by Stacy Gail
And he sure as hell hadn’t come to Chicago to seduce anyone, much less Scout Upton. From the moment Marcel Dubois mentioned her name in connection with Frank Bournival, all he’d wanted to do was use his ability of reading a person’s eyes to see what he was dealing with. That was all. In his mind, the plan had been so simple—look into her eyes to see if she was a hardcore mercenary who had no moral hang-ups about fucking a dying old man just so she could gain monetarily from it. Then, if necessary, appeal to that mercenary part of her by paying whatever the fuck she wanted so he could get his hands on whatever papers Frank Bournival had left behind, if any.
Before he’d hit Chicago, it had seemed so simple.
Then he’d seen her in that tight purple skirt that made her ass look like it had antigravity properties, and he’d gone right the fuck downhill.
To an extent, he’d achieved his goal of getting a read on Scout, because he’d learned about her life. If he looked objectively at the deprived, awful existence of her childhood, he could easily understand how she’d want to grab for all the material stability she could. God knew he couldn’t blame her for it. He’d come from much the same background and had whored himself countless times to get where he was. It had been a matter of survival, and hell, he’d even enjoyed aspects of it. The possibility of Scout doing the same thing to land in the penthouse wouldn’t have made him think twice if it weren’t for Marcel Dubois insisting she held the key to all the answers he was looking for.
Answers she might not want to give to him if she knew he had a connection to her benefactor, the deceased Frank Bournival.
Without conscious thought, he found himself at the balcony’s sliding door, Nikon in hand, the telephoto lens attached. Lifting it, he scanned the lofty roofline of the high-rise further up the lakeshore with practiced ease. As always, he found the darkened windows of Scout’s penthouse after only a few seconds, and knew it wouldn’t be long before the lights flared on. If she’d followed him to his place, they would no doubt already be working their way toward the bedroom. Or maybe not even that, since she’d been ready to wrap those long legs around him right there in a parking lot.
No, he decided, adjusting the focus on her darkened windows. They wouldn’t have made it to the bedroom if she were there with him now. They’d be on the floor at this very moment. Clothes would be strewn in a trail behind them as he buried himself into her wet heat, losing himself in the sensation of her tight depths squeezing him until he shattered…
The heaviness in his balls reached painful levels, and he had to bend over slightly to relieve the pressure. But he didn’t stop looking for a glimpse of her from the lens.
Idiot.
He shouldn’t have kissed her. The situation was complicated enough. Throwing in a hot and heavy kiss on top of everything else was like throwing a match into an open vat of gasoline. It was counterproductive—not to mention stupid as fuck—to seduce a woman while being in her life under false pretenses. That was no way to win her trust, and it sure as hell was no way to get what he wanted.
And that was another problem right there. The focus of what he wanted had now shifted. Instead of concentrating on what brought him to Chicago in the first place, what he wanted more than anything at that moment was another kiss from Scout.
No.
That was a lie.
What he really wanted was to find out if fucking her was as mind-blowing as kissing her. And instead of wanting to tell her his story from start to finish, like he’d planned to do earlier that evening, he was now fine with her never knowing that a lie had brought him into her life.
For a moment he closed her eyes. His grandmother was right. He really was a monster.
“Bon soir, Ivar.”
“Maceio.” Ivar didn’t jump, or drop the camera from his face. His assistant had seen him watching Scout countless times these past several weeks, so getting caught now was no big deal. “I thought I made it clear that you didn’t have to hang out here tonight.”
“I was up, so I thought I’d come over and keep you company.”
Maceio’s French carried the Moroccan accent of his homeland, giving it an exotic flair to Ivar’s ears. In all honesty, he hadn’t really wanted his assistant along for the ride of this highly personal mission he was on. Maceio, however, had insisted he needed all the support he could get. While Ivar was grateful for the show of unity, at the moment all he wanted was to be alone and relive a kiss that shouldn’t have happened.
“She’s not home yet.” He did the mental math and narrowed his eyes at the dark windows, trying to will the lights to come on. “She should be home by now. Maybe I should call her. You know, to see if everything’s okay.”
He heard Maceio move closer. “I’ve been thinking about this. Instead of focusing on Frank Bournival—a man who’s dead, for God’s sake—wouldn’t it make more sense to simply approach your mother for answers?”
“I can’t, Maceio. How many times must I tell you this?”
“But, so much time has passed—”
“The last time I tried to see Eliane Fournier, that act alone was enough to make her try to kill herself—and she nearly succeeded.” He forced himself to say the words, the shameful truth that sickened him all the way to his soul. “In her eyes, I’m an abomination. That’s never going to change, no matter how much time passes.”
“You didn’t ask to be born.”
“So what? That doesn’t change the fact that I was born, and born a monster. But I refuse to act like one and once again try to force my existence on that broken woman. Thankfully I don’t have to, now that there’s another way to get to the truth.”
“Through Scout Upton.”
“Yes. Through Scout Upton.” Light suddenly bloomed in the penthouse, and he saw Scout sashay into view in that hot, skintight dress that made him hard all over again. “Ah, yes. There she is. About damn time. I was beginning to worry.”
“Were you?” Maceio came to stand directly behind him, and as he watched Scout reach for the dress’s zipper at her back, he was damn glad he was the only one with a telephoto lens. “You’re not beginning to care for this woman, are you?”
He didn’t care for the hint of accusation in the other man’s tone. “I never had a mother while growing up. Maceio. I sure as hell don’t need one now.”
“From what Bournival’s assistant told you, that Upton woman is nothing but a cutthroat gold-digger,” his assistant said, ignoring him. “If she even thinks you might be after something of Bournival’s, she’ll do one of two things—either cover up everything she did to get her hands on Bournival’s property, ensuring that you’ll never get anything from her. Or she’ll hold whatever items of Bournival’s she might have for ransom, like the mercenary she is. She could bleed you dry if she gets even a hint of how desperate you are for answers.”
“I don’t think she’s like what Marcel Dubois said she was.” He adjusted the focus, frustrated when things went fuzzy just as she shimmied her shoulders. Then the view crystallized as the wisp of white with cherries all over it fell to the floor.
Oh… baby.
“Ivar, Dubois approached you of his own free will, then refused to take money from you. To me, that makes his behavior above reproach. Why would Bournival’s assistant lie about the nasty piece of work that this Scout Upton is underneath her public façade?”
“Uh-huh. Public façade.” He was definitely underneath whatever façade she showed now, he thought as his flesh tightened so sweetly he had to bite his lip to keep from groaning. He’d photographed countless women in bathing suits, lingerie and in the nude, but none of them had the curves Scout had. Her nipped-in waist was emphasized by an old-fashioned lacy garter belt that clipped to honest-to-God stockings.
Who the hell wore stockings? His Scout, that’s who.
She wore them because she knew how to be a woman. She fucking reveled in it.
God, that was sexy.
“If you’re worrying about that woman’s wellbeing, then that
means you’re starting to care about her. Considering what Dubois said she was, you might want to think about backing off.”
Her breasts were outstanding. Really, there was no other word that could be used. He’d thought that her best feature was her ass, but now he had to second-guess himself. Those voluptuous globes all but overflowed the push-up bra she wore, a sturdy creation that elevated all that lusciousness, so that the tops of her breasts pillowed out to create the world’s best cleavage.
If he didn’t get a chance to bury his face in all that feminine lushness, he’d lose his mind. He was sure of it.
As she bent to swipe the dress off the floor, he caught a glimpse of what he thought might be a dandelion decorating her ribs, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d have to get a much closer look to figure out what it was, but he wouldn’t be surprised. Dandelions were her first and favorite flower, and while the rest of the world loathed the common little weeds, she treasured them with her whole heart.
There was something deeply beautiful about that.
“All right, if you’re not going to pay attention to me on that subject, let’s try another. You have messages.”
At last, some of Maceio’s words trickled in. Probably because Scout was walking into the depths of the penthouse and out of view. With a mournful sigh, he lowered the camera to glance at his assistant. Maceio was arguably more beautiful to look at than any male model currently on the scene, but being put on display had never been his thing. He had a brain and a hunger to use it, and there was no doubt in Ivar’s mind that he would one day start up the greatest modeling agency the world would ever see. But for now, Maceio was content to learn every possible facet of the fashion world while getting paid a tidy sum for both his exclusivity and discretion. “What about messages?”
“You should know that there was one for me and several for you, including three from Estelle, and they seem to be the most urgent. Understandably she was reluctant to bother you when I told her that you had gone to see Scout Upton, and hadn’t returned.”
In the process of loosening his tie, Ivar stilled. “And your message?”
The contempt that curled Maceio’s mouth was impossible to miss. “Your grandmother is, as ever, a cold and bigoted snob. Somehow I thought her stroke would’ve changed her, but she’s still the same. Just a little harder to understand.”
“Evil never changes.”
“Sadly, Lady Albertine is living proof of that. She might be paying me a king’s ransom to spy on you, Ivar, but nothing is worth putting up with her poison.”
“Too bad that fucking stroke didn’t wipe her out, but you know what they say—only the good die young.” Ivar didn’t bother to stifle the bitter disgust. “For what it’s worth, I apologize for every offensive word that troll utters, Maceio. I thought when I hired you that you’d be the one assistant she wouldn’t try to buy off, as she loathes both gays and foreigners. But her hatred of me surpasses even her hatred of those she deems as beneath her station.”
“At least you warned me that the battle ax might approach me. I’m just proud I’m the one assistant you’ve trusted enough to keep, when so many others before me failed you.” Then he grimaced. “But you should know, I’m not sure things are going as well as they used to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m starting to feel like Lady Albertine suspects we’re playing her.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s like… I don’t know.” Maceio shook his dark head, and a shadow of worry hovered just behind his eyes. “I’m getting a strange vibe from her, and I don’t think it’s because of her stroke. She doesn’t seem to be satisfied with the shit I’ve been feeding her like she has been in the past. For instance, she’s obsessed with wanting to know why you’ve made the move from New York to Chicago. She keeps harping on what compelled you to do it.”
That didn’t sound good. Whether she was at the chateau or in a luxury nursing home, when Baroness Albertine Bénédicte Emmanuelle Fournier turned her attention to anything, it was always for a reason. “Has she mentioned the Bournival name?”
“No.”
“Has she mentioned Eliane—my mother,” he amended, merely as an afterthought, “having a connection to Chicago?”
“No.” Maceio’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think she knows why you’ve really come to Chicago?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if she suspected something.” Then he shook his head. It didn’t matter what Albertine knew or suspected. His path was set. “There’s nothing else to do but keep going the way I have been. I have a date tomorrow with Scout, so we’ll see if I make any progress there. For now, keep feeding my grandmother the official line—I’m changing my career focus by becoming a photographic artist, and my first project’s based on famous House Of Payne tattoos. Since there’s no other tattoo studio in the world like the House, it’s an excellent cover for why I’m really here.”
“Understood.” But Maceio didn’t leave him, instead looking at him with a worried frown. “Ivar…”
His preoccupied gaze landed on his assistant. “What is it?”
“You do know that you don’t have anything to prove, right? Especially to that withered-up old cunt. I know who you are. Estelle knows. Finding proof isn’t going to make any difference to Baroness Bitch. You must know that. And if you don’t find a way to understand that—”
“This isn’t about my grandmother, Maceio.” He paused, struggling to find the truth beneath all the layers of deep-rooted rage grinding away in his gut. “Hoping for Albertine’s acceptance hasn’t been a blip on my radar screen in decades. I don’t want anything from her now, except her absence from my life. This is about me. I need this.”
“Have you considered the possibility that after all this searching, you might find something you won’t like?”
“I expect that to be the case.” Because that was what life was like—holding out the faintest possibility that everything might turn out all right, only to become total shit the moment hope took root. But for his own peace of mind, he had to know the truth. “Stop worrying about me. I know what I’m doing.”
Though, as Maceio left for his place and Ivar disappeared into his partially unpacked office while texting Estelle, he couldn’t help but think those sounded like famous last words.
“Finally.” His manager’s cultured voice sounded downright crabby when he answered her call about a minute later. Usually Estelle McGahee did everything with a smoothly low-key composure, but apparently she was a different person past her bedtime. “Have you really been interviewing Scout Upton for five hours, or are you avoiding me?”
“I have been learning how to Chicken Dance.” That wasn’t completely true. He’d managed to avoid doing the actual dance. But he’d learned what part of the dance he liked.
There was a beat of silence. “You’re joking.”
“No.” The perfection of Scout’s ass was nothing to joke about.
“You’re incapable of doing anything that’s not proper and dignified. Did someone have you at gunpoint?”
He sighed. Did he really come off as that repressed? He was no more than what he’d been trained to be, just like any other dumb animal made to jump through an endless sea of hoops. “What was it that was so urgent you had to contact me on a weekend, Estelle? I know you must be busy with other clients, and I know you do not have anything scheduled for me until the beginning of the month.”
“Right. Yeah. Um, about that whole not-working-until-April thing. That’s become a teeny little sticking point that I need to talk to you about.”
A schedule change. Goddamn it. “No, Estelle. Do not even think about it.”
“Now, Ivar—”
“You know what I am trying to do. You know that I have no time to waste. Scout Upton is on holiday until the beginning of April, which means I have an opportunity to get some answers. Because of this, I told you that I cannot accept any more contracts until that time. There should not be a problem here.”
“I had a long chat with Liesl’s agent. Liesl is unexpectedly available now that Fashion Week is over, and Haute magazine has decided they want her as their August cover.”
“Liesl.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Fuck.”
“Mm-hm. Everyone’s favorite model.”
“Fuck,” he muttered again. He’d rather do the Chicken Dance on his grandmother’s formal dining room table than deal with that photogenic but unfortunate head case. “Will all of my stipulations be met when it comes to working with her? If not, I do not even know why we are having this conversation.”
“According to her agent, Liesl handled Fashion Week with only one mini-tantrum, and she was there for every single one of her shows. She’s on her meds and her people have agreed to have her therapist onsite when you’re there.”
“If she is late by so much as a minute, I walk. I refuse to wait like a dumbass for her—or anyone—while they sit sulking in their trailer because they do not have the right bottled water.”
“That’s not going to happen again.”
“Damn right.” He rubbed at his eyes once more. It wasn’t more satisfying than roaring his frustration at the top of his lungs, but it’d have to do. “When and where do they want to shoot?”
“Jamaica, at the end of March, which is…” He heard a couple taps on a keyboard. “Two weeks from now. Can you wrap up your, er… investigation by then?”
“No.” Then he shook his head. “I have no idea.”
Estelle made a sound of sympathy. “How’s it coming?”
With the exception of stumbling across the hottest woman he’d ever been lucky enough to lay eyes on, this journey of his was striking out in the worst way. “I suspect the only correct information Marcel Dubois gave me was his first and last name. Everything else is starting to look like nothing more than a fantasy-filled load of bullshit.”
“But Dubois was Frank Bournival’s assistant. He was present when Bournival funded House Of Payne’s beginning.”
“I have no doubt that Marcel Dubois knew the basics of the deal. But to say that Scout Upton traded sex for that funding, then carried that mercenary practice further by sleeping her way into a sick old man’s will is ridiculous.”