The Darcy Brothers: The Complete Series (Humorous Contemporary Romance Box Set)

by Alix Nichols

  “I just texted the PI to stand by outside.”

  “What happens next?”

  He looks at his watch. “In an hour or so, people will start leaving. You’ll say you’re tired and go home.”

  “And you?”

  “If all goes well, I’ll leave with my temptress.”

  I’m itching to ask if he’ll do more than just “leave” with her. For his scheme to work, I guess he’ll need to. The question is how far he’ll go. Will he just drive her home, kiss her, and let his private eye shadow her until she contacts her employer, or will he actually go all the way and sleep with her?

  He’s never been very specific on that part of the plan.

  I nod and force myself to smile. “Fingers crossed.”

  “Don’t wait up for me tonight,” he says.

  That needle I’d felt earlier morphs into a dirty bomb and blows up inside my chest just as Sebastian turns and walks away.

  Part V

  Hovel

  Chapter 27

  Diane

  How hard can it be to open a pair of healthy, well-functioning eyes? Right now, extremely hard. Almost impossible. It’s not just the eyes. My head is pounding. Nausea reigns supreme in my stomach, threatening to advance through my throat and erupt at any moment.

  How much exactly did I drink last night? Barely a glass. I was too busy playing hostess. So why am I having the hangover of my life? I try to rub my eyes, but my hands won’t come up. A few more failed attempts later and it hits me. My wrists are bound behind my back. My ankles are tied, too.

  What the hell?

  With a superhuman effort, I peel my eyes open and take in my surroundings. I’m lying on top of a mattress in a dark, moldy-smelling room. Probably a cellar. I writhe and buck, testing the strength of the tape at my wrists and ankles. It’s impossible to untie or even loosen a little. After some more wriggling, I manage to sit up, lean back against the wall, and look around.

  It is a cellar. It’s small, so I doubt I’m in the mansion, where I’ve thoroughly explored the huge basement. There’s a minuscule opening just below the ceiling. That’s where the air and light come through. A suitcase sits in one corner of the room. My suitcase. The wall opposite me has a door with no handle. I don’t like that door any more than I like the window covered with a solid metal screen.

  Clearly, at some point between the moment Greg dropped me off in front of Darcy House and now, I passed out and was brought down here.

  Did someone hit me over the head? Drug me? Hypnotize me?

  The thing is I have no memory of it.

  I call for help, scream, call for help again, and then scream some more.

  Nothing happens.

  I call for help a few more times.

  The door opens. A sturdy man steps in and locks the door behind him. He pauses for a moment by the door and then walks slowly toward me.

  Recognition slaps me on the face like a bucket of icy water.

  “I hope madame slept well,” Octave says, mockery palpable in his voice. “I hope you weren’t too cold and your restraints not too tight.”

  He halts in front of me.

  I give him a long, hard stare. “It’s been you—all this time, pretending to be a friend and sharpening your knife behind Sebastian’s back.”

  “I was never his friend,” Octave hisses. “I’m his majordome, remember?”

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure yet.” He gives me the smile of a deranged man. “I’m considering different scenarios.”

  “What about Miss France at the bash last night? Wasn’t she supposed to seduce Sebastian? Wasn’t that your plan?”

  He throws his head back and roars with an uncontrollable laugher, tears and all. “Is that what you both thought? I was hoping you would.”

  Octave pulls a hanky from his pocket and wipes his eyes. “She was just a diversion.”

  I blink, processing that piece of information.

  “You see,” he says. “I had to adapt my initial plan after you moved in.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I heard Sebastian and you talking one night, between humping sessions, about outing his nemesis.”

  “You—what? How?”

  “I bugged your bedroom.”

  Dear Lord.

  That explains the device and headphones in his closet.

  I’m toast.

  Unless… The bugging might be good news. It means he’s discovered the truth about us.

  “In that case,” I say, “you know our marriage is a sham.”

  “What?” He looks genuinely surprised.

  “If you’ve bugged our bedroom, you must’ve figured out from our conversations that we’re not for real. Sebastian hired me to help him unmask you.”

  He sneers. “Nice try.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “You really expect me to believe your bullshit?”

  I close my eyes and try to concentrate. Could it be that neither Sebastian nor I ever said anything in that bedroom that would give away the real nature of our relationship? We’ve had a lot of sex, many laughs, and a few serious conversations, but… is it possible that we never mentioned our contract?

  But of course, we did—as recently as two weeks ago. Only we weren’t in Darcy House. We were in my apartment.

  Octave squats and checks the tape at my wrists and ankles.

  “I may be just a manservant, but I’m not stupid,” he says. “I’ve seen the way you look at him—like he’s the only man on the whole fucking planet. I’ve seen the way he looks at you—like he wants to nosh you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every fucking day.”

  I take a ragged breath and look away.

  “And don’t get me started on the way he touches you.” Octave stands up, smirking. “These things can’t be faked.”

  I lick my dry lips, realizing how parched I am.

  Octave turns around and heads to the door.

  “Wait,” I call after him.

  He halts and looks over his shoulder at me.

  I point my chin to the suitcase. “What’s that for?”

  “To buy me a few days. He’ll think you got jealous and left him.”

  In a few days, I’ll be dead from dehydration. That is if he doesn’t kill me before.

  “Will you please bring me some water next time you come down?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “I’m not your servant anymore, sweetheart.”

  Chapter 28

  Sebastian

  I get home in the wee hours of the morning.

  Valeria—that’s my temptress’s name… fake, no doubt—wanted to go to her favorite nightclub. She loooooves dancing. After that she asked me to take her for a ride around the Boulogne Forest, driving my Lamborghini as fast as it would go. She adooooores speed.

  When I took her back to her hotel, she invited me upstairs for a “cup of coffee.” That’s when I went off script and declined her invitation.

  “Wife?” She gave me a sympathetic look.

  I nodded.

  Valeria pointed at her watch. “It’s three in the morning. She won’t believe you anyway.”

  “I’ll try my luck.” I planted a quick smooch on her lips and promised I’d make arrangements so we could meet again soon without raising anyone’s suspicions.

  She gave me her number and told me to use it anytime.

  I drove off, praying she wouldn’t wait too long before contacting her employer. Despite her striking beauty, I really don’t care for the prospect of “meeting her again soon.”

  Right now, what I long for is sleep. Next to Diane. I picture myself performing what’s become my favorite bedtime ritual. It consists of spooning Diane to my chest, wrapping an arm around her, and breathing in the skin at her nape.

  It occurs to me as I climb the stairs to the second floor that I haven’t had a single sleepless night since she’s been sharing my bed.

  I also realize that what I told her the other day about n
ot wanting a relationship with her was, as she’d say, a big pile of shit.

  Treading as lightly as possible so I don’t wake her up, I enter the bedroom—and know at once that she’s gone. I turn on the light and look around. The bed hasn’t been turned down. Her nightstand is free of her baubles. I rush to the walk-in closet. One of her suitcases and some of her clothes are missing.

  She’s left me.

  Why? Up until now, she’d stuck to our deal remarkably well. Why quit now before we have proof that my plan has worked, before our contract has expired, and before we’ve had a chance to discuss this new development?

  Was it jealousy?

  I’ve suspected for some time now that Diane has feelings for me, but I didn’t think they were strong. And I certainly didn’t think she’d let them cloud her judgement.

  I sit down on the bed and drop my head into my hands, disappointment washing through me in cold, sticky waves. The funny thing is I’m more upset about Diane’s walking out on me than jeopardizing my plan. Her departure makes the prospect of a future without her real for the first time.

  That future holds no witty commentary on everything under the sun, no adorable goofiness, and no refreshing disregard for my money and status.

  Nor does it hold lovemaking that’s been growing sweeter every night, instead of palling.

  I’d believed a future without Diane Petit was what I wanted.

  But all I can see in it now is bleakness.

  Depressing, morbid, unbearable bleakness.

  What have I done?

  In the quiet of the house, the sound of a door unlocking and gently closing comes from the foyer. I jump up and run down the stairs, tripping on the carpet, getting up, and running again. Is it Diane? Has she changed her mind? Did she reconsider the wisdom of her actions?

  Let it be her. Please, let it be her.

  But it’s only Octave—the last person in this household I expected to come home at this hour.

  He smiles apologetically. “I hope I didn’t wake monsieur up.”

  “No, I was awake.” I hesitate. “Have you seen Diane?”

  He shakes his head. “Didn’t she come home with you?”

  “No,” I say drily. “She didn’t.”

  I wish Octave good night and return to my bedroom, which feels awfully empty without my lover.

  When I crawl into bed fifteen minutes later, I lie on her side and bury my nose in her pillow.

  I’m a fool.

  Blinded by Diane’s charm, I was beginning to convince myself she could be the right woman for me—a partner for life, my anchor, my rock. Drunk on her body, I was beginning to see her as the woman who’d stay by my side through good times and bad, sickness and health, society obligations and job demands, babies to be raised and mistakes to be forgiven.

  I’m such a pathetic fool.

  Chapter 29

  Diane

  It’s my second day in Octave’s cellar.

  I shift my position to sit a little more comfortably and close my eyes. My mouth and lips are on fire. I’m dizzy and so tired I can barely think.

  Tyrion’s words from Game of Thrones come to my mind: “Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities.”

  With the prospect of death a lot closer to home than when I watched the series with Chloe, I’ve been thinking a lot about possibilities. My favorite one is code named Clean Slate. It goes like this: Sebastian Darcy isn’t the filthy-rich fragrance mogul who ruined Dad. It was his main competitor, David Bauer, who did it.

  Dreaming here, remember?

  Actually, no one has ruined Dad. His business is doing well, he didn’t suffer a stroke, and he and Mom are still together. Sebastian exposes Octave, thanks to his formidable powers of deduction. This means he doesn’t need to hire me—or anyone—to be his fake wife.

  We meet in the most conventional way at Jeanne and Mat’s, and we fall in love. Just like that—Bam!—at first sight. It doesn’t matter that he reads Le Figaro and is worth more than the GDP of a small country.

  Nobody’s perfect.

  We date, kiss, make love, make babies, and live happily ever after.

  I open my eyes and stare at the door.

  He’ll find me.

  Just as he found me after the cake incident, which now seems like a lifetime ago. If there’s something I’ve learned about him, it’s that Sebastian Darcy won’t just shrug at my sudden departure and move on. He’ll want to know why I left. He’ll call. He’ll poke around, talk to Mom, Chloe, and Elorie.

  And he’ll end up figuring it out.

  I must believe it.

  The alternative is to give up and stop struggling to stay alive even before Octave turns up to finish me off.

  The door opens and Octave comes in.

  “Have you made up your mind about me?” I ask, my voice coarse.

  “I had last night,” he says. “I was going to come here and strangle you. But then I lost my nerve.”

  I look into his eyes. “Bummer.”

  “You’re funny, you know?” He lets out a sigh. “It is a bummer.”

  “Tell me something, Octave—just so I don’t die stupid—why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you going to such pains to punish the person who thinks the world of you?”

  “Does he now?” Octave smirks. “He is less full of himself than his legendary Grandpa Bernard, and his adored papa. I’ll grant you that.”

  An image flashes in my head when he mentions Sebastian’s grandfather—that of Octave’s birth certificate.

  “Your middle name is Bernard,” I say.

  The side of his face twitches. “So what?”

  “It isn’t a coincidence, is it? Your hatred of the d’Arcy men… it has something to do with your middle name, I’m sure.”

  “Not only are you funny,” he says. “You’re also perceptive.”

  I wait for him to continue.

  Because he will. The man is clearly burning to tell his story to someone. He’s been burning for years, decades maybe. And now he has an ideal audience: captive, genuinely interested, and expendable.

  He’d have to be made of steel to resist that.

  “Bernard d’Arcy had a fling with my mother when they were both young,” he says.

  I knew it!

  “It was more than a fling, actually. They were together for over a year until he ditched her and married the fancy-schmancy Colette.”

  “What did your mother do?”

  “She up and married a good-for-nothing from her hometown. And then she had me.”

  “Are you Bernard’s son?” I ask.

  He sighs. “I don’t know. My mother always denied it, but she never got over Bernard and she did give me that middle name. Besides, she wrote to him when I turned eighteen, asking if he could offer me a job at Parfums d’Arcy.”

  “Did he?”

  “He offered me a job at Darcy House instead.” Octave runs his hand through his thinning hair, his expression melancholy. “I was over the moon. I thought it was a sign that the Count was willing to take me under his wing, maybe even acknowledge me one day… I was so naive.”

  “I take it he didn’t acknowledge you?”

  Octave shakes his head. “Worse. He never even bothered to get to know me, let alone groom me for bigger things. He groomed Thibaud, all right, and then Sebastian. But never me.”

  “Did you ever talk to him about your mother?”

  “I didn’t dare. He was so distant, so much above me… We weren’t equals. He was Count d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice. I was the help.”

  “Why didn’t you walk away?” I ask. “Once you knew Bernard would never treat you like a son, why didn’t you just leave?”

  My mouth and throat hurt from talking, and I’m extremely tired but still lucid enough to remember that as long as Octave is telling his story, he isn’t strangling me.

  “At first, I had hope,” he says. “I thought if I prove
d myself to him, if I showed him how good and loyal I could be, he’d let me in. I tried so hard, for so long… And then, when I accepted that I’d never earn his love, it was too late. I’d become too appreciative of the grandeur of Darcy House and the comforts of my life to quit everything and start over.”

  “So instead you chose to stay and poison their lives,” I say.

  “Exactly.” Octave puts his chin up. “My mother died around the same time, and I made a promise on her grave. I vowed I’d make the lives of Bernard, Thibaud, and Sebastian miserable without risking my freedom or my job.”

  “My hat’s off to you,” I say. “You succeeded.”

  He gives me a smug smile. “Yes, I did.”

  For a moment, we’re both silent. Then Octave’s eyes dart to my neck. Oh no. I must get him to start talking again—and presto!

  “Have you done a DNA test to find out who your father is?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He hesitates and then shrugs as if to say, What the hell, I might as well be honest with the soon-to-be-dead woman. “I’m too scared. What if the test says I’m not related to the d’Arcys? Do you realize the implications?” He points at me. “Your… end, Thibaud’s disgrace, Sebastian’s grief—it would all be for nothing. Meaningless. I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

  “And you think you’ll be able to handle murdering me?” I ask.

  He opens his mouth to say something when the door bursts open and a bunch of police officers in bulletproof vests storm in. Two of them slam Octave to the floor and cuff him. The others rush to me and cut my restraints.

  It all seems surreal. A few moments later, I’m wrapped in a blanket and carried up the stairs into the daylight.

  Sebastian runs to me and takes me in his arms. He’s crying.

  “You’re alive,” he says, raining kisses on my cheeks, eyes, nose, and forehead. “You’re alive!”

  I start crying, too.

  “Shush, mon amour,” he says in a hot whisper, kissing away my tears. “You’re safe now. It’s over. I’m here. You’re safe.”