by Alix Nichols
I halt again and fold my hands across my chest. “I’m all ears.”
“I’m sharing this,” Elorie says, “because we’re besties and because I want you to owe me one.”
I shake my head. “You can’t link those two reasons with an and. They’re mutually exclusive. It’s either because we’re besties or because you want me to owe you one.”
She sucks on her teeth for a brief moment. “I want you to owe me one.”
“OK, what’s your precious advice?”
“It’s a shortcut that very few women are aware of.”
“Yeees?”
“You need to develop a real interest and a certain level of competence in what the billionaires you’re targeting are passionate about.”
I pull a face. “Things like football?”
“If that’s what floats his boat.”
“I see.”
“It can be all sorts of things.” Elorie begins to count on her fingers. “Sports cars. War movies. Guns. High tech gadgets. Video games.”
“I think they’re a waste of time,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter what you think. What matters is what you say.” She moves on to her right hand. “Mixed martial arts. Wine. Politics. Porn. Art photography.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
She giggles. “That last one was a mole to check if you were paying attention. Nobody—except you, that is—cares about art photography.”
“I know men who do.”
“Are they filthy rich?”
I shake my head.
“Ha! Thought so.”
We reach La Bohème, and I stop in front of the entrance, pulling Elorie by her sleeve to stop her from walking on.
“OK,” I say. “Let’s finish this conversation before we go in. Let’s say you’ve become a wine connoisseur or a sports car buff. How does that guarantee your billionaire will fall to your feet like an electrocuted wasp?”
“It’s science, dum-dum.” She cocks her head. “Say your man loves Star Wars and football. You give him a well-timed Yoda quote, and his mind goes, ‘Ooh, she’s special.’ Then you give him an analysis of the latest Paris Saint-Germain victory, and his body releases even more happiness hormones. And before he knows it, his brain learns to associate that euphoric state with you. This leads him to conclude you’re Mademoiselle Right, which, in turn, leads him to propose.”
“Neat,” I say.
And what about the billionaire who proposes not because he gives a shit if you’re Mademoiselle Right or Mademoiselle One Night, but because he wants to use you in some shady scheme?
I push open the door to the bistro and decide to keep that last observation to myself.
Chapter 4
Diane
“So what are we celebrating?” Elorie asks after we settle at the bar and Manon hands us two tall glasses of vin chaud.
The steaming mulled wine smells of cinnamon and orange. It makes my frozen insides relax with comfort and my brain thaw with a pleasant mist in a way that’s satisfying beyond words.
Who needs orgasms when you can just take a walk out in the cold and drink this ambrosia?
I grab the spoon in my glass and pull out the half slice of orange begging to be eaten. “Have you heard of Voilà Paris?”
“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.
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.
Part II
Island
Chapter 5
Diane
“Did Belle Auxbois at least say she’d think about it?”
I turn to glance at Dad, who’s slumped in the passenger seat, fuming. I take it the pop star made no such promise. It doesn’t surprise me. The diva demonstrates typical rich-person behavior—exploit whomever you can, whenever you can, for as long as you can. Come to think of it, this credo must be the most important qualification for joining the Rich Club.
The only real difference between Belle Auxbois and Darcy is that her fake sweetness and angelic voice have misled millions of people into thinking she’s a nice person.
Dad and I are in his car, and I’m driving him home from his physical therapy session. The poor man hates these sessions with all his heart. I don’t blame him. His therapist is a hulk of a woman with sadistic propensities. She would’ve made a formidable Grand Inquisitor in another time and place, wringing confessions of witchcraft and heresy from innocent souls. But luckily for the medievals and unluckily for us, Troll Queen isn’t an officer of the Inquisition. She’s employed by a public hospital just outside of Marseille.
It took me six weekends with Dad and trips to the hospital’s rehab center to figure out her deal. This meant hours of watching her walk and talk—in fact, “bark” would be a better word for her unique communication style—and listening to grown men and women begging for mercy behind her door.
Have you ever tried to read a book while your beloved daddy screams, “Please, I can’t take it anymore!” next door?
I have.
And I didn’t enjoy it.
Anyway, Mamma Grizzly is convinced that stroke rehab protocol has to be painful to be effective. And God forbid someone confuses what she does for a living with massage. Because, you see, madame isn’t a masseuse. Hell, no. Her job is not to rub and knead people into comfort. Her job is to twist and contort patients into recovery.
To be fair, Dad has improved dramatically since the dominatrix first laid her hands on him. He can now move his fingers and speak more distinctively.
And that’s the only reason I haven’t sued her. Instead, I always make sure my smartphone is fully charged before we head to the hospital. When we get there, I stick my earplugs in my ears and let System of a Down outshout Dad.
“What exactly did Belle say when you called her?” I ask again.
He turns to me. “It’s a no-go. She cited the contract.”
That damn contract! Why hadn’t he shown it to me before signing?
“Did you try to appeal to her humanity? Explain how much it would mean to you in your current situation?”
“Yeah, I did.” He sighs and turns away to stare at the road. “She said
she was sorry, but she couldn’t do it.”
“Not even to admit you gave her a hand? Or that she consulted you?”
“You see,”—he lets out a bitter snort—“Madame Auxbois was featured on some morning show a couple of days ago, where she told the whole country she’d concocted the perfume in her kitchen. All by herself.”
I blow my cheeks out. “That’s ridiculous.”
Stupid cow!
I glance at Dad’s defeated face, and my heart aches with pity. If I want to help him—and God knows I do more than anything in the world—I must get better at channeling my anger into something constructive.
Count your blessings, Diane.
For one, Dad’s arm is on the mend, and his speech has improved so much it’s hard to imagine I had trouble understanding him a year ago. He’s joined AA and hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since his stroke.
And last but not least, I’m about to get an unhoped-for chance to hurt his archenemy—Sebastian Darcy.
We met briefly yesterday to sign the contract and iron out the details. I tried all the powers of persuasion I’m capable of to waive the requirement of living under his roof. But he was firm. He said his immediate circle had to believe we were consumed by mad passion. It was crucial to the success of his scheme. I’m deducing—clever me—that his scheme targets someone in his entourage.
I also tried to persuade him to let Chloe and Elorie in on our charade. Chloe is family and Elorie is my best friend in Paris. They know me well, especially Chloe. It would be hard to lie to them.
The answer was no way. The only person in the loop besides the two of us is his brother Raphael, but only because they hatched the plan together. Aside from that exception, no one else must know. Every additional person who has the info increases the risk of a leak and, consequently, the failure of his plan. With an icy gleam in his eyes, he reminded me I had committed to secrecy by signing the nondisclosure agreement and he had every intention of holding me to it.