The Contract (Convenience Book 2)

by Stella Gray

  Brooklyn pulls out her phone to capture the image, no doubt for her Insta followers. “I can almost see a story there,” she murmurs to herself as she swipes through various filters.

  “I’m sensing a scorned lover,” I interject. “The groom probably had the good sense to call it off before he got screwed over.”

  She looks up at me and frowns. “You can stop with the barbs anytime.”

  “Why? If I have to live with this, so do you.”

  “Live with what, Luka?” She tosses the remainder of her food in the trash, as if she’s lost her appetite.

  “This prison of a marriage. I thought we at least respected and cared about each other. But you killed it, Brooklyn—any hope there was of making this marriage accommodating and tolerable for the next two years. So if I have to be fucking miserable, so the fuck do you.”

  Her eyelids flutter and I feel a flicker of guilt, but it doesn’t last. I head in the direction of the Place Charles de Gaulle, and she catches up until we’re arm in arm again. When we finally reach the Arc de Triomphe, she gasps and pulls out her phone for another perfect Parisian snap.

  “Can you take my picture?” she asks. I frown. “I need to look like I’m having a good time here,” she reminds me. “You don’t have to be in it.”

  I know she’s right, so I oblige, opening the camera app and then centering her with the arch curving majestically just over her shoulder. She walks over to a nearby plaque and reads, “Commissioned by the Emperor Napoleon in 1806…”

  “You know, Napoleon was betrayed by his own troops,” I say, walking up behind her. “I can only imagine how that felt. You want to climb the stairs to the top of the arch, honey?”

  She looks up at me with a frown. “Let’s just go,” she says.

  We get on the Metro at Etoile and take the line two subway to Montmartre, since I love the hike up to the Sacré-Coeur.

  But as we approach the round white domes of the Sacred Heart basilica, we find a huge crowd of tourists taking pictures. We don’t even make it to the steps before three young women shyly approach us. They’re all tall, thin model types. Just the kind to know exactly who Brooklyn and I are.

  “Oh my God, can we get a picture of you guys?” the tallest asks in perfect American English. She probably follows Brooklyn and Danica Rose Management’s social media accounts.

  “Of course!” Brooklyn says, suddenly full of sunshine. She moves closer to me and I angle us with the cathedral to our backs.

  “That’s great! How about a kiss? It’s your honeymoon!” The singsong way the girl says it makes me nauseous. Like we’re supposed to be head over heels every waking moment.

  I work my jaw, then turn to look down at my new bride. I smile, keeping my venom to myself. Brooklyn knows it’s there, though—and by hell, she’s going to taste it.

  Cupping the back of her head in my hand, I pull her hair and position her the way I want. I claim her mouth, hard and possessive. Let them think I’m in love with my wife, that I can’t wait to get her back to the hotel.

  In reality, it takes everything inside me not to devour her in my anger. To drown her with the furious frenzy of lust and heartbreak and disappointment inside me.

  I kiss her until she’s fucking breathless, and then I snap back, barely supporting her so she thinks I’m going to let her fall. But I don’t. I gather her up like a loving husband and swipe my thumb over her lips. Her stunned expression is laced with raw want.

  I wink as I steady her and give a wave to the photographers. Taking Brooklyn’s arm, I steer her away, whispering low in her ear.

  “See, sweetheart? I can fake it, too.”

  Luka

  Chapter 3

  Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I smooth my collar and run a hand through my hair, then mess with a couple stray locks at my temple that don’t want to stay in place.

  Wearing all black, my outfit matches my mood. My slim-cut pants aren’t bespoke, but they look it. My dress shirt has a mid-high collar, and I’ve left the top few buttons undone to show some skin. Women love my exotic skin tone, and they can’t resist me in monochrome.

  A gold Rolex, black Italian leather belt, and wedding band are my accessories. It’s hot outside and I’m not in the mood for fuss. I spray my cologne and slip a few condoms into my pocket, locked and loaded and ready for a good time.

  I need to get rid of this tension between Brooklyn and me, and there’s only one guaranteed way I know how to do that. I’m going to get drunk, and I’m going to fuck. I don’t care which order they happen in. All I do care about is that by the end of this Parisian evening, I won’t remember my wife’s name.

  As I meet my gaze in the glass again, I can’t deny that I’m being a complete and total bastard. This is low, even for me.

  But right now, I couldn’t care less.

  Satisfied with my appearance, I grab my wallet and cell and open the bedroom door. Brooklyn is curled up in the chair by the window, reading. Her legs are pulled lazily to the side, and she’s twirling a strand of that dark, lush hair around her dainty finger.

  I soften my gaze, feigning disinterest. She looks over at me, then looks again. An immediate flash of hunger crosses her face. She shifts on the chair and sets down her e-reader.

  Slowly, I pull at the cuff of my right sleeve and smooth the length of the fabric up and down my arm. She’s watching me, the lust growing darker in her eyes. Good. Let her want me. Let her wish I was going to be fucking her tonight and learn what real disappointment feels like.

  “You look nice,” she says, and swings her feet to the floor, preparing to rise. “Where are we going?”

  I almost laugh in her face. “We aren’t going anywhere. I am. You’re staying put.”

  “But you said we couldn’t be seen alone—”

  “I said you couldn’t be seen alone. I can do whatever I want. I know plenty about how to move around this city without drawing attention to myself.”

  Her perfect pink lips drop apart. “You’re not serious…”

  I ignore her dismay, striding to the door. “Don’t wait up.”

  A soft sound of disbelief puffs from her mouth as I leave. In the hall, I pause to relish the satisfaction of knowing I’ve made her wonder what I’m up to. Oh, she’ll try and go back to reading her book. She might turn on the television, or scroll through her phone, but she won’t be able to concentrate on anything other than me for the next few hours.

  Yet as I head down in the elevator, I realize I actually have no clear idea of where I’m going. I know of plenty of clubs around here, or I could Uber my way to the other side of the city. But despite my posturing, the reality is that there’s a pretty decent chance I’ll be recognized the moment I leave the hotel, just as we were on our walk the other day. And yeah, I still have my reputation to think about. Marrying Brooklyn was a tactic to strengthen my own public image, to an extent, but it was more about propping up Danica Rose’s PR status and making the company look good. Being photographed in Paris—on my honeymoon, no less—with another woman on my arm isn’t going to do the agency or the Zoric family any favors.

  My eagerness dampens as I enter the lobby and realize there’s really nowhere I can safely go. Good thing I don’t give up easily. I make a sharp turn and head for the classy hotel bar. I can get drunk there and flirt with a fine piece of ass or two. More than flirt, if I play my cards right.

  If I can just fuck Brooklyn out of my system, everything will be okay.

  The room is long and lofty with low lighting and several areas of cozy, intimate seating that creates the perfect ambiance for slipping away with someone unnoticed. I choose a seat at the far side of the bar and tip a finger to the bartender. I ask for my drink in impeccable French, and within a few moments I have a perfectly aged whiskey sitting in front of me with the order to keep them coming.

  The weight of the glass is a familiar, cool friend in my grip. My pulse picks up, my mouth tingling with the promise of the sweet taste. It’s going to bu
rn before it soothes. It’s going to fill my mouth with sin and poison and the betrayal of the promise I made to myself not to use alcohol and sex as my crutches anymore.

  I take a sip, closing my eyes against the heat as the amber liquid rolls over my tongue and slides down my throat. It’s welcoming all the way to my core. Now all I need to revive the old me is to bury my cock in some nameless woman’s cunt. I scan the room and see plenty of single females to choose from. A few meet my eyes with interest, and one starts to head toward me, but my gaze slides right over them. They’re hot enough, but I’m on a mission.

  By the time I’m done with my second drink, my body has relaxed into the ambiance. Music that I don’t recognize filters through the air mixed with foreign conversations.

  And then I spot her.

  Dark braids spill over her bare shoulders. Huge, lifted breasts strain at the fabric of her tight black dress and her red lips contrast nicely with her warm brown skin. She’s alone. I watch nonchalantly for a few minutes. No one joins her, and she doesn’t check her phone as if waiting for someone. She looks like she’s having a good time all by herself, but judging by the way she keeps glancing around the room, she wouldn’t mind some company.

  She’s probably a tourist, like me. Hopefully not also on her honeymoon. Though if she is, she’s in the bar alone, looking like a delicious snack—which signals she’s on the same level of careless debauchery that I am.

  I signal the bartender for another drink, grab it, and make my way across the room. She’s just pulling out a chair to sit at a small table in the corner when I approach.

  She spots me immediately, her brow quirking as she takes me in.

  “Bonsoir,” I greet.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.” She laughs, shaking her head. Her voice has the hint of a southern accent. She points to herself. “No par-lay.”

  “It means good evening,” I tell her.

  Her eyes widen, a smile showing off perfect white teeth. She giggles again, in that bubblegum way I’m used to hearing from women trying to get my attention. “You’re American, too! How funny is that?”

  My gaze drifts to her breasts and I swallow down the rest of my drink. She puts a hand on my arm and starts rattling on about some bus tour she took around the city, but I’m barely listening. Her bodycon dress doesn’t do much to hide the promise of what’s beneath. Shapely, tight, curvy. Nothing like Brooklyn’s yoga-toned muscles and mile-long legs. I clamp down on the comparison. I need to get as far away from my wife as possible.

  I angle my body toward her. “So, what brings you to Paris?”

  She tilts her head with a sassy flounce. “Why don’t you buy me my next drink and I’ll tell you all about it?”

  Done and done.

  A few minutes later, she’s moved her chair close enough to mine that our knees touch when we sit. The notes of her heavy floral perfume give me the tingle of a headache—or maybe that’s from the third drink I’m tossing back—but I ignore it. I can ignore a lot of things if it means I get laid. What a skill to have honed over the years.

  “My sister is getting married.” She says this as if she’s telling me a secret. “Her fiancé is twenty years older than she is. Can you believe that?”

  “Shocking,” I say, though of course it isn’t.

  “I know, right? But she seems happy. He paid for my trip here and put me up in this posh hotel, so I say live and let live.” She giggles again, tonguing the straw of her drink suggestively. Then she pulls out her phone to show me the scores of photos she took of the Eiffel Tower.

  I’m already bored. The sound of her voice grates on me and all I can think about is Brooklyn’s face, the citrus scent of her shampoo, the heat of her breath in my ear, and what it felt like to come inside her on our wedding night, over and over again.

  Fuck, I want the old Luka back. The one who only cared about a woman’s bra size, and how quickly I could get her into bed.

  “You said you have a room here?” I murmur, and lean a little closer.

  “I do,” she says, eyes sparking with interest. “Are you interested in a private tour?”

  “Nothing would make me happier right now.”

  As I down the last of my whiskey, her eyebrows flick up. She’s noticed my wedding ring. I don’t mention it, and neither does she.

  I stand up and take her hand, pulling her to her feet. Her breasts are beautifully pushed together, creating a deep line of cleavage that I could bury my face in while pulling the straps of her dress all the way down to expose her tits and wrap my mouth around her nipples.

  The image flashes through my mind…yet nothing happens. There’s no spark. My cock seems oblivious to the dirty thoughts in my head. What the fuck? This woman is full and ripe, dark and luscious. Ready to be spread out under me. Instead, my mind is straying to Brooklyn walking toward me in her wedding gown, her radiant beauty rendering everyone speechless.

  Enough.

  “Lead the way,” I tell her.

  She winks and tugs me away from the table. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  I’m in a daze as we stumble across the hotel lobby. I never rush into proposing sex this fast. I like the chase, the seduction. I love the moment I know I’ve won a woman over and she’s pliable and willing in my arms. But I don’t care about any of that right now.

  As soon as the elevator doors close behind us, I have her against the wall, her hands pinned lightly in mine as I take her mouth.

  She shimmies her hips against me as I swipe my tongue along hers. She tastes…different. Too sweet. Like daiquiri and lip gloss. Her lips are sloppy against mine, not moving perfectly in time with my rhythm. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

  Frustrated, I cup her breast and squeeze, listening to her moan as I kiss her with everything I’ve got.

  The car opens and we spill out into the hall. She pulls her keycard from her pocket and leads me to her room. With a wicked grin, she spins and presses against the doorframe, reaching for me with one hand while she slides the card into the door slot with the other.

  I kiss her again.

  And not a fucking thing happens to my cock. Nothing. No zing of anticipation, no pulsing need. No immediate hard-on.

  With a sigh, I pull away and run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. I just remembered something I need to do.”

  She brushes my excuse off by grabbing my crotch and giving it a squeeze. “What could possibly be more interesting than this?”

  Pushing away from her, I smooth my shirt and set my jaw. “My wife.”

  Without looking back, I leave her standing at the door and walk back to the elevator. She doesn’t try to stop me. Or maybe she does, but I’m already so deft at ignoring her that I don’t notice. I feel lighter as I ride back down to the lobby.

  Fucking that woman would have been the wrong thing to do. Apparently, my cock agreed. But I’m still not ready to go back to my room and face Brooklyn. In fact, I quite enjoyed the look of hurt jealousy on her face when I’d left earlier. Let her simmer a while longer.

  The lobby is nearly empty when I find a plush sofa in a private nook and settle back into the brocade covered cushions. It’s comfortable, and I slouch down as fatigue takes hold of my brain. The alcohol is taking full effect now, making me content and warm, and before I know it, I’m drifting off.

  When I wake up some time later, I’m disoriented—but a hell of a lot more sober. I’m also feeling hungover, and I’m pleased to find there’s red lipstick smeared on my collar. That’ll show Brooklyn. And I’ve got a hard-on with her name all over it.

  A plan begins to form in my mind. I have no regrets.

  I know exactly what I’m going to do.

  Brooklyn

  Chapter 4

  Luka never came back last night.

  I stayed up so late pacing back and forth between the rooms, I actually started to get nervous that I might harm the fancy Aubusson rug. Sometime after three a.m., I finally turned off the TV
and wrapped myself in a blanket in the corner chair, holding back tears. But I hardly slept. Every time I heard the slightest noise in the hall, I jumped up, anticipating his return—only to be disappointed every time.

  When he left here last night, he’d looked like the devil ready to roll around in sin. I have no idea where he went or where he slept, but given my current standing with him, I can’t really interrogate him whenever he does come back. How did things go so wrong?

  Every time I think back and retrace my steps, I don’t see how I could have done things any differently. Even if I’d rejected Elite’s offer sooner—tore up the contract they’d offered me on the same day I “auditioned” to be Luka’s wife—Monica Shore still would have found the original contract with my name on it and shown it to Luka later.

  The sky is starting to lighten. The first rays of sun haven’t quite come in through the windows yet, but while I can imagine all sorts of plausible scenarios for why he hasn’t returned yet, my heart knows the truth. He wanted to hurt me, so he did it in the only way he knows how.

  Partying, clubbing, picking up women. I’m hollow, the space inside my chest ready to collapse with anguish at any moment. He’s risking both our reputations, risking everything we said this marriage was for. But I can’t place all the blame on him. This is my fault.

  The worst part is, I could swear I was finally starting to break down his walls.

  The thought brings tears to my eyes again. I fight to keep them back.

  Just then, the lock on the door clicks. I spin away from the window and watch the pale morning light spill over Luka as he stumbles in. My heart sinks to my feet. Is he drunk?

  He tosses his wallet and keycard on the table beside the door, then pops a button on his shirt as he saunters into the room as if he doesn’t have a care in the world for the heartbreak and jealousy that’s ripping me apart right now.

  Our eyes meet. His are hard and cutting, showing no sign of remorse or regret. I can feel my pulse racing as I take him in.