Wait.
Wait.
I should be panicking.
Flashes of last night come back like a hailstorm.
Walking to the train station.
The man following.
The wild look in his eyes as he attacked me.
The pain from my ankle, my shoulder striking the ground.
Then . . .
Olivier.
Swooping in to beat the shit out of that man.
Did that really happen?
Did he really . . . save me?
Who is Olivier, really?
Where am I?
I open my eyes and blink hard at the light streaming in through gauzy curtains. The light is soft, and there’s a breeze coming through the French doors. It smells mineral-fresh. The sea.
I slowly lift my head and see the Mediterranean glinting blue in the distance, the surface shimmering like diamonds. But closer still is a large terrace with lounge chairs and a giant, round hot tub built right into the teak floor. It almost looks like I’m on a ship.
I glance down at myself and, with some relief, see that I’m still in the same clothes as last night: bateau-necked tank top, linen pants—both shredded in places and looking worse for wear, but at least I’m clothed.
Not that I suspected Olivier would do anything. I know I really shouldn’t trust anyone at the moment, but at least until we part ways later today when I get the next train, I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Besides, it seems like he’s put me up in a wildly expensive hotel. I gingerly turn my head and look around the room, which is about three times the size of the last dorm room I stayed in that housed six bunk beds.
I let out a whistle under my breath as I take it all in. From the four-poster king bed to the embroidered chairs and the chandeliers, it looks like I’ve been holing up in some luxurious seaside chateau.
Jeez Louise.
For a split second, it feels like getting attacked was the best thing that could have happened to me—until the slightest movement brings shooting pain back to my ankle.
Shit. Ow, ow, ow.
I roll up my pant leg and stare at the bandages. I don’t remember what the doctor said about them. Do I change them? Tighten them? How long do I stay off my foot? I don’t even remember using crutches.
And yet there they are, looking woefully out of place, resting against an antique white wardrobe across from the bed.
“Okay,” I say out loud, taking in a deep breath. “Think, Sadie. What did the doctor say?”
But I’ve got nothing. I’m just crippled and talking to myself and cursing myself for not understanding French. I should have asked more questions. Now Olivier is probably gone and I’m alone and—
A knock at the door.
My heart leaps.
“Hello?” I cry out, trying to figure out how to hobble to the door to open it. I move to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, but it’s already so painful I have to stop.
“Sadie?” Olivier’s voice comes through the door. “Are you decent?”
“Yeah,” I say, and before I can force myself to get up and limp over, the door starts to unlock.
What the fuck? How does he have a key?
The door swings open, and his head pops around the corner, brows raised in concern. “S’il vous plaît, don’t get up!”
Then the door opens wider, and suddenly what looks to be a butler is pushing in a cart topped with metal-domed plates.
“Merci, Marcel,” Olivier says quietly to the butler, who exits as quickly as he came in. The door closes behind him, and I’m left in the room with Olivier, my eyes jumping from Olivier to the cart and then back to Olivier.
Of course, there’s no secret why my gaze keeps going back to him because, Christ on a cracker, now that it’s the light of day and I’m out of danger and the pain is only somewhat excruciating, I’m really seeing him for the first time.
The man is fucking gorgeous.
I mean, like the kind of guy you see on an ad for Hugo Boss or something. The kind of guy God definitely didn’t make enough of. The kind of guy you can probably only find in the South of France.
And he’s here. In my hotel room.
Or maybe this is his hotel room?
“How did you get in here?” I ask after I find my voice.
He holds up a room key. “La clé.”
“I assume that means key? Why do you have a key?”
He tilts his head as a small amused smile teases his lips. “Why wouldn’t I? This is my room.”
“Your room?” I exclaim, looking around. My God, did he sleep here with me?
I feel a shot of warmth between my legs. Holy hell, the mere thought of that shouldn’t be turning me on.
“No,” he says matter-of-factly. “I slept in the villa. I would have put you in there, but it’s a bit out of the way. Usually occupied by royal families or celebrities on getaways, but it was free last night.”
I stare at him. “I don’t understand.”
He gestures to the cart. “This is your breakfast. I didn’t know what you wanted, so I ordered pretty much everything on the menu.”
Get. The fuck. Out.
I shake my head, scoffing. “No. This can’t be real. You are not real.”
“I’m very real.”
“I’m dreaming then.”
“I can pinch you if you want,” he says, his silken voice dropping a register, a devious glint in his eyes. The kind of look that increases the heat between my thighs. Oh, fuck me, I’m in trouble. He should know how dangerous those looks are when they’re coming from him. Or maybe he does know.
I take him in again, the V-neck white T-shirt that looks especially soft, showing off his olive skin, darkened from the summer sun. He’s taller than I remember, at least six foot, which makes him a giant compared to my five-foot-two frame, and he’s all muscle. Not the big and bulky kind that one would get from hours in the gym, the kind that seems to come naturally—strong forearms, wide, firm chest, broad shoulders, slim hips.
Okay, I need to stop staring.
I sit up straighter, trying to make sense of everything and knock some reality into myself. On top of everything he’s already done for me, I’ve taken his hotel room, which probably costs a small fortune, and he’s brought me room service.
Every fucking thing on the menu.
“What’s your endgame in all of this?” I can’t help but ask. I know I should just be grateful, but still, this is so much to do for a stranger.
“Endgame?” he repeats, folding his arms, his watch gleaming.
Wow. Wow, yeah, I’m a sucker for those forearms.
“Uh-huh,” I say slowly. “Are you trying to, I don’t know, seduce me?”
I regret it the moment I say it.
He breaks into a devastating grin, the kind that could steal my breath away and never give it back. “Do you want me to seduce you?” he asks, running his long fingers down the length of his jaw, like he’s now considering it.
“No,” I say quickly.
I’m pretty sure I’m lying.
“Good,” he says, still smiling. I see a hint of pink tongue as he bites his lip. “Because, believe me, lapin, you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
Okay, that reminds me—I need to figure out this lapin shit pretty quick. We don’t know each other enough to have nicknames.
Yet you’re in his fancy-schmancy hotel room, about to have breakfast in bed while making innuendos.
With my cheeks flaming, I clear my throat and promptly change the subject. Unfortunately, everything I want to talk about involves us.
“So, uh, I can’t imagine how you got me in here last night.”
“I carried you,” he says, lifting a dome. “This is an egg-white omelet.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I need me some yolks.”
He laughs at that, his eyes squinting delightfully. “My kind of girl.”
Oh boy, I don’t like how tingly that comment made me feel.<
br />
“You seriously carried me?” I ask. “What did the hotel staff say? Weren’t you—uh, we—caught?”
He nods and lifts another dome. “I explained what happened. Crêpes, if you want something sweet.” He shows me the plate—blueberry and what looks to be Nutella. My stomach rumbles even though I’m not a sweets-for-breakfast person.
“I’d think the staff would maybe be suspicious since I was, oh, unconscious and in your arms and all.”
“They trust me. As should you.”
“Why should they trust you? Do you come here often?”
He just grins and lifts another dome. “Avocado toast. All the young Americans here request it. This one has truffles and radishes.”
“You mean millennials. Of which I am one. And, no, I don’t take it as an insult.”
“No insult intended,” he says smoothly. “And finally, bacon and eggs,” he says, lifting another lid.
My stomach literally groans at the sight of the crisp bacon and perfectly poached eggs. The sound fills the room, and I wince inwardly.
His eyes light up. “I think your stomach would like this one.”
He takes the plate of bacon and eggs, plus napkin and cutlery, and brings it all over to the bed, handing it to me.
“I’m guessing you want coffee too?” he asks as I take the plate from his hands, still dumbstruck by what’s happening. “With milk?”
“S’il vous plaît,” I tell him as he heads back to the cart.
“Ah, now you know another saying in French,” he says, pouring me a cup. “I had the cook make it an Americano since I know you’re probably missing the coffee from back home.”
He hands the cup to me, but I’m already a bit off-balance with the plate on my lap, and the coffee spills onto the pristine white bedcover.
“Fuck,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
I can’t imagine how a fancy hotel reacts to shit like this.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“But won’t you get a cleaning bill for it or something? I spilled coffee on my favorite shirt once, and that never came out. I still wore it because I couldn’t afford to buy another one, so for weeks it looked like someone had shit on me.”
“I said don’t worry about it,” he repeats, picking up an espresso cup and sitting on the corner of the bed. He does this with ease, as if the two of us do this every morning.
Lord, one could only imagine.
“Aren’t you having anything to eat?” I ask him as I start to dig in.
“I ate earlier,” he says before taking a long sip, his eyes never leaving mine.
Great. Nothing I want more than the world’s sexiest man watching me intently as I stuff my face with food.
“But this must have cost a fortune,” I tell him in between the most delicate bites I can muster.
“It’s fine.”
I give him a loaded look. “It’s not fine. You put me up in a hotel room with a goddamn sea view and its own terrace and Jacuzzi, you order me everything on the breakfast menu, and then I proceed to spill coffee all over the bed. This is going to be a hell of a bill for you.”
Not that I could really do much to offset it with my dwindling savings, but it doesn’t feel right that he’s forking out for all this, no matter how much money he appears to have.
He finishes his espresso and stares down at the empty cup, seeming to ponder something, perhaps the bill. His dark brows come together, and somehow he looks even sexier.
Suddenly he gets up, takes the espresso cup and saucer, and walks over to the tiled part of the floor. Then he raises them in the air before throwing them down on the tiles, where they smash into pieces.
I let out a yelp, spilling my coffee again, this time all over myself.
“What the fuck?” I cry out. “What are you doing?”
“You know Alfred Hitchcock?” he asks, staring at the broken pieces scattered on the tiles.
It’s scary that I know exactly what he’s about to say. “Yes. He used to smash his china on the floor every single day because it made him feel better.”
He stares at me for a moment, brows raised. “You impress me, Sadie.”
“Well, I love the man’s films, but he himself was actually a monster.”
“Quite true. Shows how monsters lurk within even the most respected people.”
What on earth is he talking about?
“So this is what you do, just break things in hotel rooms? Do you want to get kicked out? Are you living out your nineties Johnny Depp fantasies?”
I mean, he kind of has the facial hair going.
“Sometimes this helps,” he says.
“Helps what?”
Do I want to know?
He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll have someone come clean it up.”
He strides over to the phone and dials. He speaks in French and then hangs up. “Marcel will be up soon.”
The way he’s just doing what he pleases and ordering people around makes me think he’s more of a permanent guest. “Do you, like, live here or something?”
“Sometimes,” he says, his dark gaze wandering to the sea view and the billowing curtains. “Only when I want some sunshine and a change of pace.”
“Where do you normally live?” I ask before munching on a piece of bacon. As much as his theatrics with the china shocked me, I can’t deny how damn hungry I am.
“I have an apartment in Paris,” he says. “Properties in Bordeaux, Cannes, Lyon, Biarritz. No, wait, we just sold that one.”
“We?” I repeat. I ignore the fact that he just rattled off a list of properties and focus on the we. My God, does Olivier have a wife?
I never notice wedding rings, but at second glance, he doesn’t have one. Still, that doesn’t seem to mean much in Europe.
“Well, the company,” he explains.
“What company?”
“My company,” he says just as there is a knock at the door.
He walks over and opens it, and Marcel enters the room.
“Monsieur Dumont?” Marcel asks him questioningly.
Olivier just points to the mess on the ground, and Marcel starts to clean it up.
“S’il vous plaît. Merci, Marcel.”
I’m not sure if I should keep asking him questions while Marcel is here, but everything about this has gotten so weird.
“What, uh, what company?” I prod. I can’t help it.
Olivier walks over to the bedside table and tosses me the hotel’s notepad so that it lands right beside me.
I pick it up with my greasy bacon fingers. There are two things on it that make me gasp.
One is that the hotel I’m staying at is the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, and even I know that this is where all the world’s celebs and royals stay. I can’t believe this, of all places, is where I am.
The other is that above the name of the hotel is a logo that says, “The Dumont Collective.”
Dumont.
As in . . . Olivier Dumont?
I glance up at him sharply. “Is this your hotel?”
He nods with just a touch of a smile on his full lips. “Oui, madame.”
And now it all makes sense, everything sliding into place. His money, his access to this hotel, his villa, the way the staff seems to know him, the way he doesn’t care about the bill or the spilled coffee. Still doesn’t explain the whole Alfred Hitchcock imitation, but I gloss over that.
He adds, “And you’re free to stay here for as long as you want.”
I blink at Olivier for a moment as his words settle in the foggy confines of my brain. For a split second, I imagine a different version of myself. One that will take what he’s saying seriously, that will end up shrugging off school and the responsibilities I can’t escape for a life of wine and lavender-scented linen and the bright blue of the Mediterranean, my skin tanned and glossy, my smile as carefree as the sea breeze that blows my hair around me.
But that version of myself disintegrates as quickly as it appeared.
<
br /> “What do you say?” he asks.
“About the fact that you’re suddenly the owner of a very famous hotel chain?”
He smirks, the corner of his lips curling up just so. He always seems to be amused by me, which I honestly don’t mind.
“No, not suddenly. I’m afraid I’ve been working at this a long time, and sometimes it feels longer.”
“But you’re . . . young,” I tell him.
“Thirty,” he says. “Which, yes, is young. I’ve heard that a lot. But I was pretty much groomed for this from the day I was born.”
I begin to go over everything I know about these hotels, which isn’t very much, except that the rich and famous stay here. And judging by the way the front-desk woman at the hospital and the cops treated him yesterday, I’d say it’s not just the rich part that he has down pat.
“Dumont,” I say slowly. “Wait, don’t you have something to do with the handbags, like, the French clothing line?”
The smirk on his face falters, just for a second.
“Bien sûr,” he says, but now his easy casualness seems a little bit forced. “But my father and sister run that side of the company.”
“No interest in fashion?” I find that hard to believe since he’s so impeccably put together.
He shrugs. “I care. I care in general about it and especially about the Dumont brand. But not the business side of things. Being a hotelier is more—what’s the expression—up my alley.” Olivier strikes me as the type of man who has many alleys, none of which I would mind exploring. “I promise I can tell you more about it . . . if you stay.”
Marcel exits just as Olivier says this, leaving the two of us alone in the room again. The air feels heavier now, like it’s laden with promise and possibilities. It doesn’t help that Olivier’s stare has intensified with every long second that ticks by.
“You’re joking,” I tell him.
“I’m not,” he says softly. “Stay with me. Just for a few days. Just until you heal.”
Even though I can feel a smile spread across my face, it’s wavering with disbelief. “I can’t do that.”
He tilts his head. “Pourquoi pas? Why not?”
“Because of a million reasons.”
“Which are?”
He doesn’t seem to get it.
Discretion Page 4
