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

by Alix Nichols

  Chapter 30

  Diane

  “I signed up for meditation and yoga.” Mom turns to Chloe. “And I might call your therapist as well.”

  Chloe smiles. “It won’t hurt.”

  Mom takes my hand. “First Chloe in October, now you… Please—both of you—don’t scare me like that ever again.”

  I nudge her lemonade glass across the garden table. “You should taste it. Michel makes it from a medieval recipe he guards with his life.”

  She takes a sip and swishes it around in her mouth before swallowing. “Mine is better.”

  An hour later, they’re gone and I recline on the deck chair for a nap. I’ve been sleeping a lot over the past two days, which is weird because I hadn’t been exactly active during the preceding forty-eight hours.

  When I wake up, I find Sebastian sitting on the grass at my feet.

  “It’s Wednesday,” I say. “Shouldn’t you be at the office, bossing people around?”

  He kisses my ankles. “I’d rather be here.”

  “I need to stretch my legs,” I say.

  He jumps to his feet and helps me up.

  As we stroll through the garden, I brush my hand over tree branches and shrubbery, caressing the leaves. Everything smells so good, looks so beautiful, feels so pleasant to touch… God, I’m happy I made it.

  “Mom told me you went on TV, offering a ransom,” I say.

  He nods.

  “She says you didn’t specify an amount—you just said, ‘Name your price, I’ll pay it.’ ”

  He nods again.

  I give him a sidelong look. “Don’t you think that was a little presumptuous?”

  He shakes his head.

  I’m itching to ask whether he’d have paid up if Octave had demanded a billion euros.

  “I would’ve given everything I have,” he says. “Don’t you ever doubt that.”

  I stop and hug him, burying my face against his chest. He puts his arms around me and kisses the top of my head. There are so many things I want to say to him, but they’re all too sentimental for my cynical mouth. So I hug him tighter instead, hoping he’ll understand.

  Praying that he knows.

  “When did you first suspect foul play?” I ask after a long moment.

  “Sunday morning. I called you a dozen times. I called Elorie, Chloe, and your Mom. When your Mom said she hadn’t seen or heard from you, I knew you hadn’t just upped and left.”

  “Thank God you didn’t call Dad, and thank God he doesn’t own a TV,” I say.

  “Chloe was very helpful. She called him for a chat and ascertained that you weren’t with him.”

  We walk in silence for a few minutes. I listen to the birds in the trees and insects humming around us. But I have too many questions to fully enjoy the peaceful magic of this place.

  “When did you start suspecting Octave?”

  “Sometime Sunday night. I tossed and turned, and then I remembered him coming in at four a.m. the night you disappeared.”

  “Powers of deduction,” I say under my breath.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Nothing.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Just a side effect of having only me to entertain myself for two days straight.”

  He puts his hand around my shoulders.

  “What did you do once you had your suspicions?” I ask.

  “I texted my PI to forget Valeria and start tailing Octave ASAP. Then I dressed and drove to the nearest commissariat.”

  “Thank goodness you didn’t call the police or your PI from home. Octave had the bedroom bugged.”

  Sebastian stops in his tracks, his jaw clenched in anger.

  “Finish your story,” I ask.

  “Things went pretty fast from there,” he says. “On Monday morning, the police figured out Octave had inherited a hovel in Yvelines, an hour’s drive from Paris. That’s when the PI texted me that he was driving behind my majordome in that same direction.”

  Sebastian trails off, his gaze suddenly unfocused.

  “You OK?” I ask.

  “Yes, of course. It just hit me how, at one point or another, I’ve suspected everyone—my competitors, my aunt and uncle, Greg, Lynette… even Laurent! But I never doubted Octave.” His nostrils flare. “How could I be so blind? It almost cost you your life.”

  “But it didn’t.” I give him a bright smile. “You got there on time. You found me.”

  “I love you, Diane,” he says. “With all my heart.”

  I sort of figured that out but, dear Lord, it’s good to hear him say those words!

  “I love you, too, Sebastian.”

  He takes my left hand and strokes my ring finger. “You’re still wearing your engagement ring and your wedding band.”

  “Oh.” I pull my hand away and begin to remove the jewelry. “Silly me! We don’t need them anymore now that—”

  “Don’t!” He takes hold of my hand again and pushes the rings back to the base of my finger. “Will you do me the honor of remaining my wife?”

  My jaw drops.

  He smiles. “Your spontaneity is priceless. Please don’t ever change.”

  I keep silent, still digesting his words.

  “Say yes,” he pleads.

  “I don’t understand,” I say instead. “What do you mean by ‘remaining your wife’? Our marriage is fake.”

  He shakes his head. “Not if I send the missing document to the consulate in Miami. We still have two weeks until the deadline.”

  “I can’t.” I say. “It would be against what I profess, against my principles.”

  “Which are…?”

  I focus on my feet. “I hate rich people. They’re all exploiters and crooks. I don’t believe it’s possible to amass a fortune by being a good person.”

  “Diane.” He takes my chin between his index finger and thumb, nudging me gently to look at him. “I don’t care what you think of ‘rich people’ as a class. However, I do care what you think of me. Do you believe I’m an exploiter and a crook?”

  “No,” I say without a second’s hesitation. “I don’t. Ludicrous as it is, I think you’re a good person.”

  The corners of his mouth curl up. “You sure?”

  “Yes. And I have proof.”

  “You do?”

  I nod. “It was you who ‘persuaded’ Belle Auxbois to go on prime-time TV and credit Dad for her perfume. Now he has so many offers he’s raised his fee and established a waiting list.” I grip Sebastian’s hand and give it a squeeze. “Thank you.”

  “How did you—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I bring his hand to my lips and kiss it. “And there’s something else. When I told him who was behind Belle’s sudden generosity, he admitted you’d offered to buy his company before you crushed it.”

  “I thought you knew about it,” he says.

  I shake my head.

  He strokes my hands and touches my engagement ring. “Do you like it? Or shall I get you a new one, something you would choose? We could go to Place Vendôme tomorrow—”

  “No!” I cut him off. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind something less ritzy, but that’s not what I… It’s just… How…”

  He tilts his head to the side, waiting for me to form my question.

  “What would be the terms?” I finally manage.

  “Let’s see.” He opens the thumb of his left hand. “You’ll have to kiss me. A lot.” He extends his index finger. “You’ll have to sleep in my bed, and you’ll be expected to have sex with me—both in and out of that bed.”

  I smile and roll my eyes skyward.

  He uncurls his middle finger. “You’ll call me ‘my beloved spouse’ in public and ‘my stallion’ in private.”

  I stick my finger in my mouth and pretend to gag.

  “It was a joke,” he says.

  “You sure?”

  He nods vigorously.

  I pretend to wipe my brow. “Phew.”

  “But this one isn’t.” He unfolds his ring finger. “
I’ll expect you to be my teammate. I’ll need you to stand by my side through everything and support me in running the company and the house, regardless of your leftist ideology.”

  I draw in a deep breath.

  “And this one isn’t a joke, either.” Sebastian opens his little finger, eyes burning into mine. “I’ll be the happiest of men if you give me a child. A few, if possible.”

  I swallow and hold his gaze.

  He smiles again. “That’s it. Those are the terms. Do you think you can do those things for me?”

  “I think I can,” I say. “And then some.”

  His smile grows into a huge grin.

  “But,” I say, taking his hand. “What I meant by ‘terms’ was actually of a more… financial nature. You and I are too unequal in that regard.”

  He says nothing.

  “Do you have a prenup contract drafted?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “We don’t need one.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “Quite the contrary.” He lifts my hand to his lips and plants a hot kiss to my palm. “I’ve found it.”

  I look down, thinking.

  “Say yes, Diane.” He gives my hand a squeeze.

  I lift my eyes. “On one condition.”

  “Anything.”

  “You’ll pose for me naked again. Every time I ask you to.”

  He arches an eyebrow.

  I put my hand to my heart. “For strictly personal use, I promise.”

  “OK,” he says. “But I’ll be your only male model.”

  “Deal.”

  He nods. “Deal.”

  “Then it’s a yes.” I throw my arms around his neck and add in a husky voice, “My stallion.”

  <<<<>>>>

  Author’s Note

  The chateau and the cave in this book are fictional.

  The Chateau d’Arcy is inspired by several castles I’ve visited in the Loire Valley, Normandy and Burgundy. A real Chateau d’Arcy exists in Burgundy. Previously home to viscounts and barons, it is now the property of the French State.

  The Darcy Grotto in this book is fictional, but it is inspired by three amazing rock-art caves in France.

  My main inspiration is the cave complex near the village of Arcy-sur-Cure in Burgundy. Just like the Darcy Grotto, the real Grotte d’Arcy is located on private land, which is currently owned by Gabriel de la Varende. The paintings and engravings in the Grotte d’Arcy are “only” 28,000 years old.

  My second inspiration is the world-famous Lascaux complex in Dordogne. The age of its spectacular paintings is a measly 18,000 years.

  My third inspiration is the Chauvet cave in the Ardèche region whose 32,000-year-old cave art is the most magnificent and oldest in France.

  The Chauvet and Lascaux caves have been closed to the public, to protect the art inside from the damaging mold and bacteria caused by thousands of daily visitors. So, what you’ll see if you go there will be copies, or replicas, not the actual caves.

  The Grotte d’Arcy, on the other hand, is still accessible (only until they build a replica, no doubt), so grab your chance to see the real thing while you can!

  Raphael’s Fling

  The Darcy Brothers Book 2

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  How did I come to this?

  I sigh, smooth my clothes one last time, and head for the cream, leather-padded door.

  “Mia, wait!” Raphael calls after me.

  I halt and turn around.

  He opens his chiseled mouth as if to say something, then shuts it, and gives me a tight smile. The smile of a person having second thoughts on the advisability of what he was going to say.

  Well, I’m not waiting around for the result of his inner deliberation. There are two bulky reports on my desk and a few dozen emails I need to go through before I can leave tonight.

  Ergo, time is of the essence.

  I resume my hike across Raphael’s vast office until I reach the door. It unlocks smoothly and without a sound, bless its high-tech heart. After a sneak peek in the hall to check if the coast is clear, I slip away without saying good-bye to Raphael or Anne-Marie, his faithful PA.

  Just like a lawbreaker.

  Well, maybe not a lawbreaker, but definitely a reoffending violator of the Workplace Code of Honor. In particular, of Rule #1, which says: “Workers shall not have sexual intercourse with their hierarchical superiors, inferiors, or posteriors.”

  While there’s some controversy over the exact meaning of “inferiors” and “posteriors,” everyone knows that a “superior” is more than just your immediate boss. The concept also covers your boss’s boss, your boss’s boss’s boss’s boss, and the Boss of Them All—the CEO.

  It’s a very sensible provision, by the way, and one I totally approve of and adhere to.

  As I rush down the hallway, my heels clicking on the marble floor, I realize I should’ve put my observation in the past tense. As in, “I used to adhere to.”

  Having repeatedly broken the Code’s first rule since March makes me a rogue and a hypocrite of the worst kind.

  How did I fall so low?

  Here’s a clue: it’s Rudolph the Reindeer’s fault.

  God knows I hadn’t planned on this when I landed the world’s most unexceptional job as assistant to the daily bulletin editor at DCA Paris. DCA stands for “D’Arcy Consulting and Audit.” Yup, the same “d’Arcy” that’s sandwiched between “Raphael” and the rest of his fancy name on my lover’s official letterhead.

  Having sexual intercourse with Raphael d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, a gentleman and a libertine, was the last thing on my mind when I started at DCA. In fact, it was nowhere near my mind.

  Despite my murky past, that’s not who I am. Nor does my life need more complications right now.

  Trust me.

  Pauline Cordier’s familiar silhouette takes shape at the end of the hallway just as I reach the elevator and push the button. My heart skips a beat. If my direct supervisor sees me on this floor, she’ll assume one of the following two things: (a) my presence here is work-related, meaning I’m going over her head; or (b) my presence here has nothing to do with work, meaning I’m sleeping with one of the senior managers.

  Needless to say, both alternatives are equally conducive to me getting sidelined, ostracized, and ultimately fired.

  I take a deep breath and give the approaching figure a furtive glance.

  It isn’t Pauline.

  The woman doesn’t even look like her, now that she’s closer.

  Phew.

  You may not believe me, but I wasn’t sure what Raphael d’Arcy looked like when DCA hired me. Having scanned his official bio in preparation for my job interview, I had formed a vague image that boiled down to “young, well-born, and well-dressed.” The specifics of the founding CEO’s background and appearance hadn’t lingered in my mind. I doubt they’d even entered it.

  Because they were not important.

  All I wanted from Monsieur d’Arcy was a job at his firm that gave me a monthly paycheck to complement the pittance my school calls a scholarship. That way, I could finish my doctoral program without having to sleep under bridges or borrow money.

  Parisian bridges can be drafty, you see. And damp. As for the stench, courtesy of well-groomed dogs and ill-groomed humans, don’t even get me started! On top of all that, bridges offer no suitable storage space for research notes, photocopies, and books.

  In short, they suck as accommodations.

  As for the borrowing, my parents taught Eva and me that debt must be avoided at all costs. Their “debt is bad” precept proved stronger than the knowledge that everyone lives on credit in Western societies today.

  Except my parents, that is.

  Then again, they live in rural Alsace. Life’s a lot cheaper there than in la capitale, so they were able to make it into their fifties without a single loan to cloud their horizon.

  I step off the elevator on the second floor
, relieved that no one saw me in Top Management’s Heavenly Quarters, and my phone rings. Considering that I’ve been sneaking out like this for two months already, the probability that someone will see me and that it’ll reach Pauline’s ears is growing by the day.

  It freaks me out more than I care to admit.

  As I answer the phone, Raphael’s deep, sexy timbre breaks me from my worries.

  “You left your panties here,” he says, sounding amused and smug at the same time. In short, his usual self.

  “No, I didn’t—”

  Oh crap. I did.

  “I’ve got five minutes before the managerial,” he says, “so if you want to come back and collect—”

  “No!” I look around and lower my voice. “It’s OK. I’m sure I can make it through the afternoon without them.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that. The question is whether I can make it through the afternoon with the knowledge you’re without them.” He pauses, as if pondering the question, and then adds, “And with them in my pocket.”

  My stomach flips.

  Something achingly—yet delightfully—heavy gathers low in my abdomen, reminding me of what Raphael and I had been up to a mere half hour ago. Suddenly, every step I take makes me aware of my pantyless condition. The friction of my skirt’s silky lining against my bare skin makes it prickle. My breathing becomes strained, and my heart thumps in my chest.

  As I struggle to calm myself before entering the office I share with two other assistants, I picture myself in Strasbourg in our family physician’s immaculate office.

  “What’s my diagnosis, doctor?” I’d ask after he’s examined me.

  “Not to worry, mon enfant! You’ll live.” He’d push his regular glasses to his forehead and put on his reading glasses. “You have a textbook case of lustium irresistiblum.”

  “Please, can you make it go away?”

  He’d smile and shake his head, updating my file on his computer. “It’s like a viral cold. It’ll clear up on its own, eventually.”