by Alix Nichols
The Darcy Brothers
The Complete Series Box Set
Alix Nichols
Contents
Foreword
Books by Alix Nichols
Find You in Paris
I. Proposition
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
II. Island
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
III. Castle
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
IV. Town House
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
V. Hovel
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Author’s Note
Raphael’s Fling
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part II
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
The Perfect Catch
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
Author’s Note
Books by Alix Nichols
About the Author
Foreword
Thank you for picking up the complete DARCY BROTHERS series box set!
Follow 3 French aristocrat brothers — stuck-up Sebastian, bad-boy Raphael and vengeful Noah — as each meets his match where he least expects to, and falls madly in love!
This box set includes 3 sexy romantic comedies:
Find You in Paris
Raphael’s Fling
The Perfect Catch
BOOK 1: FIND YOU IN PARIS
What does it take to fall in love with your enemy? a) His private jet. b) His six-pack abs. c) His unsuspected charm.
WARNING: Just like in Pride and Prejudice that inspired this book, expect to find one rich and handsome Mr. Darcy and one feisty girl who can't stand him. Unlike Pride and Prejudice, this book also contains artful nude photos of said Mr. Darcy, a fake marriage and nights of wild passion in Paris.
BOOK 2: RAPHAEL’S FLING
One bookish assistant. One cocky CEO. One Christmas party that changes everything…
GUARANTEED: belly laughs, hot love scenes and a happy ending for this lust-to-love romance with an unexpected twist. “I stayed up way too late to finish this book!” — Amazon Reviewer
BOOK 3: THE PERFECT CATCH
When brooding goalie Noah meets perky realtor Sophie, sparks fly hot and fast…
BEWARE: a dangerously endearing dog, meddling parents, eccentric neighbors, and a crumbling French chateau. "You will laugh and cry, and you won’t be disappointed!” — Cutting Muse Blog
If you like contemporary romance filled with humor, emotion and steamy fun, this bundle is for you!
Books by Alix Nichols
The Darcy Brothers
Find You in Paris
Raphael’s Fling
The Perfect Catch
Clarissa and the Cowboy
Game Time
Playing with Fire
Playing for Keeps
Playing Dirty (October 2017)
La Bohème
Winter’s Gift
What If It’s Love?
Falling for Emma
Under My Skin
Amanda’s Guide to Love
Copyright © 2017 Alix Nichols
All Rights Reserved.
Details can be found at the end of the book.
Find You in Paris
The Darcy Brothers Book 1
Part I
Proposition
Chapter 1
Diane
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 unscrup
ulous 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 and 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.
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.
Chapter 2
Sebastian
Three months later
“It might snow this afternoon.” 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.
“Hello, 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.”