Discretion

by Halle, Karina

  “And your ex,” I say.

  “Yeah, Tom. But he didn’t turn out to be a very good friend, did he?”

  “You dated for a long time,” I mention, and I know it’s in poor form for me to bring up her ex, but I can’t help it. “You must have been close.”

  “We were,” she says slowly as she pops a chunk of baguette in her mouth. “But not as close as you’d think. At the time I thought he was my best friend, you know? But I don’t think I let him in like I thought I did, and he didn’t let me in either. The more I think about it, the end was probably a long time coming for us.”

  “He was still an asshole to break it off with you in the middle of your vacation.”

  She laughs dryly. “Well, technically I broke it off because I found out he was cheating, but, yes. He is an asshole. But had I really gotten to know him, I would have seen that coming. Instead, I was blindsided. I’m starting to think that my pride took the biggest hit of all.”

  I shouldn’t feel good about that, but I do. The fact that whatever she had with Tom wasn’t real—and certainly wasn’t strong—means she’s still not in love with him, or at least not pining for him.

  “But, honestly,” she continues, “I don’t think about it anymore. And in some ways, I’m glad he did what he did. I wouldn’t have had the adventures and independence I’ve gained from having to travel on my own. And I wouldn’t have met you.”

  The way she meets my eyes, vulnerable and almost shy, makes my heart beat faster, my dick hard in seconds.

  “Uh-oh,” she says, putting down her bread.

  “What?”

  “You have that look about you,” she says.

  I get on my knees and start prowling toward her, pushing aside the food. “What look is that?” I murmur, stopping so that my face is just inches from hers.

  “The one that tells me that you’re about to devour me instead of the food.”

  I grin. “You know me so well.” I lean in and kiss her softly. “Let’s just eat it all later and call it dessert,” I murmur against her mouth before she sinks back onto the floor, giggling as I start to feast on her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SADIE

  “Bonjour, madame,” the waiter says to me. I glance up from the menu I’ve been trying to decipher and give him a big smile.

  “Bonjour.”

  “Would you like the English menu?” he asks, quickly switching to English after hearing my accent.

  “Oui, merci,” I tell him, stubbornly trying to stay in the language. Though Lord knows that the last few times I’ve tried to order in French, things have gone horribly wrong.

  “Anything to drink? Coffee, water? Still or sparkling?”

  “Sparkling, please, and a double espresso. No, make it a triple.”

  He gives me the once-over when I say triple espresso, as if gauging how much I need the caffeine, and then scuttles off.

  I sigh and stare out the window across the Seine, at the Île de la Cité and the back end of Notre Dame, and try to summon some excitement that I’m in Paris.

  Don’t get me wrong—I’m excited to be here. I love Paris, probably more this time than when I was here earlier with Tom. I feel like I’m reunited with the city after saying goodbye, much the same way I was with Olivier after I hopped off that train.

  But part of the problem is just that: I was here first with Tom, so a lot of my first memories are with him. A lot of firsts are tainted. As I said to Olivier the other night, I don’t really think about Tom often, and I’m not hurting over him, but it’s hard not to compare the recent memories. You’d think that being here now, as the lover of an actual Parisian, those memories would be quickly buried.

  Except . . . they aren’t.

  Because I’ve been here five days now, and I’ve barely seen Olivier at all.

  He’s always working.

  And I know this shouldn’t be a surprise, and I shouldn’t complain. I knew all this going into it. It was one of the reasons why I was going to keep going on to Spain, knowing that he had a life he needed to get back to.

  It’s just hard.

  We only have so much time together.

  Just over a week before I have to fly back home.

  And I knew the days would go quickly, I just thought I would see more of Olivier in them.

  So now I wander the streets of Paris, alone, trying to be charmed by this beguiling city, trying to keep the romance alive in my heart.

  Because, believe me, it’s there.

  More than it should be.

  Despite Olivier’s absence, I’m craving him more than anything else. My body aches for his touch; my heart beats for his words. When we were in the South of France, I was swept away by how romantic he was, addicted to the sex, to the way he set my skin and soul on fire.

  Now we’ve become something else. The next level, even though something inside me was warning me to never let it get to that. Now I’ve become addicted to him in general. The way he makes me feel, the way he makes my heart trip over itself every time he steps into his apartment.

  The way my heart sinks every time he leaves.

  I have it bad.

  There’s no other way to put it.

  For all my cynicism and heartache and impulse to roll my eyes at everything romantic and lovey-dovey, something has changed inside me. A switch has been flipped. Maybe it’s all just a trick; maybe it’s because, for what it’s worth, I am still living another life, a life with an expiration date.

  But the way I feel about him, the way that he makes me feel . . .

  It’s like every cheesy song I’ve heard on the radio has suddenly become true, and the space in my chest that I never thought would belong to anyone again—he’s filled every hollow crevice of it. When I walk through the streets of Paris, I’m practically floating, even when I’m doing nothing but missing him.

  The waiter comes back and gives me the espresso and the sparkling water. I don’t know if it’s because I’m attempting to speak French or if I’m just more open, but the Parisians are so much nicer this time around. Maybe I’m just seeing them in a different light.

  I have to say, I like the fact that Olivier is so old school. He’s talked a lot about the company and the way the Dumont family has done things, and I admire how he sticks to his guns. It speaks to the way that he values his family and tradition. It takes guts to stand for something when everyone else in the world wants you to change.

  Granted, I mean, he’s a slick, rich thirty-year-old with the world at his feet. But there’s something inherently sexy to me about someone who is strong in their convictions.

  I just wish . . . well.

  Even when he isn’t at his father’s office or doing his own hotelier thing, I wish that we could go out into the streets of Paris together. Have dinner at a nice restaurant. Or, hell, a dodgy dive bar. See the sights. Walk hand in hand or at least near each other. But he’s so insistent that we aren’t to be seen together.

  I know he’s said that it’s because he doesn’t want the media to make a big deal out of it, but I’m not sure that’s the case. I’ve been doing a lot of online stalking of Olivier Dumont since the moment I met him, and while the press have definitely photographed him, it’s usually in a very public setting, like a fashion show or the opening of a hotel or restaurant. And, yes, the babes on his arms are always changing, but there doesn’t seem to be any fuss made over him. It just is who he is.

  Is he afraid that if he’s seen with me more than once, it will look like we’re an item? Maybe that’s what he’s afraid of: the fact that we aren’t an item, that I’m supposed to fly back home in eight days.

  Or maybe it is worse.

  Is it that he’s ashamed of me?

  That he doesn’t want to be seen with me at all? That he’s slumming it with some American student? After all, compared to the beauties he’s always with—some of them even famous actresses—I’m . . . nobody. I can’t hold a candle to them.

  I swallow hard, feeling doub
t mingling with the sadness. This is why I hate being alone these days; it gives me too much time to think and obsess. I take a sip of my espresso, and I can practically feel my hair standing on end. I was hoping the caffeine would lift my spirits, but in the end I think it’s just going to give me a panic attack.

  When I’m done and pay the bill—my bank account is crying every second, even though Olivier insists on subsidizing me—I head back out onto the streets.

  It’s busy and chaotic and just before noon. I had a late start today, and now the sun is out in full force, beating down on all the tourists who cram the narrow streets of the Marais.

  “Well, you’re in Paris,” I tell myself out loud, trying to be cheerful. “Go somewhere, do something.”

  I haven’t even scratched the surface when it comes to the museums and sights, and I have to resist the urge to be swallowed up by the waves of people and have them lead me back to the apartment. As glorious as his place is, once I’m there I know all I’ll do is mope and wait for him.

  I decide to go check out the Picasso museum. All the art that Olivier collects has renewed my interest in it, and I know he gets a kick out of the fact that I can converse with him about some things. Maybe after the museum I can teach him a thing or two about moody Picasso.

  I’m waiting at the light to cross the street when I feel an odd chill run over my shoulders, which is doubly odd since it’s boiling outside.

  I slowly turn around, expecting to see something, though I don’t know what, but only see smiling tourists instead.

  Then a man passes, quickly ducking into a mobile phone store. I only see him in profile and only for a second, but there’s something familiar about him. I have a feeling he’s handsome, even though I didn’t see enough of him to draw that conclusion.

  My heart skips a beat—maybe because for a split second I’m imagining that it’s Olivier. There was something about the man that reminded me of him, perhaps his jaw and his sleek movements.

  But the guy wasn’t quite as tall, and there’s no good reason why Olivier would be following me down the street. He’d want me to see him, wouldn’t he?

  The lights change, and I’m ushered across the street by the crowd.

  I take out my phone and look at the directions, trying to read the streets on the map and figure out where I’m walking in real life. I bump into numerous people and almost step in dog shit before I decide to put my phone away and pull up the mental map in my head instead.

  It’s then that I get the feeling again.

  I stop and turn around, the hairs standing on my arms, my body buzzing with electricity.

  There’s a man a few yards away, his back to me as he leans against a wall. He’s got a newsboy cap on his head, covering the thick, dark hair that curls at the nape of his neck. His shoulders are very broad, like a swimmer’s, and I’d put his height at about just under six feet.

  I can’t help but stare at him, almost willing him to turn around.

  And then, as if he feels my will, he looks up from whatever he’s doing and moves his head just an inch, just enough so that I can see the edge of his sunglasses. Just enough so that he’s glancing at me out of his peripheral vision.

  The shoulders under his gray T-shirt are tense.

  Waiting.

  This spurs something dark inside me, like he’s activated an internal panic button.

  I need to get to the museum.

  I need to get out of here.

  I start walking, faster now, hoping that I’m not about to get myself lost. I make it about a block before I have to stop at the next light.

  I glance over my shoulder.

  The man is walking toward me, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets, head down and cap pulled forward so that I can only see the bottom of his chin.

  It’s a distinctive chin.

  That’s why it feels so familiar.

  Like I’ve seen it before.

  For some reason an image flashes across my mind, a memory.

  Having sex with Olivier for the first time.

  Thinking I see a man on the balcony watching us.

  The chin.

  But that can’t be it.

  No one had been there.

  And with him walking toward me at the rate he is, I don’t want to hang around to see how I know him.

  I turn the corner, not wanting to wait for the light anymore, and hurry down another street, walking so fast I’m almost at a jog, my poor ankle screaming at me for the extra impact.

  I do this for three blocks, essentially taking two left turns and going around in a circle back toward where I started.

  I don’t look back, not until I get to the end, because I know if I do and he’s still there, it means he’s there for me.

  But eventually I have to know.

  I stop beside an oak tree just outside of a little café with a few tables on the street, people packed in shoulder to shoulder, smoking and watching the day go by. At least I feel safe.

  I look back, and for a moment, I think I see him. At the back of a row of Japanese tourists, just the hint of a newsboy cap.

  BEEP.

  My phone lights up, scaring the shit out of me, and I quickly glance down to see it’s a text from Olivier. I breathe a sigh of relief just seeing his name and look back up, expecting to see that man again, closer.

  But there’s no one there at all now, just a pigeon walking back and forth, cooing, following the tourists.

  “You’re being paranoid,” I scold myself, wishing that I hadn’t put so much pressure on my ankle. It’s throbbing again. Or maybe it’s the memory of being attacked on the streets of Nice.

  I calm my heart rate and take a better look at Olivier’s text:

  Meet me tonight at Hôtel Rouge Royale. Seven pm. Room 508. Wear something nice . . . or nothing at all.

  Though I’m smiling, I’m a little hurt that this means I won’t see Olivier until this evening. But a quick Google search brings up the hotel. It’s swanky as fuck—and, of course, one of Olivier’s.

  Well, at least this gives me something to do now.

  Screw the Picasso museum. I’m going lingerie shopping.

  At six forty-five I enter the opulent lobby of the Hôtel Rouge Royale and stride inside like I know where I’m going. I turn a few heads, but, thankfully, it’s not because I look like I don’t belong there.

  Olivier made sure of that.

  After getting his text, I did go shopping for tonight.

  Of course, on my budget all the shopping was to be done at H&M. I couldn’t even afford Zara.

  And I could only get a black lace bra and nothing else.

  But when I went back to his apartment to get ready, I was in for a major shock.

  He’d gone shopping for me.

  Laid out on his massive bed was a burgundy balconette bra, all intricate lace and boning, coupled with a matching thong and stockings with garters. Naturally, they were all in my size, as was the pair of black patent kitten-heel Louboutins next to them.

  As was the Dumont label black trench coat, folded neatly at the end of the bed with the note on it: Pour ce soir.

  For this evening.

  He wants me to wear the trench coat and nothing else underneath except for the lingerie.

  At least, I hope that’s what he wants, because that’s what I’m wearing right now as I stride as confidently as possible toward the elevators. I feel like everyone can tell I’m practically naked underneath and am going up to have a wild tryst with someone.

  But if they can tell, they certainly don’t care. That’s the French for you—they’re pretty good at minding their own business, especially when it comes to sex, and I have no doubt that this hotel, with its use of red satin curtains and velvet sofas and black marble floors, is a total fuckfest location.

  The thought of that sends a thrill through me as I step inside the tiny elevator and ride it to the fifth floor. The old Sadie thought blow jobs were the ultimate in dirty sex. The new Sadie thinks nothing
of wearing lingerie under a trench coat to meet her secret French lover for a forbidden tryst.

  Okay, I don’t think nothing of it.

  Actually, I’m kind of nervous.

  As intimate as we have been every night, this is still all so new to me, and Olivier is always full of surprises. It speaks volumes about how I’ve changed that I’m willing to go along with whatever he has planned.

  When I get to the fifth floor, I walk slowly down the velvet-lined hallways, marveling at how lucky I am to be here, that the man I’m meeting for hot sex is the same man who owns this hotel. The same man who picked out my lingerie.

  The same man who put me in these horrible shoes.

  Ouch. Even though they’re kitten heels, and I’m sure he thought he was being sensible not putting me in high heels, thinking about my ankle and all, the truth is Christian Louboutins may look pretty, but they hurt like hell.

  No pain, no gain, I remind myself as I step to the door of his hotel room and take a deep breath before I knock.

  A few seconds go by before the door opens.

  I gasp.

  For one, the hotel room is huge, with big glass windows and candles lit up absolutely everywhere.

  For two, Olivier is holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a rose in the other.

  For three, he’s wearing a suit.

  And a mask.

  Like a theatrical mask you’d find in Venice.

  “Wow,” I say. Even with the mask covering his eyes, he is disarmingly beautiful. “Are you auditioning for Phantom of the Opera?”