by BETH KERY
Wasn’t it better that Lucien was angry versus uncaring?
“I know you believe in me, Lucien. Even if only a little bit. I know you’re not so callous as you behave. I wish you’d quit putting on the act,” she said, plucking up her façade of confidence.
“What do you mean?”
“Ms. Riordan told me that you specified that her job was provisional upon her taking me on as a stage.”
A silence stretched between them. She’d been stunned and pleased when Ms. Riordan had revealed that morsel of information during their discussion.
“And I told you, if you are to live in this city, I’d just as soon have you nearby where I can monitor you. Speaking of which,” he said, talking over the disgusted sound she made. She knew very well he’d just sidestepped her revelation that he’d done something kind for her. “I’d like to escort you tomorrow evening to Ian and Francesca’s party.”
Her heart leapt. Denise Riordan had been hired. Francesca was no longer his employee. Lucien would feel freer now to act on his proposed relationship. A thought struck her, deflating her ballooning excitement like a dead-on torpedo.
“You want to supervise me, don’t you? I told you I wasn’t going to tell anyone that I know you from before. Don’t you trust me?”
“Let’s just say that I’d rather be in close watching distance so that I know where I stand.”
“You don’t, in other words.”
“Trust is something that has to be earned, Elise,” he said quietly. “And don’t play the martyr. I know that you don’t trust me completely, either. Not yet, you don’t.”
His intensity took her by surprise. She absorbed what he’d said, feeling unsteady.
“Where shall I pick you up?” he asked after a moment, his quick topic change only increasing her sense of being off balance. “At the address you put down on your application?”
“No.”
She realized how abrupt she’d sounded. The last thing she wanted was for Lucien to see the rundown extended-stay hotel where she was living. It would only affirm his belief that she was scatter-brained and impulsive. She did some quick thinking when she noticed his narrowed gaze on her. “Can we meet here? In front of the Noble Tower building?”
His handsome face settled into an unreadable mask. “Of course, if you prefer it. Seven thirty?”
“That will be fine,” she said, starting to back out of the office. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Elise?” he asked sharply when her hand was on the door.
“Yes?”
“Your employment with me has ended now that I’ve hired Denise.”
She held her breath.
“Just remember. My rules,” he reminded significantly. “Denise being here means your salary will stop as well. You do have adequate funds to live here in the city, correct?”
“Of course. Didn’t you tell me that Papa would never see me starve?”
He raised his eyebrows slowly. Not liking the suspicious expression settling on his features, she hurried out the door.
Chapter Four
Lucien remained seated and unmoving once the door closed behind Elise. He thought of how pale she’d gone when he’d mentioned catching her in flagrante delicto with Hugh Langier, illustrious member of the French senate and renowned womanizer. He regretted embarrassing her, but the memory was still volatile to him; it still made something hot and unbearable swell in his gut, not to mention what it did to his cock.
He’d been looking for her that night five years ago, having noticed her luminous face from a distance during the opera. It had been a year since his father had first mentioned the possibility of him marrying Elise. He’d flat-out refused to even discuss the idea, of course. No one was going to choose his future wife but himself. But the idea had lingered in his consciousness: not heavily, but lightly, like a radiant, teasing smile, the prospect of a stolen summer day or a sip of the perfect champagne—light-filled and effervescent . . .
. . . like Elise herself.
He couldn’t help but be curious about what sort of a woman that smart, funny, sad girl had become.
Still, his curiosity hadn’t been so great that he’d sought her out when he’d moved permanently to Paris to open his first hotel and restaurant. It’d been completely by accident that he’d glimpsed her at the opera. Their boxes were almost directly across from each other. The curtain was about to go up when he noticed several faces in the audience flicker to the left of the stage. He’d followed their gazes idly, wondering what was causing the stir. His body sprung into instant alertness.
She’d stood and was making her way to the back of the box. The gown she wore was jaw-dropping. No, not the dress itself, but Elise in it. It was made of a pale ivory metallic material that clung to her ripe, svelte curves, the material giving off a pearl-like sheen that nowhere near rivaled the luminosity of her pale skin. She was completely covered, but the clinging fabric and its similarity to her coloring gave the impression of nudity. Her hair had been long back then. Lucien recalled that during that summer five years before, she’d forever worn her hair in a thick ponytail, tendrils increasingly escaping the band as the day wore on until by nightfall, her delicate face was surrounded by a riot of golden waves and curls. That night, she wore it up, but the casual twist gave a man the impression he could have the glory of it spilling down her shoulders and into his greedy hands with just a gentle tug.
He’d jerked up out of his chair, making a quick excuse to his companion.
Five minutes of searching later, he’d finally found the sweet, gawky girl he recalled, but that girl was no more.
She’d been on her knees in a velvet-draped alcove before an ecstatic-looking Hugh Langier.
The image haunted him to this day . . . killed him a little . . . aroused him a lot. When he’d whipped back the heavy drapery, Elise’s lips had been clamped tightly around the base of Langier’s cock. She’d slid her mouth back, revealing inches of slick, thick penis—not to mention the full extent of her talent for fellatio.
No wonder the senator had looked so ecstatic.
It had infuriated him that Langier had taken advantage of a young girl like that while his wife sat out in his choice box watching Tosca, unaware of her husband’s lechery. The entire experience had infuriated him, period, when it should have been an eye-opening moment that he later considered with amusement.
Lucien shut his eyes, trying to vanquish the memory even though he knew by now it was an utter impossibility.
Take control of Elise Martin? Gain her trust? It was a challenge most men would fail. It was a dare the dominant in him could no longer resist, a trial he was anticipating unlike any other before in his life.
He’d have to willingly walk into the flames in order to control the fire.
She spotted him immediately from a block away, leaning against a limestone abutment of the super-sleek, modern-gothic Noble Tower. Her stomach fluttered. She hadn’t been familiar with the sensation for most of her life, but had experienced it far too much recently. She’d assumed since running into Lucien again that the uncomfortable feeling was anxiety due to his intimidating presence. No other man affected her like Lucien did. Maybe it was because of that idyllic summer he’d given her as a child. It might have been because of the way he kissed. Or perhaps it was simply because she knew he had no reason to manipulate her for her fortune.
Or maybe it was that he was the most powerful, sexiest man she’d ever met. By far.
Tonight, she had a sneaking suspicion the fluttery feeling was akin to that of a first date with a very attractive man.
Which was ridiculous. This wasn’t a date. Hadn’t he said he just wanted to be with her because he didn’t trust her? She frowned, even though her gaze traveled over him covetously. Still . . . he’d said he was attracted to her, that he planned to have sex with her. They’d both dressed up and they were meeting at an assigned spot. The similarities to a date were not insignificant. Now that an official chef had been hired, h
ow would he go about advancing this unorthodox relationship he’d proposed?
He drew glances from nearly every passerby, man or woman, even though he seemed completely unaware. His arms were crossed loosely beneath his chest. His looks were such a striking, unique combination of effortless elegance and raw male sexuality. He wore black pants that fit his long legs to eye-catching perfection, a starkly white shirt open at the collar and a handsome tan and black herringbone blazer. He stared fixedly in the direction of the Chicago River. She admired his ability to stay so completely still, and yet remain so calm. Rarely had she observed such complete focus in a man. She recalled he used to quietly chastise her when they fished and she would fidget and sigh.
“You will scare the fish away.”
“But it’s so boring,” she’d complained.
“If you can learn to handle your boredom, you will have truly mastered yourself.”
“What’s that mean?” she’d queried, puzzled but curious.
He hadn’t answered her at the time, but she’d studied his calm, patient attitude while fishing or soothing an anxious horse or handling his drama-queen mother, and strived to follow his example. She’d failed for the most part, but she’d learned to respect that calm, steely strength in him.
“I hope I’m not too late,” she said breathlessly when she approached him. “The bus broke down on the inner drive and I had to walk the rest of the way.”
He straightened from his leaning position, his light eyes moving over her deliberately and making her skin prickle in awareness. “In those shoes?” he asked, the hint of a smile on his well-shaped lips.
She glanced down at the strappy high-heel sandals she wore along with a sack dress she’d belted at her hips. “This is nothing,” she said as he took her hand and began to walk. “You wouldn’t believe the miles I walked in heels while I was waitressing.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Waitressing?”
She grinned, happy to have surprised him. “At La Roue, in Paris.”
He hailed a cab.
“We can walk,” she said. “I understand from Francesca the penthouse is very close, isn’t that right?”
A cab snapped to a halt in front of the curb. He opened the door for her.
“You’re getting a blister on your right ankle,” he said deadpan when she gave him a questioning look. She glanced down. He was right. The skin around her ankle strap was abraded and red. When had he noticed? She sighed in relief a moment later when she settled in the air-conditioned cab and did a double take when she noticed his small smile as he studied her.
“What?”
“Tender feet,” he said. She blinked at the unexpectedly seductive sound of his deep, resonant voice. “You were always getting blisters as a girl.”
“My mother forgot to get me new shoes for the summer. I was growing like a weed that year.”
Annoyance crossed his bold features. “All that money, all those resources, and yet she neglected you,” he said. He noticed her blank expression. He shook his head slightly, banishing a bitterness that confused her.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said impulsively, hopeful at the sound of his disdain toward her mother.
“Yes.”
“You never . . . you didn’t sleep with her ever, did you? My mother?”
Her heartbeat quickened when he just stared at her for a moment. She’d wanted to ask him that very question for a long time, but also dreaded the answer.
“No. Absolutely not,” he said with quiet forcefulness.
She exhaled in relief. She nodded, believing him completely for some reason. “Because I know she probably tried to seduce you that summer when we were in Nice. Probably other times, too. It’s what she does. I’m glad to know she failed with you. She certainly never did with any of my other boyfriends,” she laughed.
He closed his eyes briefly. “Elise, I’m sorry.”
She shrugged, striving for an offhand manner. “We can’t pick our parents. Unfortunately.”
An awkward silence ensued. She suspected he was feeling sorry for her for having such a vain, substanceless mother and wished like crazy she hadn’t brought up the topic.
“Have you really started running?”
She just nodded, thankful he’d noticed her discomfort and changed the subject.
“I’m proud of you. You need something to discipline your body, your mind . . . something to make you proud.”
He held her stare. Her heart throbbed in her ears once . . . twice. Suddenly, he was looking out the window and the intimate moment had passed. She inhaled as if all the oxygen had been vacuumed out of the cab for a few seconds and abruptly replaced.
“It does make me proud,” she said, regaining her balance. “So did waitressing. Why were you surprised I worked as one?” she asked as the cab zoomed down Upper Wacker Drive.
“Because you have one of the largest trust funds in Europe, perhaps?”
“They say yours is larger.” When he didn’t respond to her provocation, she sighed. She’d heard from her mother that Lucien hadn’t touched the funds since his father’s incarceration, but obviously it wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss. She knew he’d compiled his own fortune, so he had less reason than she to worry about trust funds. “I can’t access my trust fund until I’m twenty-five,” she explained lamely.
“What will happen to your newfound work ethic when that happens?” he mused, turning in profile to her, his light eyes reflecting the rays of the sunset off the flowing river. His mildly patronizing manner irritated her. Did he still question her ability . . . her drive?
“I’ll be dutifully employed as a chef. That’s my hope. Would you like to make a bet about my dedication to my career?” she teased lightly.
“What sort of a bet?” he asked. This, too, he considered a joke. Little did he know she had plans for what she wanted to do with her fortune and her life. Good ideas. Worthy aspirations that would pay tribute to a very special man’s life.
She was just worried about having the clarity, the focus required to bring her plans to reality. She’d never done anything so . . . big before. What if, in the end, she really was like Madeline Martin—worthless fluff?
“Twenty thousand euros to me if I’m still gainfully employed as a chef one year after I have access to my trust fund and am leading a meaningful life. Twenty thousand to you if I’ve succumbed to the lures of wealth and am leading a wastrel existence.”
He turned, his gray eyes sparking. Ah, now she’d gotten his attention.
“I’ll take that bet.”
“You’re still doubting my dedication, aren’t you?”
He shrugged, and her gaze flickered with interest to his powerful chest and shoulders contrasting with a narrow waist and flat abdomen.
“I just thought the potential loss of twenty thousand euros might strengthen that dedication of yours . . . just in case you should find it running thin,” he said with a silvery sideways glance.
“I’m going to win,” she challenged, suddenly completely confident now that she’d made the bet with Lucien.
“I’m inclined to believe you.”
“You are?”
“Yes. I took the bet for good measure, though. I know how much you love to prove me wrong. It was a winning bet for me either way.”
She remained silent for the rest of the trip—Lucien’s low, delicious voice echoing in her head—turning over the unsettling fact in her mind that Lucien had known her reaction to taking that bet before she had.
Francesca and Ian entertained on a massive outdoor terrace situated on the roof of the dark brick art deco tower where Ian lived. The view was fabulous—the dark blue expanse of Lake Michigan to the east and the scarlet ball of the sun setting behind the cityscape to the west. Francesca had made the small area near a wet bar and fire pit intimate with paper lanterns that glowed a warm gold as darkness fell. It was a small party, consisting only of Francesca’s friends Davie Feinstein, Justin Maker, and Caden Joyner; Ian’s driver,
Jacob; and Francesca’s graduate school adviser, a friendly middle-aged woman named Anara Sloan. Also present was Lin Soong—Ian’s executive assistant—Ian, Francesca, Lucien, Elise, and Mrs. Hanson, Ian’s housekeeper, who kept trying to serve everyone despite Ian’s and Francesca’s frequent reminders that she was a guest. A built-in speaker system played a relaxed jazz mix. After an hour and a half of being there, Elise was feeling very content and mellow, even in the midst of Justin’s and Caden’s increasingly competitive flirtations.
“I hope they’re not driving you crazy,” Francesca apologized in a confidential tone when Justin went to open yet another bottle of champagne. Elise had occasionally noticed Lucien’s gaze on her from across the terrace where he spoke to Jacob, Ian, and Davie. She strongly suspected that he was waiting for her to slip up and say something she shouldn’t with all the alcohol that had been flowing given the celebratory mood of the party.
“Not at all. They’re really nice guys. Davie, Justin, Caden, and you are roommates, right?”
Francesca nodded. “Davie watches over us all,” she said, smiling.
“You’re lucky, to have such good friends,” Elise said feelingly. For a horrible moment, her throat tightened. Too late; Francesca noticed.
“Elise. Are you all right?” Francesca asked, sitting forward slightly, concern etching her features as she stared at Elise’s face.
Elise slid her social mask back into place, only missing a beat. “Yes, of course. I’ll bet you’ll miss them, after you move in with Ian. Your friends, I mean. When will the wedding be?”
“We haven’t decided yet. Probably next spring. I finish my classwork this winter at my program, and then I just have a final project due before I can get my master’s. I’ll likely be finished by the spring. We’re thinking of eloping to Hydra. Ian owns a place there.”
“Oh, that’ll be beautiful.”
“You’ve been to Hydra?” Francesca asked, eyes wide.
“Yes, my parents own a home in Poros. I haven’t been to the islands in ages, though.”