by Alix Nichols
“The gossip magazine?”
“They call themselves a women’s magazine, but yes, gossip is their main stock in trade.” I bite into my orange slice. “They bought some of my pics last month, and now they’re hiring me on as a freelance photojournalist.”
Elorie frowns. “You’re going to be a paparazzo.”
I shake my head, unable to speak because of the wine in my mouth.
“They publish articles, too, not just celebrity gossip,” Manon says.
I swallow the wine. “The deal is if I produce fun pictures with original captions, they’ll let me put them together into a story.”
“Congratulations, Diane!” Manon high-fives me and jogs away to take care of other customers.
“Yeah, congrats,” Elorie says with a lot less enthusiasm. “Does this mean you’ll resign from the supermarket?”
“I can’t. Freelancing pays for movie tickets and drinks, but there’s also the little matter of rent.”
Elorie nods, perking up.
We hang out at La Bohème for another hour and then head home. Elorie catches an RER train to her parents’ suburban cottage, and I take the métro to Chloe’s apartment in the 14th. In fact, I should stop thinking of it as Chloe’s. Now that she’s moved in with Hugo and I’ve taken over the lease, the place is officially mine.
The next morning, I wake up with a headache that’s too strong for the two glasses of mulled wine I had last night. Then I remember I hardly slept, weighing the pros and cons with regards to Darcy’s offer just as I’d done the night before and the night before that.
I pop an aspirin and head to the shower.
Darcy’s proposition has been on my mind nonstop for three days now. No matter how I turn it, taking him up on his offer is a no-brainer. Basically, there are only two ways this can go. Option A, I play his game and pocket the funds for Dad. Option B, I pretend to play his game, but in reality, I seize the opportunity to poke around his house and dig up some dirt on him. Once I have the info and the evidence, I’ll get it published in Voilà Paris or leak it to a more serious periodical, depending on the nature of the scoop. This will, hopefully, do some serious damage to Darcy’s finances or, at least, tarnish his reputation.
Maybe both. And thus avenge Dad.
My brain prefers Option A, while my gut craves Option B. But here’s the best part—I win, no matter how the dice roll, and Dad gets either money or satisfaction. Or both, if I can find dirt and be patient enough to hold onto it until after I am paid. That would make me a villain, and a nasty piece of work, but who says being ruthless is men’s prerogative?
Sebastian Darcy is a vulture. He deserves a taste of his own cruelty.
It’s in that crucial instant, right after I’ve shampooed my hair and just before I rinse it, that I decide I’ll marry him.
We meet in his office because Darcy’s schedule for today has only one thirty-minute slot that could be freed.
“I’m glad you were able to see that my offer represents a unique opportunity for you and your family,” he says, motioning me to the informal area of his ginormous office with comfy leather armchairs and a designer coffee table.
His arrogance is unbearable, but I hold my tongue. If I want my plan to succeed, I need him to trust me.
Pitbull enters with a tray loaded with drinks, pretty little sandwiches, and mouthwatering pastries. She gives me a perplexed look, which tells me she remembers me from my cancelled appointment back in October and wonders if she’s pegged me right.
“Could you maybe clue me in on the whys of your offer?” Rather than sitting down, I go to the floor-to-ceiling window and take in the breathtaking view. “It would help to know what I’m getting myself into.”
“I explained last time,” he says. “And I can assure you it’s not illegal or dangerous.”
I turn around and give him a stare. “You didn’t explain anything. You just said ‘I need you to be my pretend girlfriend for a couple of months and then my pretend wife for another month or so.’ ”
“And that’s as much as you need to know,” he says, his voice dry. “Take it or leave it.”
Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll find out on my own.
“Will you please sit down?” He points to the sofa. “I’d like you to look at the contract.”
Ah, so there’s a written contract. Well, what did I expect?
I amble over to one of the armchairs, plonk myself down, and pick up an éclair. “I’m not going to sign your contract right away.”
“I don’t expect you to.” He sits down opposite me. “You can study it tonight and call me tomorrow morning, but you can’t discuss it with anyone. That’s why you’ll need to sign this before you can see the contract.”
He nudges a sheet of paper across the coffee table. The title at the top of the page says, “Nondisclosure Agreement.”
How clever of him.
I read and sign the agreement while Darcy wolfs down a few sandwiches, explaining he hasn’t had time to eat yet.
Who knew billionaires were such busy people?
“We’ll use your dramatic appearance at Jeanne and Mat’s party to our best advantage,” he says, wiping his fingers with a napkin.
“How?”
“I’ll tell everyone we’d been seeing each other discreetly for a few months until you were led to believe I’d cheated on you. But now the misunderstanding is cleared up and we’re back together, madly in love.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why go out of your way to give a reason for what I did when you can just fall madly in love with a fresh face who won’t require any explaining.”
“Because what you did suggests you’re the kind of woman who doesn’t put up with cheating.”
“And that’s good becaaaause…?”
“I can’t tell you, but trust me, it’s good. In fact, it’s perfect for my plan.”
I sigh. “Whatever you say.”
“Let’s look at the contract now, shall we?” He glances at his watch. “My meeting starts in fifteen minutes.”
I open the manila folder and stare at the document inside it.
“Most of it is legalese that we can go over next time once we agree on the terms,” Darcy says.
I nod.
“You can go straight to this part.” He turns several pages and points at a paragraph with bullet points. “Please read this and let me know if you have questions. Or, if you prefer, I can just walk you through it.”
I scoff at him. “Coming from a family that’s been sending its children to private schools for generations, you may not be aware that France has had free universal education since the 1880s.”
He blinks, clearly taken aback. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No, it’s me who’s sorry to shatter your aristocratic illusions,” I say. “But cashiers can read.”
“I was just trying to be helpful,” he says.
I know he is. And it aggravates me. I’d be much more comfortable with him if he’d stop hiding his ugly face behind this mask of polite concern.
Darcy looks at his watch again and taps his index finger on the highlighted passage. “Read this at home, then reread it, and write down all your questions. I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
Aha, now he’s showing his bossy side.
I’m so intimidated.
Not.
“Oui, monsieur.” I bow my head with exaggerated obedience, noting in passing that Darcy has handsome hands—lean wrists, large palms, and long fingers.
At least the right one, which is currently pinning the contract to the table.
Let’s hope his left hand is teeny-weeny. Or super fat. Or excessively hairy.
He doesn’t deserve two handsome hands.
“The gist of this paragraph,” Darcy says, “is that you recognize you’re entering a financially compensated transaction with me, which is couched as a relationship, but is not a relationship, be it physical or emotional.”
A relationship with an a-hole.
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God forbid.
“Consider it recognized,” I say.
“It also says here somewhere…” He slides his finger along the lines and halts on one of the bullet points. “Here—it says you commit to moving in with me at about the two-month mark on our timeline.”
“Do I have to?”
“This has to be credible for it to work.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his other hand, which, unfortunately, is as nicely shaped as the first. “A month after that, I’ll propose, and another month after that, we’ll marry.”
“It’ll look rushed. Besides, how are you going to stage a town hall ceremony and—”
“I won’t have to. We’ll fly to the Bahamas for a week and get married there.” He uses air quotes.
“Wow, you’ve thought this through.”
“I have, indeed.” He clears his throat. “As you can see, the bullet point just below states that sex is not a requirement but you will need to touch and kiss me in public.”
“Good.”
He raises his eyebrows in surprise.
Crap. That came out all wrong.
“What I meant was it’s good that sex isn’t required. It would’ve been a deal-breaker.”
He nods. “That’s what I thought.”
“Do I have to kiss you?”
“Yes. It doesn’t have to be torrid. But if we never kiss, our relationship won’t look convincing.”
“OK, if we must.” I sigh. “So we date, move in together, and smooch on camera. Then what?”
“Then we wait for… a certain person to make his move.”
“How very enigmatic.” I roll my eyes. “You do realize I’m going to hate every moment of our time together, right?”
“You won’t be the only one,” he says. “In any event, if nothing happens within six months, we’ll break up and I’ll pay you for your time. But if my plan works, you’ll walk away a rich woman.”
Or if my plan works, you’ll be left a ruined man.
Get Find You in Paris now!
About the Author
Alix Nichols is an unapologetic caffeine addict and a longtime fan of Mr. Darcy, especially in his Colin Firth incarnation. She is a Kindle Scout and Dante Rossetti Award winning author of sexy romantic comedies.
At the age of six, she released her first rom com. It featured highly creative spelling on a half dozen pages stitched together and bound in velvet paper.
Decades later, she still loves the romance genre. Her spelling has improved (somewhat), and her books have made various bestseller lists, climbing as high as #1. She lives in France with her family and their almost-human dog.
Connect with her online:
Website: http://www.alixnichols.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/AuthorAlixNichols
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/AuthorANichols
Goodreads: goodreads.com/alixnichols
Twitter: twitter.com/aalix_nichols
Books by Alix Nichols
The Darcy Brothers
The Devil’s Own Chloe (prequel)
Find You in Paris
Raphael’s Fling
The Perfect Catch
La Bohème
Winter’s Gift
What If It’s Love?
Falling for Emma
Under My Skin
Amanda’s Guide to Love
Copyright
Copyright © 2017 Alix Nichols
SAYN PRESS
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.