He grins at me. “Why, yes. Do you think I’ll get the part?”
“I think you’ll get every part you go for,” I tell him as I step inside and look around. “Do you own any shitty hotels, or are they all fit for kings and queens?”
He laughs and hands me the rose. “This is for you.”
“Thank you,” I tell him and bring the flower to my nose. For some reason I don’t expect it to smell, but it does. “I don’t think I’ve ever smelled a rose like this.”
“That’s because most roses are bred to be long lasting, in order to be shipped around the world like they are. It comes at the cost of scent. But these roses are from my mother’s garden.”
“Your mother’s?” I ask him as he opens the bottle of champagne.
“My mother used to grow them. She was obsessed with her garden, and her roses especially.” He pauses before he pops the cork. “Now it’s kept up by the gardener. I’m sure if my mother were still here, she’d complain about what a disarray they’re in, but I think they look and smell just as good as they did before.”
He gives me a quick smile before he pours the champagne into the flutes, but even with the mask I can see the hint of sadness in his eyes. “Must be nice, in a way, to have her legacy keep growing on like that, even after she’s gone.”
He nods, chewing on his lip for a moment before he brings the glass over. “Memories aren’t erased easily, no matter what people say. Here.” He raises his glass to me. “Here’s to making new memories.”
I clink my glass against his and keep eye contact as I take a sip. I’m not about to risk seven years of bad sex, or whatever the superstition is. I have too much at stake right now.
“So, about the mask,” I say. “Not that I’m judging, I mean, I’m wearing pretty much nothing underneath this, so you know I’m game for whatever.”
He slips it off, and I see his wonderful face again. “I was trying it on when I answered the door. I have one for you too. And, no, I didn’t get them for tonight, unless you want to try it out.”
He disappears around the corner into the bedroom and comes out holding a white-and-gold mask with plumes of pastel feathers coming off the eyes.
“This is for you,” he says.
I take it and stroke the feathers admiringly. “This is beautiful.”
“I was hoping you’d wear it this weekend, at the ball.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Ball? He really does think he’s the Phantom.
“I told you. The Dumont Masquerade Ball that happens this time every year.”
“Well, to be fair, I’ve been hearing a lot of Dumont this and Dumont that—it’s hard to keep up. And anyway, if I did hear you mention a party, I would have assumed I wasn’t invited. Because of the whole you-being-ashamed-to-be-seen-with-me thing.”
I expect him to roll his eyes, but instead he grips my face in his hands, his eyes intensely searching my face. “I am not ashamed to be seen with you. I just . . . this is a very complicated matter. You have to understand. But, please, I wish I could show you off to the world. I wish everyone could see you, see how happy you make me.”
A lump forms in my throat. “I make you happy?”
“Oh, mon lapin,” he whispers, kissing me softly, “you are the only thing that’s good and pure and real in my whole life.”
Damn. He means it. I can taste his intentions, feel how raw and open he’s being.
“You mean everything to me,” he says, his lips leaving little kisses and nibbles from my mouth to all along my jaw and down to my neck. Meanwhile, his hand reaches toward the sash around my trench coat and undoes it.
He steps back and then opens the coat wider to get a look at me. In that moment I wish I actually had high heels on instead of these mini ones, but I can tell from the heated look in his eyes that he doesn’t even notice.
He drinks me in like a dying man’s last breath.
“You’re too beautiful for this world to contain,” he tells me.
Damn.
I feel that one right in my core, causing an explosion of fireworks down my spine.
But those fireworks are quickly replaced with even bigger ones as he takes me in his arms and kisses me passionately. I’m gasping for breath in seconds, my body on fire in this desperate, primal way. My hands run up and down his suit, wanting it off him, while he devours my lips, ears, neck, making his way down.
He pulls aside the lace of my bra and brings out my breast, his lips sucking my nipple with a long, hard pull. I feel it travel through me in hot pulses, and I’m already panting, wanting more.
The trench coat drops to the ground, and then his hands take a meaty hold of my ass, and then he’s lifting me up as if I weigh nothing at all. Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his waist, the tiny kitten heels pressing against the small of his back.
“You need to take off your clothes,” I tell him, trying to undo his shirt and hold on tight at the same time, but he just gives me a heated grin and spins me around until I’m pressed up against the glass windows.
I turn my head and try to look down. We’re only four floors up, but, even so, it’s a bit unnerving to be pressed up against the glass like this, like we could go crashing to our deaths at any moment.
Not to mention the fact that anyone can see us.
“Uh, I know the French are pretty relaxed with sex and nudity, but are you sure about this?” I ask him as he continues to devour me. His hands are slipping down to his pants, and he’s undoing his zipper.
“I’m sure the neighbors out there are used to this,” he murmurs from my neck, where he sucks and licks and makes my skin feel like a live wire. “And they can’t see your face. Can’t see mine either.”
He’s got a point. He doesn’t live here; this is just a hotel. A hotel he owns, but a hotel nonetheless. We’re completely anonymous.
And even the idea of someone watching us have sex is a bit of a turn-on. Maybe it wouldn’t have been in my previous life, but here and now, with my lingerie-clad ass pressed up against the window, it is.
And I don’t have to be ashamed to admit it, even if just to myself.
He pulls his cock out and holds me harder against the glass for balance as he digs out a condom from his pants pocket.
“If I were staying longer, I would suggest we both get tested,” I tell him. “I’m already on the pill.”
He glances up at me through his mask, and I feel like apologizing for the very unsexy safe-sex talk at a moment like this, but he says, “If only you were staying longer.”
I swallow hard, not wanting to think about that right now.
“If only.”
He rolls the condom on, and I dig my heels into him, holding on tightly as he slowly pushes deeper and deeper inside.
I gasp, and then my gasp turns into a moan, and then I’m trying to catch my breath as all the air leaves me and all I can feel is him. My hands grab the back of his neck tightly as he licks up the length of my throat. He sucks and moans just below my ear as his hands cup my breasts, pinching at my nipples, and his cock thrusts in again and again.
“You’re so hot, so tight,” he whispers hoarsely. “So perfect for me. How are you so perfect for me?” He draws out slightly and drives back inside, pushing me harder against the glass. Every cell in my body is dancing with excitement and pleasure, and my heart is beating so fast I’m afraid it might run away and never come back.
He pumps into me again, arching his hips up, his cock so thick and stiff, filling every inch of me. I can feel his ass flex against my legs as he thrusts deeper and harder, intense and primal. His mouth is wet and hungry as it ravishes my neck, and I feel so strangely powerful right now, like he would do anything for me, like he’s a slave for my pleasure.
Our rhythm picks up the pace, and even though I’m concerned about the glass, I don’t care if anyone is watching. All I care about is him, this man in the mask who is pumping into me, wild in his lust and lost to his desire.
He grunts
with another long, hard thrust, and I’m calling out his name.
“My name has never sounded so good,” he says hoarsely as he continues to rut into me, the sweat from his brow dripping onto my tits. “Don’t stop.”
“You don’t stop,” I warn him just as his hand slips to my clit and he presses his thumb there, rubbing with each thrust. “Oh God, especially not now.”
Even though I’m closer to coming now than ever, and when I come, it’ll all be over.
I grab him tighter, my nails digging in, and in the glimpse of his eyes behind the mask, I see something change. It scares me in the most delicious way. It’s like something inside him flipped, and he’s now in another place, one where he’s a wild animal and I’m his prey. His pace quickens, his hips firing like pistons, again and again, until I think either he’s going to break me in two or we’re going through the window.
What a sweet death that would be.
And then the orgasm is upon me, slinking up slowly from behind until I’m totally blindsided. It fires out from my core, spreading out in a wave of hedonistic lust until it obliterates me. I yell garbled words, holding him so tight I might be hurting him, but I don’t care. All I can feel is him, and my body responds in kind, jerking and quaking around him, barely hanging on.
He comes with rough grunts and a few final, powerful thrusts, like he’s actually trying to impale me, and even though the window holds, it still feels like we’re falling.
Falling, falling.
Into each other.
I collapse into his arms, not even able to keep my head up, my legs falling to the side like I’m a rag doll.
He grabs my waist and pulls me off the glass, turning me around and placing me on the immaculately made-up bed, then lies down beside me.
I open my eyes, trying to focus as he takes his mask off.
“Turns out, it was me all along,” he says by way of a joke.
But there’s some truth to what he says.
It was him all along.
All this time, all these years, I’ve been looking for someone who would set my world on fire and make me new again.
It was him all along.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
OLIVIER
“Going for the Phantom of the Opera look, are we?”
I glance at Blaise as I pass by him in the hallway. He’s been taking the invitations from the guests, and I’m surprised he didn’t badger me for one.
“You know, the Phantom doesn’t have a monopoly on white masks,” I point out and then gesture to Blaise’s own face, which is covered by a red velvet mask with golden sequins at the edges. “It looks like you stole that mask off a showgirl from the Moulin Rouge.”
“Very funny,” he says. “You know, the Phantom knew a thing about branding himself. Perhaps you should take some of that inspiration.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means the Olivier Dumont brand is nonexistent,” he says with a calm shrug, a look of disdain in his eyes as they rake over me. “Always the same, the typical billionaire hotelier playboy.”
“Better that than the guy who drives a fucking red Ferrari with a matching showgirl mask.”
“At least I’m known for something,” he says, and then his attention is torn away to a masked couple coming across the moat bridge with their invitations out.
Right. The moat.
You see, the ball is almost always held at one of the vineyards we own. We’ve had it at one of my hotels once or twice—actually, the Hôtel Rouge Royale where I met Sadie the other night—but my father has always insisted that it’s more of a special event when it’s somewhere outside the city.
In this case, it’s far outside the city.
We’re at the Château la Tour Carnet winery, one of those that Renaud operates from afar, which is not only located all the way in Bordeaux but is in an actual castle. It’s a small castle, but a castle all the same, complete with a moat, a drawbridge, and groomed grounds filled with peacocks and swans. The peacocks are beautifully cared for, and there’s even a rare white one. The swans are evil creatures who love to terrorize any guests who wander from the back terrace.
On the first floor of the castle, there’s a medieval room filled with old knights’ armor, weapons, and rare books and tapestries, as well as a few other little rooms that have been transformed into coatrooms and champagne stations for the party. Upstairs, the long dining hall and music room have been transformed into the dance floor and main party areas, while the study and bedrooms are off-limits. Then there’s the kitchen, where numerous chefs and waiters are creating amuse-bouches and drinks, and a long spiral staircase to the very top, where guests love to lean out the windows and listen to the band assembled on the terrace below.
It’s extravagant, with every single inch of the castle transformed to celebrate the upcoming fashion week and the autumn launch—but, of course, everything is gaudy and luxurious in the fashion world. People have come from all over—from New York, London, and Dubai—all fighting to get an invite to this very famous, very exclusive event.
But there’s one guest who didn’t have to try at all.
Sadie Reynolds.
She’s not here, but I’ve been watching out for her like a hawk—one of the reasons I’m hanging around Blaise like I am. He doesn’t seem to be suspicious that I’m without a date, but he doesn’t exactly like having me around either.
“Olivier, can I have a word with you?” my father asks, appearing beside me.
He looks good: black suit, black mask. Very simple and traditional.
“Of course,” I tell him.
He starts to lead me away and says to Blaise over his shoulder, “Be extra vigilant tonight, Blaise. There were rumors of invites being sold on the black market.”
“Is that true?” I ask my father as we head out through the armor room and back doors to the terrace. The band is playing, and a few people are already dancing. It’s seven at night, but the sun is still out, and it’s hot, though cooler out here than it is inside. Being my father, he never once thought to add air-conditioning for the event. He’d think doing such a thing to a castle would be sacrilegious.
“Is what true?” he says.
“That invites are being sold on the black market.” The thought of it makes my stomach sink. I know that I added Sadie to the list myself, having sent it to the room at the Hôtel Rouge Royale, and that it would have come straight from Seraphine’s assistant. But even then, I don’t want Blaise questioning her. I don’t want anyone questioning her.
“Oh, no, I made that up,” he says. “Gives Blaise something to do, makes him feel important.”
I should feel more relieved than I do. I guess the whole idea of Sadie showing up here is messing me up more than I thought. I just want her to be here with me, to see my family—even if from afar—to know this part of my life. Even if it’s a part I don’t always like.
At least, I used to like it more. But ever since meeting her, the whole life in the fast lane with the glitz and the glamor, it doesn’t have the same weight anymore, doesn’t have the same value. Now that she’s in my life, the real value is in her.
And she’s leaving you in a week, I remind myself. Back to her real life, and you’ll have to go back to yours.
I’ve been trying not to dwell on it, and it’s certainly helped that I’ve been so busy with work and with this party. But now that the night is here, the truth is starting to sink in.
The clock is ticking.
“Are you all right?” my father asks me as we pause by the willow tree, out of earshot of the party. We’ve been walking across the back lawn, which was carefully scoured for goose poop earlier, but that doesn’t stop me from watching every patch of grass in front of us.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I tell him.
He squints at me from beneath his mask. “I’m not sure about that,” he says. “I know you, my son. I know when there’s something on your mind, and your mind has been elsewhere this last week. I
’m not sure it’s been anywhere good.”
I try to smile. “I’m fine. Really.”
“I don’t like it when you keep secrets from me.”
I raise my hands in innocence. “There are no secrets.”
“Women make terrible secrets,” he says in a low voice, and for one terrible moment I fear he might know. I fear he might be talking about Marine. About my betrayal and failure all those years ago.
But then I think he might be talking about Sadie, which isn’t good either.
“Look, Olivier,” he says after I haven’t said anything. I pretty much just incriminated myself. “All I’ve ever wanted for you is to be happy. Actually, that’s not true. I’ve wanted you to take over my position. But perhaps you wouldn’t be happy doing my job.”
I swallow, wishing I could just confess. Wishing I could tell him the truth about his own brother, wishing I could warn him.
But my father has always seen the best in people, and that includes family and that includes the wrong people. He’s seen the best in me when he has no idea what I’ve done. How I don’t deserve it. And he sees the best in his brother, my uncle, who has no good in him at all.
And yet I can’t tell him that. I can’t shake his belief in me like that, especially after so long. It might even be that my father has a good idea of just how rotten Gautier can be, and yet he stubbornly loves him anyway.
He’s good like that. Such a better man than I will ever be.
“I think Seraphine would be much better at your job,” I tell him, the same old thing I always say.
“You always say that,” he points out. “And Seraphine always says that too. But—and this might be the old traditionalist in me—but . . . you’re my son, Olivier. And from such a young age, you were always the one interested in taking over the brand. In continuing the name. You were always learning from me; you’d spend all your days in my office. Do you remember that? You wanted to be me so badly. It was touching, truly. And it was right. You were meant for this job, always were, and you knew it. And then one day, one day you just . . . poof. You went away for a few months, traveled the world, and you changed.”
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