by Alix Nichols
It used to come naturally.
But now, all my valiant attempts hit a brick wall and fly into pieces. That wall is the belief—a conviction, really—that Sebastian is nothing like the rotten, self-absorbed golden boy that I’ve been painting him to be. His arrogance is superficial. It’s just a mask he wears to hide his insecurities from the world. And to project an image of someone who “knows what he’s doing.”
Underneath the veneer, Sebastian Darcy is an honorable man in every single way that matters.
I take my head in my hands, wishing I was on a deserted island so I could bawl my confusion to the four winds.
My door buzzer sounds.
It’s Sebastian.
I let him in, wondering what’s so urgent it couldn’t wait ’til I get to the town house later tonight.
He steps in, a huge cardboard box in his hands.
“What is this?” I ask as he sets it on my desk.
“A top-notch professional-quality printer,” he says. “So you can make your own prints. And a landscape camera.”
I sit down, flabbergasted.
He opens the box and unpacks the printer first. Unable to resist, I jump up and take a closer look. He’s right—it’s top-notch equipment. To think of all the stuff I could do with it…
“I hope this is what you were talking about.” He hands me a camera.
Not just any camera—a Seitz 6x17 Panoramic.
I’ve read articles about it. I’ve dreamed about it. This baby takes the world’s largest digital photos. The quality is so good I can make a wall-sized print of the Chateau d’Arcy and still be able to see the little spider swinging under one of the third-floor windows.
It’s the best of the best of the best.
I push it back toward him. “This thing costs a small fortune. More than what I make in a year.”
“It’s nothing,” he says.
“I can’t accept it.”
“And I can’t have you walking on roofs so that you can take enough shots with your portrait camera to assemble them into a landscape.”
“Why…” I look away, trying to form my question. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Do you want the conveniently honest answer or the brutally honest one?”
“Give me both.”
He places the camera on the table, takes my chin between his index and thumb, and turns my face toward him.
I stare into his somber eyes.
“The conveniently honest answer is that I’m nice to you because I like your photos and want to help.”
“And the brutally honest one?”
“I’m being nice because I want to continue seeing you after our contract expires and you leave me.”
“You want a real relationship?”
“I’m not sure that’s exactly what I’d call it.” He hesitates. “Diane, I don’t want to mislead you or give you false hopes. You’re not the kind of woman I’d ever pick as a real wife.”
I square my shoulders, trying not to show how much his words hurt me.
“You despise what I stand for,” he says. “You have no interest in my world, in being my partner in every aspect of life.” He pauses before adding, “My mother had the same distaste for the things that mattered to Papa… And look where it got them.”
He lets go of my chin.
We’re both silent for a long moment, gazing out the window, at our shoes, at the equipment on the table—everywhere except each other.
I’m the first to break the silence. “Thank you for your honesty.”
His gaze burns into my eyes as he waits for me to continue.
“I think it would be best if we stopped seeing each other after the contract expires,” I say.
His face hardens. “If that’s what you want.”
I nod.
Dammit, this conversation is hard.
“Tell me something,” I say to get us out of the minefield. “Why are you so sure your nemesis will use the same method on you as he did on your father? Maybe this time he’ll do something different, something more drastic.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know… poison you?”
He laughs. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just not his MO. You see, the guy—or the gal—hates me, but he won’t take unnecessary risks. He’s super careful.”
“If you say so.”
“From what I’ve observed, he seeks to inflict pain—not to kill. What he wants is to punch me where it hurts most. If I wither and die as a consequence, he probably won’t complain. But his goal isn’t my quick death. I’m sure of it.”
Punch me where it hurts most.
Isn’t that what I’ll do to him if I make those letters public?
He doesn’t need his nemesis to give him pain and suffering—he has me.
“Ready to go home?” he asks after our conversation returns to the equipment I’ve agreed to keep.
“You go ahead,” I say. “I still have some stuff to do.”
“Need help?”
I shake my head. “Need privacy.”
He nods and walks out.
I place his mother’s letters into the kitchen sink and put a match to them. As they burn to ashes, I tell myself that now nobody—not Sebastian’s nemesis, not even me in a moment of anger—will be able to punch him where it hurts most.
TWENTY-SIX
We’re in the home stretch.
If Sebastian’s nemesis doesn’t make his move really soon, my fake husband of one month and I will go on a break, separate and divorce, pretexting irreconcilable differences.
Sebastian is getting a little nervous about the success of his plan.
I would be, too, in his place.
All his efforts of the past six months, the elaborate deception of family and friends, the marriage to a woman he’d never consider wife material, the luxury wedding, extravagant parties, and lavish receptions—it’s all been for naught. To say nothing of the money he’s still to fork over when my payday arrives.
If nothing out of the ordinary happens this week, I’ll pocket my fee and leave next week. Sebastian will go back to his normal life, none the wiser. And his enemy will thank his lucky stars for having stayed under the radar.
No wonder my still-husband is cramming as many opportunities for his enemy as he can into this last week. The first one is underway right now, and it’s a happy event, regardless of our hidden agenda.
Jeanne’s hubby, Mat, was elected Member of the European Parliament, as the Top-of-the-List for the Greens.
Sebastian had backed his party’s campaign, so he’s doubly pleased.
To celebrate Mat’s achievement, we’re hosting a big reception at Raphael and Sebastian’s gentlemen’s club. Mat wanted to do it at La Bohème, but the bistro was too small for the occasion. Everyone who’s anyone in Paris and from Mat’s home base in Normandy is here, schmoozing, drinking, and stuffing themselves with caviar canapés.
Sebastian steers the event with his usual efficiency, making sure Mat meets all the movers and shakers and opinion leaders.
I play the perfect hostess—at least, my idea of the perfect hostess. Dressed in a shimmery gown that feels and looks as if it was poured on me, I welcome and make small talk with as many guests as I can manage without appearing rushed.
As I do my rounds, I notice Sebastian chatting with a creature who should totally represent France at the next Miss Universe. They smile at each other, the distance between them considerably smaller than what’s expected of two people holding a polite conversation. She plays with her earlobe as she speaks. Sebastian beckons to a server and picks up two champagne flutes.
A needle of jealousy pricks me somewhere in the upper left quadrant of my chest, but I will myself to ignore it and carry on.
One of the uniformed waitresses carrying a tray with food and drinks keeps glancing at Raphael. The depth of her gaze is intriguing. Every time she steals a glance at him, something flas
hes in her pretty eyes—something bigger than just OMG-what-a-studmuffin. Her furtive looks have an undeniable gravitas that goes beyond flirtation. It suggests a history. And a complicated one, at that.
When I spot Manon, I rush to her side for a chat that I’ll actually enjoy.
“Where’s Amar, by the way?” I ask after we’ve covered her recent raise and the encouraging sales of my new prints at La Bohème. “I haven’t seen him yet.”
She looks down, visibly distressed.
“What’s wrong? Is he OK?”
“I don’t know.”
I give her a quizzical look.
“He’s disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s gone,” she says. “It’s been three days now. He hasn’t showed up for work, and he won’t return my calls.”
“Are you going to report his disappearance to the police?”
She shakes her head. “I managed to get hold of his mom. She says Amar left the country.”
“Why?”
“I couldn’t get anything else out of her.” There’s a tremor in her voice. “I’m at my wit’s end.”
I give her a hug. “He’ll come back. He loves you.”
“I’m not… I’m not so sure anymore.”
Someone taps my shoulder. “Here she is, the beautiful hostess of this great celebration!”
I turn around—it’s Sebastian’s pal, Laurent.
“Thank you for the ‘beautiful,’ ” I say as we cheek kiss. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Absolutely.” He tilts his head toward Manon. “Will you introduce me to your equally beautiful friend?”
I do and leave them to it. God knows, Manon could do with a distraction right now.
Besides, I really need to pee.
Just as I’m opening the door to the ladies’ room, Raphael and the glancing waitress come out of the gents’ toilet. He’s tucking his shirt into his pants. She’s smoothing her uniform. Both are rumpled and flushed, leaving no doubt about what they were doing in the men’s bathroom.
Or about the nature of their “history.”
When I return to the front room, there are daggers flying around. Not material ones, of course, but the looks Genevieve is giving the waitress. They’re so sharp it’s a miracle her victim isn’t screaming in pain and collapsing to the floor.
I smirk.
Raphael may believe that Genevieve is only a friend, but the truth is she may as well be wearing a T-shirt that reads, Hands off the middle Darcy brother—HE’S MINE.
Men can be so selectively blind!
Sebastian comes over to me. “Did you see the woman I’ve been talking to for the past thirty minutes?”
“I did.”
“We’ve already bumped into each other at the Chanel luncheon I attended for work last week.” His eyes are bright with excitement.
“Do you think…” I search his face. “Do you think she’s it?”
“I just texted the PI to stand by outside.”
“What happens next?”
He looks at his watch. “In an hour or so, people will start leaving. You’ll say you’re tired and go home.”
“And you?”
“If all goes well, I’ll leave with my temptress.”
I’m itching to ask if he’ll do more than just “leave” with her. For his scheme to work, I guess he’ll need to. The question is how far he’ll go. Will he just drive her home, kiss her, and let his private eye shadow her until she contacts her employer, or will he actually go all the way and sleep with her?
He’s never been very specific on that part of the plan.
I nod and force myself to smile. “Fingers crossed.”
“Don’t wait up for me tonight,” he says.
That needle I’d felt earlier morphs into a dirty bomb and blows up inside my chest just as Sebastian turns and walks away.
Part V
Hovel
TWENTY-SEVEN
How hard can it be to open a pair of healthy, well-functioning eyes? Right now, extremely hard. Almost impossible. It’s not just the eyes. My head is pounding. Nausea reigns supreme in my stomach, threatening to advance through my throat and erupt at any moment.
How much exactly did I drink last night? Barely a glass. I was too busy playing hostess. So why am I having the hangover of my life? I try to rub my eyes, but my hands won’t come up. A few more failed attempts later and it hits me. My wrists are bound behind my back. My ankles are tied, too.
What the hell?
With a superhuman effort, I peel my eyes open and take in my surroundings. I’m lying on top of a mattress in a dark, moldy-smelling room. Probably a cellar. I writhe and buck, testing the strength of the tape at my wrists and ankles. It’s impossible to untie or even loosen a little. After some more wriggling, I manage to sit up, lean back against the wall, and look around.
It is a cellar. It’s small, so I doubt I’m in the mansion, where I’ve thoroughly explored the huge basement. There’s a minuscule opening just below the ceiling. That’s where the air and light come through. A suitcase sits in one corner of the room. My suitcase. The wall opposite me has a door with no handle. I don’t like that door any more than I like the window covered with a solid metal screen.
Clearly, at some point between the moment Greg dropped me off in front of Darcy House and now, I passed out and was brought down here.
Did someone hit me over the head? Drug me? Hypnotize me?
The thing is I have no memory of it.
I call for help, scream, call for help again, and then scream some more.
Nothing happens.
I call for help a few more times.
The door opens. A sturdy man steps in and locks the door behind him. He pauses for a moment by the door and then walks slowly toward me.
Recognition slaps me on the face like a bucket of icy water.
“I hope madame slept well,” Octave says, mockery palpable in his voice. “I hope you weren’t too cold and your restraints not too tight.”
He halts in front of me.
I give him a long, hard stare. “It’s been you—all this time, pretending to be a friend and sharpening your knife behind Sebastian’s back.”
“I was never his friend,” Octave hisses. “I’m his majordome, remember?”
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I’m not sure yet.” He gives me the smile of a deranged man. “I’m considering different scenarios.”
“What about Miss France at the bash last night? Wasn’t she supposed to seduce Sebastian? Wasn’t that your plan?”
He throws his head back and roars with an uncontrollable laugher, tears and all. “Is that what you both thought? I was hoping you would.”
Octave pulls a hanky from his pocket and wipes his eyes. “She was just a diversion.”
I blink, processing that piece of information.
“You see,” he says. “I had to adapt my initial plan after you moved in.”
“Why?”
“Because I heard Sebastian and you talking one night, between humping sessions, about outing his nemesis.”
“You—what? How?”
“I bugged your bedroom.”
Dear Lord.
That explains the device and headphones in his closet.
I’m toast.
Unless… The bugging might be good news. It means he’s discovered the truth about us.
“In that case,” I say, “you know our marriage is a sham.”
“What?” He looks genuinely surprised.
“If you’ve bugged our bedroom, you must’ve figured out from our conversations that we’re not for real. Sebastian hired me to help him unmask you.”
He sneers. “Nice try.”
“It’s the truth.”
“You really expect me to believe your bullshit?”
I close my eyes and try to concentrate. Could it be that neither Sebastian nor I ever said anything in that bedroom that would give away the real na
ture of our relationship? We’ve had a lot of sex, many laughs, and a few serious conversations, but… is it possible that we never mentioned our contract?
But of course, we did—as recently as two weeks ago. Only we weren’t in Darcy House. We were in my apartment.
Octave squats and checks the tape at my wrists and ankles.
“I may be just a manservant, but I’m not stupid,” he says. “I’ve seen the way you look at him—like he’s the only man on the whole fucking planet. I’ve seen the way he looks at you—like he wants to nosh you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every fucking day.”
I take a ragged breath and look away.
“And don’t get me started on the way he touches you.” Octave stands up, smirking. “These things can’t be faked.”
I lick my dry lips, realizing how parched I am.
Octave turns around and heads to the door.
“Wait,” I call after him.
He halts and looks over his shoulder at me.
I point my chin to the suitcase. “What’s that for?”
“To buy me a few days. He’ll think you got jealous and left him.”
In a few days, I’ll be dead from dehydration. That is if he doesn’t kill me before.
“Will you please bring me some water next time you come down?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I’m not your servant anymore, sweetheart.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I get home in the wee hours of the morning.
Valeria—that’s my temptress’s name… fake, no doubt—wanted to go to her favorite nightclub. She loooooves dancing. After that she asked me to take her for a ride around the Boulogne Forest, driving my Lamborghini as fast as it would go. She adooooores speed.
When I took her back to her hotel, she invited me upstairs for a “cup of coffee.” That’s when I went off script and declined her invitation.
“Wife?” She gave me a sympathetic look.
I nodded.
Valeria pointed at her watch. “It’s three in the morning. She won’t believe you anyway.”
“I’ll try my luck.” I planted a quick smooch on her lips and promised I’d make arrangements so we could meet again soon without raising anyone’s suspicions.