” he says. “Tomorrow night with the front-desk clerk at your old hotel.”
I roll my eyes. “You made a date while you were there to get me?”
“How do you think I got your room number? I have to have something to trade, and my cock is a very hot commodity.”
My eyes go to the ceiling again. The ego on this guy.
I bring out my phone, and when I open the calendar app, I can see his schedule already. He’s not kidding when he says he’s busy. In fact, I can see he has numerous meetings today that he’s already missing.
/> “Now,” he goes on, “I don’t remember her name, but I have no doubt she’ll be texting me to remind me about the date. So put it in for Friday, make reservations at the fanciest place you can think of, and then it’s your job to find out her name so I don’t look like a complete pig. Got that?”
“I got that,” I tell him. “Anything else?”
“Sure,” he says, getting up and walking around the desk to the door of the office. “This place is a bit of a mess. Tidy it, will you? I want to see it shine.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left staring at his phone, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
CHAPTER FOUR
PASCAL
You’re not above the law.
Other than a different catchphrase, the letter is exactly the same as before. Same typed address, same stamp, same envelope. More or less the same threat.
I hadn’t gotten a letter in a few days and was starting to think that maybe it was a one-off thing, but here it is in my hands.
“What do you have there?” my mother asks as she comes down the hall to the foyer, where I’m standing.
I quickly slip the letter into my pocket, chiding myself for being so impatient and not waiting to open it until I got to my room.
“Nothing,” I tell her, handing her the rest of the mail. “Some fan letter, I’m sure.”
“You’re home early today,” she says. “I thought you’d be working extra-long hours, since your father is out of town.”
I glare at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I have been working extra-long hours all week. Haven’t you noticed I’m not around? I came home early because I have a date tonight.”
“A date?” My mother gives me a sidelong look. “So how is Gabrielle working out? She’s turned into quite the beautiful girl, hasn’t she?”
She has this sparkling look in her eye, the kind she gets when she sees something she wants, like the way she tries to set me up with rich millennials on the weekly.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I warn her.
“Ideas?” she repeats. “About you and Gabrielle? Oh, heavens no, Pascal, don’t be an idiot. She’s a maid. You’re Pascal Dumont. She couldn’t be more beneath you if she tried, and you’re so much better than that, dear boy.” She pauses. “Besides, you don’t want to follow in your father’s footsteps.”
Disavow Page 5
