by Alix Nichols
What I still can’t believe is their reaction.
Màma called me yesterday night, moments after Raphael had left my hotel room to fly to Paris and confront Gaspard. He’d offered to deliver my note while he was at it, but when I called Delphine, she refused to delegate her task. “He’ll be all Raphael’s after I’m done with him,” she promised.
Lily and I were supposed to go back to Paris this morning, but that’s not what happened.
On the phone, Màma told me Pàpa was on his way to bring the two of us home. They’d called all the hotels in and around Estheim—which hadn’t taken long seeing as there are only three of them—and found out where I was staying. My parents wanted to finish the conversation. Besides, they couldn’t bear the idea of me not staying at their house.
As we drove there, my hands shook and my chest felt as if I’d gotten trapped between two jostling elephants. I was on tenterhooks about our impending talk and Raphael’s confrontation with Gaspard. Mine went a lot better than his, judging by the brief account he just gave me.
After Delphine handed the creep my letter, which made him green in the face, Raphael took over and tried to reason with him. When that didn’t work, he threatened him and ended up hitting him right there in the diner. A fistfight ensued. The owner called the cops, and the two were taken to the police station.
That’s what I managed to pull out of him over the phone, and I’m hoping to hear more tomorrow night when Lily and I get back to Paris.
As for my parents, we ended up talking all night, and both of them responded to my revelations with remarkable equanimity. That and an immediate grandparental devotion to Lily. It started with “she’s so sweet” the moment we walked in the door, then quickly escalated to “little angel,” and reached “the most adorable, smartest, and prettiest little girl in the world” three hours later.
Pàpa leans in. “Does Eva know about Lily?”
I nod. “She’s helped me a lot.”
“Does she know about the video?”
I nod again.
“Good,” he says. “She’s level-headed, our Evie. I’m glad you trusted at least one family member enough to share your secrets.”
“Pàpa, please—” I begin.
“We may have been too strict and too uptight as parents, but I thought…” He shakes his head, his expression pained. “Don’t you know how much we love you? How could you doubt we’d take your news with anything but forgiveness?”
I turn to Màma for support, hoping she’ll ask him to drop the subject. Except she doesn’t this time. She picks up Lily and joins Pàpa and me around the table.
“Your dad isn’t blaming you, herzele,” she says.
“Of course not,” Pàpa says. “I’m blaming myself.”
Màma touches my hand. “We just want to understand why you chose not to lean on us when you were in trouble. We need to know what we did wrong as parents.” She pauses before adding. “And I need to know where I failed as a shepherd.”
“You did nothing wrong,” I say. “Nothing at all. It’s just…”
Màma’s eyes bore into mine. “What?”
“There was this woman, Suzelle… She came here asking for your help years ago.”
“How do you know that?” Pàpa asks.
“I overheard your conversations.” I stare at my hands. “You said you’d think about it, and when she returned, you refused to help her. You reported her to the police instead.”
My parents say nothing.
“So I figured your kindness was reserved for those who deserved it, and your forgiveness didn’t stretch to… impure women.”
I look up.
Both of them are shaking their heads, looking at me with a mixture of regret and sympathy.
“We were going to help Suzelle in every way we could,” Màma says. “We’d prepared money, made arrangements for her lodgings, and secured a small job until she’d found her bearings.”
I knit my brows, perplexed.
“Just to be thorough, I asked an old buddy from the vice squad about her,” Pàpa says.
Màma smiles. “Cop habits die hard.”
Pàpa’s mouth compresses into a hard line. “Some of her story checked out. Suzelle wanted to escape from her pimp’s clutches, all right, and she did want to quit her profession. Only it wasn’t to get a second chance.”
“Then why?” I ask.
“She wanted to start her own procuress business.” Pàpa smirks. “When my buddy did a bit of digging, we learned that Suzelle had already recruited two teenage girls from the housing project on the other side of the river.”
I put my hand over my mouth, dazed.
Pàpa nods and taps his hand on the table as if to say, so that’s that.
“I’m going to make your favorite truffle ravioli. Would you like me to cook something apart for Lily?”
“We’re good,” I say. “I brought everything she needs.”
“Did I tell you she’s the most wonderful thing in the world?” Màma asks as Lily digs her little fingers into her grandmother’s cheek.
Thank God I cut her nails last night.
“At least a dozen times,” I say.
Pàpa’s gives me a conflicted look as if he’s on the fence about something.
“What is it?” I ask.
“There’s no pressure, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but will you bring your Raphael here sometime?”
“Only if you’d like to,” Màma adds quickly. “And if he’s up for it.”
“I’d love to,” I say. “And so would he.”
The expression of relief on their faces is priceless.
Pàpa goes to the kitchen, refusing my offer to help him with the cooking, as always.
“He thinks you and I jinx his dishes just by touching the ingredients,” Màma says before taking Lily to the garden to show her Pàpa’s beautiful apples.
I wrap one of Màma’s shawls around my shoulders, sit on the porch, and watch them.
For the first time in years I can breathe even if my future is far from being unicorns and rainbows. Gaspard will likely post the video. Genevieve will continue badmouthing me to Raphael and to everyone in their circle. Raphael may discover he isn’t made for long-term relationships, after all.
Which is why I still haven’t told him he’s Lily’s dad. I hate the idea he might think Genevieve had a point and I’m using our baby to tie him to me.
There’s also the little matter of my upcoming defense, which I might fail, seeing how little I worked lately.
I’m aware of all that, yet I’m not worried. And that’s because whatever force hurtles me over the edge, and however high the cliff, I know I won’t splinter and burst to pieces.
There’s enough love around me—and in my heart—to cushion my fall.
Epilogue
It’s three days before Christmas, and Lily has a cold.
She’s all stuffed up, but the bright side of her congested nose—at least from my perspective—is that when she closes her eyes after my lullaby, I know for sure she’s asleep.
Because she snores.
And that’s my cue to tiptoe out of her room.
It’s been three months since Raphael knocked on my door and everything accelerated.
In October, Gaspard posted the video on the Internet and emailed it to Màma’s official address despite Raphael’s vigorous warnings.
She deleted the mail without opening.
As for the World Wide Web, I can only hope my sex tape will drown in the noise until we’ve forced Gaspard to withdraw it. Raphael has sued him on my behalf. The case is still pending, but it’s clear we’ll win. First, because what Gaspard did was against the law. Second, because Raphael hired two hotshot attorneys while Gaspard was unable to afford any.
For once, there’s fairness in the unfairness of life.
In November, I defended my thesis and earned the right to be called “doctor of philosophy.”
Hello, everyone, I’m Mia St
oll, PhD.
In the days that followed, I landed the maître de conférences job.
Two weeks ago, Lily and I moved in with Raphael. Before we did that, he’d had to make a few… er, a gazillion adjustments to his lifestyle, as well as to his open-concept loft.
He says it was no trouble at all.
I have my doubts, but I like to think he says that because having us here makes him forget the inconveniences.
He and Genevieve had a falling out shortly after the weekend on Ninossos. He won’t give me the details, but I suspect she trashed me again and he decided he’d had enough. Three days after Lily and I moved to Raphael’s place, Genevieve’s daddy bought her an apartment in Hollywood, where she’ll try her luck as a producer for one of the studios.
I would’ve given her a “free tip” to specialize in evil witch biopics if we were on speaking terms.
Quietly, I enter the living room and head to the couch where Raphael sits, reading.
I’m about to confess that he’s Lily’s dad.
Actually, “confirm” would be a better word because I’m sure he knows. We’ve never talked about it, but some time ago I stopped lying about her age, and he took to calling her “my little flammkuche.”
He must know.
“Of course I do,” he says after I fess up. “But I wanted to hear it from you, once you were ready.”
“Thank you for your patience.”
“You’re welcome,” he says. “Actually, I didn’t mind your silence so much. It allowed me to get used to the idea and readjust my priorities.”
I smile. “How long have you known?”
“From the moment I laid eyes on her.”
I frown in disbelief.
“Let me show you something,” he says, heading to his desk.
I follow him. Raphael pulls a photo out of the top drawer. It’s Lily, smiling her adorable double-dimpled smile. Except something is off…
“Her dress,” I say, pointing at the picture. “Lily doesn’t have a dress like that.”
He smiles. “This isn’t Lily. This is my mom when she was about the same age.”
A few moments later, I realize my mouth is gaping. I shut it.
Still smiling, he sets the picture on his desk and gathers me to him.
I wrap my arms around his waist and breathe him in.
He ruffles my hair. “You know, I’ve gotten so used to your pixie cut I actually prefer you with less hair on your head now.”
“Good,” I say.
His other hand cups me between my legs. “And with a full bush here.”
I snort against his chest.
Less than a minute later, we’re half-naked, my ass on the edge of his desk and him buried to the hilt inside me.
“Don’t hold back,” I say, meeting his measured thrusts. “I want it hard and fast tonight.”
“Yes, doctor.”
A few minutes later, we clutch each other, spent.
He kisses my forehead. “Marry me?”
I gasp.
Raphael’s heartbeat quickens against my chest. That he’s nervous like this about my answer is pure delight.
“Baby, if you need time to think, I totally—”
“No,” I say.
He tenses, making me realize how my reply sounded.
“No,” I say again, “I don’t need time to think. And yes, I’ll marry you. If you’re certain it’s what you want.”
“I’ve never been more certain about anything in my whole life.”
We both grin like idiots.
“Actually,” he says as his hand trails down my back to palm my ass. “I wasn’t planning on proposing tonight… like this. I was going to do it in a more classical way and with an appropriately sized rock tomorrow at Le Jules Verne.”
“This was perfect,” I say, planting a kiss on his mouth.
His grin widens.
“Except one major flaw,” I add.
“Which is?”
“What will we tell Lily the day she asks how daddy proposed?”
He frowns. “Hmm.”
“We’ll be forced to lie to her.”
He raises his index finger. “I have a solution!”
“Listening.”
“We’ll do another proposal tomorrow at the restaurant. I’ll get her to give you the ring.”
“She might decide to put it in her mouth instead,” I say.
“We’ll keep it inside the case, then. It won’t fit in her mouth.”
“OK.”
His face crinkles up in a smile. “That way, she’ll be part of the proposal, too. And the day she asks about it, we’ll have a cool, true story for her.”
I kiss his chin. “It’s a really sweet plan.”
“It’s because I’m a really sweet man,” he says smugly.
I begin to roll my eyes but stop halfway. “You know what, Raphael d’Arcy? You actually are.”
<<<<>>>>
Excerpts
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BOOK CHAPTERS
Find You in Paris
(The Darcy Brothers)
If there's one man that store clerk and amateur photographer Diane Petit really, really, actively hates, it's fragrance mogul Sebastian Darcy who stole her father's company--and wrecked the man's health in the process.
But the arrogant SOB had better brace himself because Diane has vowed revenge.
And revenge she will have.
ONE
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young man in possession of a vast fortune must be an entitled SOB born into money. Either that or a rags-to-riches a-hole who bulldozed his way to said fortune, leaving maimed bodies in his wake.
The ferocious-looking PA returns to her desk. “Monsieur Darcy is still in a meeting.”
“That’s OK.” I smile benignly. “I can wait.”
I place my hands demurely on my knees and stare at the portrait adorning—or should I say disfiguring—the wall across the hallway from where I’m seated.
Pictured is Count Sebastian d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, the oldest son of the late Count Thibaud d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice and the inheritor of an estate estimated at around one billion euros. Said estate isn’t your run-of-the-mill stock holdings or start-up fortune. Oh no. It’s made up of possessions that were handed down—uninterrupted and snowballing—all the way from the Middle Ages.
Even Robespierre and his fellow revolutionaries didn’t get their greedy little hands on the d’Arcy fortune.
What are the odds?
Upon his father’s premature demise ten years ago, young Sebastian moved back into the town house in the heart of Le Marais and took the reins of the family’s main business. A twenty-three-year-old greenhorn at the time, you’d expect him to make tons of bad decisions and sink the company or, at least, diminish its value.
But no such luck.
Instead, Sebastian Darcy took Parfums d’Arcy from number three to the number one European flavor and fragrance producer—a feat that neither his illustrious grandfather nor his star-crossed father had managed to accomplish.
According to my research, also about ten years ago, the new count chose to go by “Darcy,” abandoning the apostrophe and the rest of his status-laden name. I’m sure he only did it to fool those beneath him—which includes most everyone in a country that guillotined its royals—into believing that he sees himself as their equal.
The hell he does.
Sebastian Darcy is a stinking-rich aristocrat with instincts of an unscrupulous business shark. This means he qualifies in both the SOB and the a-hole categories.
No, scratch that. He slays both categories.
And I hate him more than words can say.
The straitlaced man on the wall seems to smirk. I shudder, my nerves taut to the point of snapping. Will they kick me out if I spit at the photo? Of course they will. I steal a glance at the PA stationed between me an
d Darcy’s office. She looks like a cross between a human and a pit bull. I’m sure she’d love to stick something other than paper between the jaws of her sturdy hole punch.
My hand, for example.
But I didn’t come here to fight with Darcy’s PA. I’ll keep my saliva in my mouth, my eyes cast down, my butt perched on the edge of the designer chair, and my knees drawn together and folded to the side.
Like the meek little mouse I’m trying to pass for.
After waiting three weeks, I’m careful not to arouse any suspicion in Pitbull’s mind so she won’t cancel my appointment with Darcy.
Eyes on the prize, Diane! Don’t forget you’re here to declare war by spitting in Count Sebastian Darcy’s face, rather than at his photographic representation.
I look at the photo again, arranged in perfect symmetry between the portraits of his grandfather, Bernard, who founded the company, and his father, Thibaud, who almost put the lid on it. I know this because I’ve done my homework.
During my week-long research, I dug up every piece of information the Internet had to offer about Sebastian Darcy and his family. I was hoping to find dirt, and I did. The only problem was it was already out in the open—common knowledge, yesterday’s news.
And completely useless as leverage.
Pitbull looks up from her smartphone. “Monsieur Darcy is delayed. Do you mind waiting a little longer?”
“No problem.” I smile politely. “I’m free this afternoon.”
She arches an eyebrow as if having a free afternoon is something reprehensible.
How I wish I could stick out my tongue! But instead I widen my already unnaturally wide smile.
She frowns, clearly not buying it.
I turn away and stare at Darcy’s likeness again. In addition to the now-stale scandal, my research has revealed that Darcy is close to his middle brother, Raphael, and also to a longtime friend—Laurent something or other. Our vulture-man even managed to have a serious girlfriend for most of last year. A food-chain heiress, she looked smashing at the various soirées, galas, and fundraisers where she was photographed on his arm. Darcy was rumored to be so into his rich beauty he was about to propose. But then she suddenly dumped him about six months ago.