by Alix Nichols
Clever girl.
He has no right to be happy when Dad’s life is in shambles.
I won’t stop until I crush him, even if it means I go to jail—or to hell—for using black-hat tactics. It’s not as if they’d let me into heaven, anyway. I’ve already broken the arms and legs on Darcy’s voodoo doll.
There’s no turning back after you do that sort of thing.
The next step is to let the world know who he really is and hurt him in a variety of ways, big and small. And then, just before delivering the deathblow, let him know he’s paying for his sins.
That’s why my first move is to show him my face and make sure he remembers it and associates it with unpleasantness. That way, when the shit hits the fan, he’ll know which creditor is collecting her debt.
Pitbull breaks me out of my dream world. “Monsieur Darcy’s meeting is running late.”
“That’s OK, I can—”
“No,” she cuts me off. “There’s no point in waiting anymore. As soon as the meeting is over, he’ll head to the 9th arrondissement, where he’s expected at a private reception.”
I stand up.
She glances at my bare ring finger. “Mademoiselle, I can reschedule you for Friday, December twelfth. It’s two months away, but that’s the only—”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” I say.
I know exactly which reception Sebastian Darcy is going to tonight.
TWO
Three months later
“It might snow tonight.” Octave holds my coat while I wrap a scarf around my neck. “Will monsieur be taking his supper at home?”
As always, I wince at “monsieur,” but I do my best not to show it.
Grandpapa Bernard hired Octave before I was born. Roughly Papa’s age and a bear of a man, Octave has worked for my family for thirty-odd years, rising from valet to majordome. He’s seen Raphael, Noah, and me in all kinds of embarrassing situations young boys tend to get themselves into. I’ve asked him a thousand times to call me Sebastian.
All in vain.
Octave Rossi claims his respect for my old family name, my noble title, and my position in society is too strong for him to drop the “monsieur.”
So be it.
“Yes,” I say. “But I’ll come home late, so please tell Lynette to make something light. And don’t stay up for me.”
He nods. “Oui, monsieur.”
Chances are he’ll be up until I get home.
Since I moved back into the town house after Papa’s passing, Octave has been helpful in a way no one, not even Maman—especially not Maman—has ever been. All the little things, from paying electricity bills and hiring help to undertaking necessary repairs and planning reception menus, are taken care of with remarkable efficiency.
When he offered to assist me with my correspondence, I insisted on doubling his salary. My argument was that he’d be saving me the expense of a second PA for private matters.
He caved in only after I threatened to move out and sell the house.
I trust him more than anyone.
“Morning, Sebastian! To the office?” my chauffeur, Greg, asks.
He, at least, doesn’t have a problem calling me by my first name.
“We’ll make a detour,” I say as I climb into the Toyota Prius. “I need to see someone first.”
I give him the address, and he drives me to the Franprix on rue de la Chapelle in the 18th arrondissement. Greg parks the car, and I march into the supermarket, scanning the cashiers’ counters lined parallel to the shop windows.
There she is!
Diane Petit smiles at a customer as she hands her a bag of groceries. She’ll be finishing her shift in about ten minutes, according to the private eye I hired to locate and tail her. I’ll talk to her then.
Right now, I pretend to study the selection of batteries and gift cards on display not far from her desk. What I’m really doing is furtively surveying the firebrand who smashed a cream cake in my face in front of a few dozen people last October. At the time, the only thing I registered about her through my surprise and anger was foxy.
I’ve had ample opportunity to pour over her pretty face and eye-pleasing shape in the numerous close-ups the PI has supplied over the past few weeks. I’ve studied Diane in all kinds of situations and circumstances—at work with her customers, hanging out with her friends, and roaming the streets with her camera, immortalizing everyday scenes of Parisian life. She’s hot, all right, but there’s also something endearing about her, something unsophisticated and very un-Parisian.
In spite of her extravagant outburst at Jeanne’s bash, Diane Petit seems to be an unpretentious small-town bumpkin through and through.
I’ve learned a good deal about her since that memorable evening. I know she works part time at this supermarket, lives in a high-rise in the 14th, and hangs out with her foster sister Chloe, a coworker named Elorie, and a waitress named Manon.
She enjoys photographing random things, going to the movies, eating chocolate, and drinking cappuccino.
More importantly, I know why Diane did what she did that night at La Bohème.
And I plan to use it to my advantage.
Someone gives me a sharp prod in the back.
“Why are you here?” Diane asks as I spin around.
“To give you a chance to apologize.”
She smirks. “You’re wasting your time.”
“No apology, then?”
“You’re here to let me know you’re on to me, right?” She puffs out her chest. “Read my lips—I’m not afraid of you.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“How did you find me, anyway?”
“I hired a professional who tracked you down within days.”
She tilts her head to the side. “And you’ve waited three months before confronting me. Why?”
“I wanted to know what your deal was, so I gave my PI the time to compile a solid profile.” I hesitate before adding, “Besides, your foster sister was shot, and you were busy looking after her. I wanted to wait until Chloe had fully recovered.”
“You’ve met Chloe?” She sounds surprised.
“Of course.” I shrug. “Jeanne introduced us.”
She blows out her cheeks. “What do you want, Darcy?”
“Just to talk.”
“About what?”
“I have a proposition that might interest you.”
She looks me over. “Unless your proposition is to give me a magic wand that would turn you into a piglet, I’m not interested.”
“I obviously can’t do that, but what I can do is—”
“Hey, Elorie, are we still on?” Diane calls to a fellow cashier who passes by.
Elorie smiles. “Only if you and Manon let me choose the movie.”
“Fine with me, but I can’t vouch for Manon.”
While Diane and Elorie discuss the time and place of their outing, I resolve to draw Diane somewhere else before making my offer. Preferably, somewhere that’s on my turf rather than hers.
“Can we go someplace quieter?” I ask Diane after Elorie leaves.
She sighs. “OK, but don’t take it as a good sign.”
“Understood.”
I do take it as a step in the right direction, though.
She follows me outside and into the car.
“To Le Big Ben, please,” I say to Greg.
He nods, and thirty minutes later, Diane and I are seated in a private booth at my favorite Parisian gentlemen’s club, which I also happen to co-own with Raphael as of three weeks ago. We’ve kept the old manager, who’s doing an admirable job. I’ve continued coming here with Laurent or Raph, as a longtime patron who enjoys the subdued elegance of this place and its unparalleled selection of whiskeys. The staff may not even realize the club has changed hands. It’s easier this way—and it removes the need for socializing with them.
“So,” Diane says after the server brings my espresso and her cappuccino. “What’s
your proposition?”
“Marry me.”
She blinks and bursts out laughing as if I just said something outrageous. Which I guess it was without prior explanation.
Maybe I should start over.
“Here’s the deal,” I say. “You and I will date through April.” I make air quotes when I say “date.”
She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
“You’ll move in with me in May,” I continue. “About a month after that, we’ll get married.”
Diane makes a circular motion with her index at the side of her head and mouths, “Nutcase.”
“A month into our marriage, I’ll cheat on you,” I continue, undeterred, with a quote unquote on cheat. “And then you’ll leave me.”
She gives me a long stare. “Why?”
“It doesn’t concern you. What you need to know is that I’m prepared to pay fifty thousand euros for a maximum of six months in a pretend relationship.”
“Why?” she asks again.
“You don’t need to know that.”
“OK, let me ask you something I do need to know.” She arches an eyebrow. “Why me?”
I shrug.
“If you continue ignoring my legitimate questions,” she says, “I’m out of here before you finish your espresso.”
“You’re perfect for a plan I’d like to set in motion,” I say. “And as an incentive for you to play your role the best you can, I’ll quadruple your fee if my plan succeeds.”
“How will I know if it succeeds if you won’t even tell me what it is?”
“Trust me, you’ll know.” I smirk. “Everyone in my entourage will.”
Diane leans back with her arms crossed over her chest. “Can’t you find another candidate for your shady scheme? It couldn’t have escaped your notice that I humiliated you in public.”
“I assure you it didn’t,” I say. “But what’s really important and valuable here is that it didn’t escape other people’s notice, either. A picture of my cream-cake-covered mug even ended up in a tabloid or two.”
She gives me a smug smile.
“At the time, I told everyone I didn’t know you, but I can easily change my tune and confess we’d been dating.”
“This doesn’t make any sense.”
“Believe me, it does—a whole lot of sense—if you consider it in light of my scheme.”
“Which I can’t do,” she cuts in, “because you won’t tell me what your scheme is.”
True. “Anyway, I’ll tell everyone we’ve talked it over and made up.”
She says nothing.
“Mademoiselle Petit… Diane.” I lean in. “Your parents—and yourself—are not in the best financial shape right now. I’m offering an easy solution to your woes.”
“Ha!” she interjects with an angry gleam in her almond-shaped eyes. “Says the person who caused our woes!”
She’s right, of course, but not entirely. Before going in for the kill, I did offer to buy out her father’s fragrance company. The offer wasn’t generous by any measure, but it was reasonable given the circumstances. Charles Petit’s artisanal workshop wasn’t doing terribly well. In fact, it was of little interest to me, with the exception of the two or three of his signature fragrances that were worth the price I’d offered. Charles is a lousy businessman—but he’s a true artist. He created the fragrances he sold, and he also created for others. I would’ve offered him a job in one of my labs had I not been one hundred percent sure he’d decline it.
As it happened, he also declined my fifty thousand, calling me a scumbag and a few other choice epithets I won’t repeat in front of a lady. Fifty thousand euros isn’t a fortune, but seeing as he stood no chance against me, he should’ve taken the money.
It was better than nothing.
But Charles Petit proved to be more emotional than rational about his business. And he ended up with nothing. Worse than nothing, actually. I heard he took to drinking, got kicked out by his wife, and had a heart attack. Or was it a stroke?
Anyway, my point is, at least some of those misfortunes could’ve been avoided had he sold his company to me.
I open my mouth to say this to Diane, but then it occurs to me she must already know about my offer. She probably also shares Monsieur Petit’s opinion that it was indecently low.
“Can we skip the whole dating and marrying nonsense,” Diane says, “and go straight to the part where you grovel at my dad’s feet, thrust a check for two hundred thousand into his hand, and beg him to take it in the hopes he might forgive you one day?”
I sigh and shake my head.
She stands. “The answer is no.”
“Why don’t you think it over? I’ll be in touch next week.” I set a twenty on the table. “May I offer you a ride?”
“Thank you, Monsieur Darcy, you’re very kind.” She bares her teeth in a smile that doesn’t even try to pass for a real one. “But I prefer the métro.”
End of Chapter
Get Find You in Paris now!
AMANDA’S GUIDE TO LOVE
(La Bohème)
Parisian career woman Amanda Roussel lives in denial of her desperate loneliness.
Gypsy gambler Kes Moreno knows he’s in trouble when he falls for Amanda after a one-night stand.
Can he convince the snarky belle they’re right for each other?
CHAPTER ONE: ROCK BOTTOM
A Woman’s Guide to Perfection, Guideline # 1
The Perfect Woman doesn’t do one-night stands.
Rationale: One-night stands (ONS) are always disappointing, often hazardous, and invariably awkward.
A word of caution: If you are a frequent ONSer, shut this book right now and give it to someone who may benefit from it. You will never be a Perfect Woman. Ever.
Permissible exception: A prolonged dry spell between boyfriends or a highly stressful life event.
Damage control: (a) make sure the sex is safe, (b) make sure your person is safe, (c) leave or kick him or her out before breakfast, (d) wash your body squeaky clean, (e) scrub the memory of the episode from your brain.
Pitfalls to avoid: (a) giving him or her your phone number, (b) telling your best friend about it, (c) thinking that a one-night stand could ever lead to a relationship.
Amanda stared at the typed letter. Neatly strung words zoomed in and out of focus as their meaning sank in. Mademoiselle Roussel . . . I regret to inform you . . . with immediate effect.
She swallowed hard and slipped the letter into her purse.
Most of her colleagues would cheer at the news. They’d rush into each other’s offices and say, “Did you hear? Viper Tongue got the sack! Serves her right.” Some of them might send around an e-mail invite for a celebratory drink. Others would just shrug and say good riddance.
Would anyone feel sorry for her? She furrowed her brow. Karine would. And maybe Paul from accounting. Perhaps even Sylvie from marketing, unless she was on meds again and not feeling anything at all.
But none of it really mattered.
What did matter was that the end of the world was upon her. Her personal, localized Armageddon had arrived in an innocent-looking envelope with the Energie NordSud logo on it.
Amanda grabbed her handbag and marched out the door. Keeping her back as straight as she could, she strode through the hallway, down the marble staircase, and out the main entrance.
Eyes on the gate, one foot in front of the other.
She nodded to the security guard and passed through the turnstile.
“Mademoiselle Roussel?” the guard asked, looking at his computer screen and then at her.
“Yes?”
“I must collect your access card.”
“I’ll come back next week to gather my things,” she said as flatly as she could, handing him her card.
He nodded. “We’ll let you in. Just make sure your visit is supervised by Monsieur Barre.”
“Of course.”
Amanda turned on her heel and marched away, hoping the guar
d hadn’t seen her grimace. Truth was she’d rather donate her fine glass paperweight and Bodum French press to the company than ask Julien Barre—the bastard who’d fired her—to allow her to clean out her desk.
And have him breathe down her neck while she was doing it.
In the métro car, Amanda’s eyebrows rose at the number of vacant seats before she remembered it was only three in the afternoon—the earliest she’d left the office in four years. As the train stations passed before her eyes, a plan formed in her mind. She’d get home and locate her father’s Swiss Army knife. Then she’d down a few shots of vodka, return to the office, kill Julien, and kill herself.
It sounded like an excellent plan.
Twenty minutes later, she pushed open the door to her apartment and went straight to the minibar, praying she hadn’t imagined the bottle of vodka hiding behind her expensive wines.
Bingo!
There it was—cold to the touch and as real as the sharp pain in her heart.
She filled a glass with the transparent liquid and drained it. The beverage burned her tongue. Amanda yelled out a battle cry, jumped up and down a few times while punching the air, and poured herself another glass. She set it on the coffee table and retrieved a tub of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. With her glass in one hand and the ice cream in the other, she kicked off her shoes and settled into her creamy leather sofa—the one she’d bought on credit, like almost everything else in her stylish little apartment.
By the time she finished her second glass, Amanda’s diabolical plan had begun to lose its appeal. Julien Barre deserved to die, for sure, but murder was a messy business.
And suicide—even more so.
She pictured herself on the floor, blood gushing from her punctured stomach and trickling from her mouth.
Ugh.
Besides, what if she failed to finish Julien off? Or herself? After all, the biggest creature she’d ever assassinated had been a cockroach. The act had been so disgusting it gave her nightmares for weeks.