OTHER TITLES BY KARINA HALLE
Contemporary Romances
Love, in English
Love, in Spanish
Where Sea Meets Sky
Racing the Sun
The Pact
The Offer
The Play
Winter Wishes
The Lie
The Debt
Smut
Heat Wave
Before I Ever Met You
After All
Rocked Up
Wild Card
Maverick
Hot Shot
Bad at Love
The Swedish Prince
The Wild Heir
A Nordic King
Nothing Personal
My Life in Shambles
Romantic Suspense Novels
Sins and Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1)
On Every Street (An Artists Trilogy Novella #0.5)
Shooting Scars (The Artists Trilogy #2)
Bold Tricks (The Artists Trilogy #3)
Dirty Angels (Dirty Angels #1)
Dirty Deeds (Dirty Angels #2)
Dirty Promises (Dirty Angels #3)
Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)
Dirty Souls (Sins Duet #2)
Horror Romances
Darkhouse (EIT #1)
Red Fox (EIT #2)
The Benson (EIT #2.5)
Dead Sky Morning (EIT #3)
Lying Season (EIT #4)
On Demon Wings (EIT #5)
Old Blood (EIT #5.5)
The Dex-Files (EIT #5.7)
Into the Hollow (EIT #6)
And With Madness Comes the Light (EIT #6.5)
Come Alive (EIT #7)
Ashes to Ashes (EIT #8)
Dust to Dust (EIT #9)
The Devil’s Duology
Donners of the Dead
Veiled
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2019 by Karina Halle
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542008532
ISBN-10: 1542008530
Cover design by Hang Le
Cover photography © 2018 by Wong Sim
Cover model: Mitchell Wick
For Scott (even though you didn’t believe me when I said I was looking at handbags for research purposes)
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
OLIVIER
Ten years ago
Grasse, France
I can still taste her on my lips.
Soft, sweet musk. Nectar from a fallen angel.
I close my eyes, breathing in deep, trying to hold on while everything fades. I can feel the memory of her growing smaller, the taste turning into something bitter, like coins under the tongue.
It’s over now. Everything.
Everything I’ve ever had, everything I’ve ever known.
I’m only twenty years old, and my life is about to change forever.
Across from me is the man who holds all that power in his hands, those cruel fingers that never worked a real day in their life.
My uncle.
He’s just sitting there and watching me, legs crossed with ease, slowly tapping those fingers along the velvet arm of the chair.
Marine is long gone. So far gone that I fear I may never see her again. It’s probably for the best, but it still does something to my heart, like an anchor has been lodged in there, slowly dragging it out.
I try not to think about her.
I try not to think about what my uncle is going to do next.
Because he is going to do something.
He always does.
My uncle’s pride is as fragile as ice in springtime. Solid to the naked eye but cracking easily under pressure.
“How long has this been going on?” he finally asks me. I can’t tell if seconds or minutes have passed in this dark room. It feels like an eternity. Outside, the moon is hanging low over the lavender fields, and I swear it wasn’t there a moment ago.
I stare down at my hands, knowing I can’t lie. I’m a damn good liar, but Uncle Gautier is better.
“Six months,” I tell him.
He sucks in a sharp breath. “I see.”
I could try to justify things; I could protest, tell him he has it all wrong. But again, he’d know. In fact, he’s already made up his mind about what he’s going to do with me.
It won’t be painless.
“Olivier,” he says, his voice growing quiet. He’s most menacing when he’s quiet, a shark hunting in silence. “What you’ve done violates the most sacred trust there is. Do you know what trust that is?”
I say nothing. I can’t.
“The trust of family,” he goes on, his fingers continuing to rap methodically against the chair. “You’ve poisoned the bonds between us all. Your blood, my blood, your father’s blood. We’re all one and the same. All Dumont. What you do touches everyone. If you bleed, we bleed. You know this. Oh, how I’ve been there for you all these years, Olivier, stepping in when your father was too busy to spare his time. And this is how you repay me.”
Of course he would make this about him and not about Pascal.
I swallow, trying to find the remorse, to at least fake it. The problem is, there is none. I hate Pascal, which is why I didn’t hesitate to begin with.
Gautier leans forward on his elbows, his watch catching the dim light from the kitchen. That watch costs $200,000, something he’ll tell you more than once. He’ll also tell you that hard work will get the same results. But with him, he’s coasted on my father’s coattails all this time. The Dumont name, the Dumont fortune, none of it would matter today if it weren’t for my father.
Gautier knows this too.
It’s why he’s become my father’s opposite. His foil. He’s never had to earn any of it. He’s only learned to take advantage.
My father is too trusting to see it.
But I do.
Of course, now I’m in a great deal of shit, so none of it matters anymore. I’ve let my own father down by giving Gautier the upper hand.
Fuck.
“You do regret it, don’t you?” he asks, and when I glance up, his eyes are trained on my hands. I’ve been wringing them together. Out of anger, not regret, but I let him see what he wants to.
I nod. “I’m sorry.”
“I was wondering when you’d say that,” he says, slowly easing to his feet. He’s tall, just like my father, just like all my siblings and cousins, but he wears it with menace. Pascal does too. They’re so much the same.
I wonder what would have happened if it w
ere Pascal I was talking to. He’s so much more unpredictable and volatile. Gautier at least knows he can’t touch me, that he can’t hurt me physically. I’d be able to take him anyway.
But Pascal is a vicious, elegant beast who plays dirty. The worst kind.
My uncle slowly walks toward me until he’s hovering over me, shadows falling over his face. “I could ruin you. You know that, don’t you?”
Always with the questions.
I nod again.
“I could tell your father what you did. I could tell Pascal. I could tell the world. And I would make sure that you would never work again. That you would amount to nothing. Because a man who breaks the bonds of his family should amount to nothing.” He pauses, tilting his head as if considering me. Perhaps considering if he should just murder me on the spot. I’m sure with his lies and manipulation, he could make it look like an accident. I know I said I can take him physically, but who knows how many people he has in his phone he could just place a call to. People who know how to get rid of people properly.
For the first time since Gautier came barging into the house, I’m afraid for my life.
The seconds stretch into minutes again, my heartbeat growing louder in my head.
Finally, he lets out a long sigh. “You’re young, Olivier. You made a mistake. I see that. I remember what it’s like to be twenty years old, filthy rich, the world at your feet. You don’t care for anything but sex and money and power, and you’ll do anything to get them. I know—don’t think I don’t. But youth doesn’t excuse you from punishment. It doesn’t unwrite your sins.” He pauses. “I have a bargain for you, Olivier. The only way out of this. Would you like to hear it?”
I blink at him, my eyes trying to focus on the shadows of his face, but everything keeps shape-shifting.
A bargain with my uncle is a deal with the devil.
But what other choice do I have?
“What is it?” I ask, licking my dry lips as I talk, my words coming out in a murmur.
“It will ensure that neither Pascal nor your father will hear of your indiscretion. No one will know at all, and you’ll be able to go on living the reckless, selfish, stupid life that you’ve been living. Fucking everything that walks, spending your money on pointless, vapid things. You’ll continue to be Olivier Dumont, one of the many heirs to the Dumont empire, the most eligible bachelor in France.”
I clear my throat. “And so what do I have to do?”
Though his face darkens, I can see the smile spread across it, the white of his veneers standing out as sharp as the Cheshire cat’s.
“Sign a document, that’s all.”
But that wouldn’t be all.
Nothing is ever that simple with the Dumonts.
“Okay,” I say quietly, knowing I’ll have to agree to whatever it says.
I’ll be signing it in blood.
CHAPTER ONE
SADIE
Nice, France
Present day
Train ticket?
Check.
Phone?
Check.
Ridiculous travel wallet that wraps around my leg?
Umm.
Well, shit.
I rummage through the compartments in my backpack, riffle through my cross-body purse, and look around the empty dorm room, frantically trying to remember where I put the damn thing. It’s not like it contains my money, credit cards, and passport.
I’d spent the morning going for a jog along the promenade and had only taken some euros along with me for my postworkout coffee; then I spent the rest of the day hanging around the common room and munching on last night’s leftovers from the hostel’s BBQ. On those days when I don’t have to spend my money on food, I take advantage. I’m like a jackal, but with lipstick.
Only right now I won’t be able to afford another lipstick unless I find my money belt.
Then I remember stumbling to my bed last night after too many drinks at the bar and becoming suddenly suspicious of everyone in the room.
I reach over and lift the edge of the mattress.
Ta-da. My money belt.
With a sigh, I grab it and clutch it to my chest.
After two months backpacking through Europe, you’d think I’d have a better idea where I put things, but hey, at least I was being vigilant after a bottle of wine. I’ve heard enough horror stories from the people I’ve met so far to know that the worst-case scenario is always around the corner.
And currently my worst-case scenario is losing either my passport or my wallet, hence the ugly and uncomfortable money belt I wear strapped around my calf. Depending on the sketchiness of the hostel I’m staying at, that money belt sometimes stays on me as I sleep. Last night I apparently thought hiding it under my mattress was somewhat of a happy medium.
I pull up the leg of my wide linen pants, which are wrinkled beyond belief, and strap the belt on, then take one last look around the dirty, threadbare room with sagging bunks and the unshowered stink of a couple of Swiss guys who arrived yesterday. They’re probably out at the clubs right now, but their sour aroma is here to stay.
Good riddance to this shithole.
When I first came to Europe, I never dreamed of staying in a run-down backpacker hostel like this one, but then again, when I first came to Europe, I was with my ex, Tom, and I had nothing but love and adventure in front of me, not to mention security for the first time in my life.
Though I’d saved up as much money as I could from working at the university bookstore after classes, it was Tom who really planned ahead for both of us. Traveling as a couple, it was rare that we stayed at a hostel, and when we did, it was always in a private room. Most of the time we were in a hotel. Nothing fancy, but nothing that smelled like alcohol-infused farts either.
Then, a month into our travels, I’d gotten an email from my friend Chantal back home, the email that changed my life. Chantal told me Tom had been sleeping with our mutual friend Jen throughout the two years we’d been together and, suffice to say, an epic breakup to end all breakups occurred, right in the middle of the train station in Vienna.
So now Tom’s gone back to Seattle, and I’ve been staggering around Europe with a broken heart and a dwindling bank account, trying to figure out what to do with myself. I’ve got three weeks before I have to fly back home, and I have no idea what I’ll do if I find out Tom is in most of my classes in September.
Shit, I don’t even know what I’ll do with myself period. Though the breakup occurred almost four weeks ago, I’m nowhere near being over him. With every new place I end up in, I can’t help but wish I had someone by my side to share it with.
I sigh and pick up my increasingly heavy backpack, throwing it on with a grunt. We had started our trip in London, where I spent way too much money buying clothes and knickknacks, and I’ve been lugging around too much shit for just one person. I probably should start leaving things behind or sending shit home, but I’m far too sentimental for the first option and way too broke for the second.
I head out into the hall and nod at the front-desk guy, Ryan from New Zealand.
“Sadie,” he says to me, pouting slightly, “you’re off?”
“I’ve got a train to catch, remember?” I tell him, adjusting the pack on my shoulders. He’s been hitting on me for the whole week I’ve been in Nice, and I’ve deftly avoided every one of his clumsy advances.
“But you’re going so late,” he says with a sloppy smile. “Why not stay the night and go to Barcelona in the morning?”
“No can do,” I tell him. “If I catch the eleven o’clock train, I sleep overnight and I don’t have to pay for another bed. Thank you for letting me keep my stuff in the dorm room, by the way.”
“No problem. You sure you don’t want to stay?”
“It’s all booked and nonrefundable.” I glance at the clock over his shoulder. “And I’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to the station.”
I give him a quick wave and then hustle out of there before he can try
to convince me some more. I loved using Nice as a base to explore towns like Menton and Cannes and even Monaco, but I’m over the French Riviera. When you don’t have any money in a place like this, you really feel out of your element. I’m hoping Barcelona will be more in line with my spirit, that Spain will become the country to heal me before I return home. At the very least, it’s supposed to be easier on the wallet.
The night is warm and humid, and the sea breeze coming off the Mediterranean doesn’t seem to reach this far into the city. The hostel is somewhat near the train station, maybe a ten-minute walk, but it’s in a sketchy section of town.
If you were with Tom, maybe you’d be staying in one of the fancy hotels on the Promenade des Anglais, I can’t help but think.
But thoughts like that are futile.
I take out my phone from my purse and get walking directions through the maze of streets, but as the blocks get dirtier and more derelict—the stores boarded up, people shuffling out of alleys—I decide that flashing around my iPhone might not be the best idea.
I commit the map to memory.
Turn right on this street.
Turn left on that street.
Go straight until—
A low cough from behind me causes my heart to jump.
I look over my shoulder to see a large man walking a few meters behind me. I can’t make out his face—he’s looking down at the ground rather than at me, which I guess is a relief.
Still, I’m on edge. I’m walking through a strange neighborhood in Nice at night with a large backpack that’s making my pace considerably slower.
Don’t panic, I tell myself. Just a bit farther.
And yet as I take my first right onto Rue d’Alger, the man follows me.
Oh, fuck.
My mouth immediately goes dry from fear.
I swallow thickly and pick up the pace, trying to tell myself that it’s a coincidence and he’s not following me. I can’t be suspicious of everyone.
And yet everything seems more empty and darker somehow, and I’m starting to panic, hearing his heavy, lumbering footfalls behind me.
I have to be sure.
I take another right this time, so I’m basically heading back the way I came, toward the hostel, to try to throw him off guard.
He follows.
He’s fucking following me!
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
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