“It could be functional. Maybe the poodle’s cold?” I’d argued the point, even though I could see shiny red lacquer on the dog’s claws.
Jake had snorted. “Since when can pink spandex do anything but make you sweat like a pig?”
With a grin, I’d taken a sip of my own drink, a piping-hot tisane de camomille, hiding my amusement in the face of Jake’s disgust. “Poodles were made to be dressed up.”
“A dog is a dog is a dog.”
“They’re performance dogs, actually.”
“Performance, yeah. For dog shows. Not to walk about looking like the canine version of a hooker.” He’d grimaced. “No. There’s definitely something wrong with a person, if they can do that to a harmless creature.”
“One of the women I cleaned for used to make her dog wear a sweater, she was a very nice old lady. Nothing sick or depraved about her. But her Yorkshire Terrier used to shiver in the cold.”
“Dogs have fur. They don’t need sweaters.”
“You didn’t see it shaking.”
He’d harrumphed. “Well, there’s a difference between a sweater and that.” Another shake of the head. “And look at those diamonds.”
“What? Do you think they’re real?” I’d teased.
People watching had never been my thing before, but now, with Jake, I could embrace it wholeheartedly. And as Jake had studied the woman carrying a hot-pink leather lead, one that matched the spandex, he’d pursed his lips in intense study. “Yes.”
“Don’t be stupid, nobody dresses their dogs in real gemstones.” And even though I’d insulted him, it hadn’t felt like an insult. I’ve grown quite at ease with him over these last few days, enough to call him names and to tease and mock.
When he’d leaned close to me and murmured, “Look at her coat. That’s worth about twenty thousand dollars.” I hadn’t jerked out of the way, or felt as though he were intruding in my personal space.
“What? For a piece of polyester masquerading as a dead animal?”
With a shake of his head, he’d whispered, “Look at that shine. That’s real. Sable. You can tell from the gleam, it's impossible to fake.”
“Who wears a sable fur coat with jeans?” I’d retorted, refusing to concede defeat.
“Only the very, very rich.”
Takes one to know one had been on the tip of my tongue, but I’d withheld it and merely said, “Well, no one is crazy enough to give their poodle real diamonds to wear. Not even the very, very rich.”
“They tend to be the most eccentric.”
“Well, she should give some of her very, very big fortune to charity. Either that, or she needs to get a life.”
“So you agree with me, then?”
I’d pursed my lips, studied the woman now chatting on a cellphone covered in what I could only hope were rhinestones, although the gold case looked suspiciously authentic. I’d have loved to say no, but I’d gritted out, “Yes.”
His smile had been smug, but it had quickly disappeared when he’d popped the remainder of his breakfast between his lips.
“And what about the psychologically depraved part?”
“I refuse to believe that someone is insane, because they dress up their dog. Bored, in desperate need of a life, maybe. But depraved? That’s just so, so harsh.”
“Okay, if I change the word to misguided, do you agree?”
Whenever we got into an argument, he had this thing about making me admit it if I was losing. In turn, if I was winning, I’d started to make him do so too. I think we argued all the more, because Jake didn’t always win.
In fact, that had become a point of pride.
“Yeah. I’d agree, then,” I’d muttered to his resolute nod.
And that hadn’t been the last discussion.
Or the last trip to that café. In fact, only this morning, we’d breakfasted on ham and cheese croissants as well as gloriously milky chocolat chaud.
It was also the first chance we’ve had to travel to the top of the Eiffel Tower and glance over Paris as the birds see it.
Notre Dame with its two-towered gothic façade, ornate and grand in its antiquity.
Sacré-Cœur with its three domes topped by small spires and a portico that lead to expanses of lush green grass.
Not forgetting the Louvre, its ancient architecture only augmented by the presence of the Pyramid.
And all around, mile after mile of white-roofed buildings.
The sights of small parks and larger ones, of humanity at play… the Seine meandering leisurely through it all. Green water reminding man that a city this may be, but it still belongs to Mother Earth.
And afterwards, he’d let me drool over the patisseries, dragging me in and forcing me to pick a selection of creamy delicacies that were each individually wrapped and tied in boxes with ribbons and which we’d eaten instead of dinner, feeling like naughty children as we’d licked and sucked at our chocolate-drenched fingers rather than go down to the hotel’s award-winning restaurant in which we’ve dined every night since our arrival.
These last few days have been busy thanks to Jake’s unexpected but appreciated generosity. Perusing the notes he’d left me and studying the photos of the people close to Rousset were the least I could do.
And glad I am for the studying. Rousset has many people in his life.
At his wife’s side, I can see Geraldine Moreau. The most surprising aspect of that particular pairing is that Moreau is widely considered to be Rousset’s mistress. But then Paul Dubois, who is chatting to Rousset himself, is said to be Renée’s lover.
The tangled webs would have once confused me, but no web is more tangled than the one in which Jake, Zane and I currently find ourselves.
“What’s your plan, then?”
“Rousset is a known womanizer. I want you to catch his eye.”
“That’s your plan? That’s no plan at all. Do I have slut written on my forehead?”
He hisses under his breath, half-turning from his position at my side to glare down at me. “Don’t overreact. I’m not asking you to whore yourself out. I just want you to be nice to him.”
Huffing under my breath, I spit out, “How nice is nice? And will you be nice to Renée too?”
“Yes, dammit. Stop making more out of this than what there is. I just want to infiltrate their little clique, that’s all. Just until we can gain entrance to Rousset’s villa in St. Tropez.”
Logically, I understand where he’s coming from. It makes sense. Push a lecherous perv and a sexy woman together, and who knows what the perv will reveal during his seduction?
But I’m not a sexy woman.
I scrub up well and I look attractive tonight, but I’m not the sort of woman that men break down over. Or, up until this point in my life, I haven’t been. And why that should have changed now, I don’t know.
“I don’t do flirting.”
“Well, you obviously did a good enough job with Zane,” he snaps and at my recoil, he blows out a breath and it hisses between his teeth. For a moment he says nothing, and then his eyes catch mine and the genuine regret therein is evident.
What’s the old saying?
No smoke without fire. Hell, I guess it should be expected. The man has been kindness itself to a woman he must loathe. A woman who has dragged his marriage into the national spotlight and, if I’m not mistaken, the international eye too. I’ve seen a few pictures of Zane and myself on some of the French magazine covers. Zane is huge news at the moment thanks to his new book’s success.
It’s weird being front page news. Thankfully, over here, people don’t recognize me. Especially all dressed up as I am now.
Apparently, the Mona in NYC is night to the Simone of Paris’s day.
Regardless of that, it doesn't matter that I'm helping him on this case or that I'm even enjoying it and his company... it's the principle. I'm here on sufferance. For a purpose. I can't forget that. But I have been doing.
Stupid, stupid Mona to let myself be manipula
ted by Jake to the extent that I feel like we could eventually be friends.
Like that could ever happen.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have done, but sometimes it’s difficult to contain the way you really feel. I understand that. I feel very guilty for what I’ve done to you, but it won’t push me into doing something that goes against everything I stand for.”
Despite the understanding in my voice, I’m hurt.
Ridiculous, but the truth.
I feel like Jake and I have been developing quite the friendship, his words are simply another reminder that any relationship between the pair of us, even if it’s merely platonic, is doomed for failure.
People don’t make friends with the person who lead their spouse astray.
You can't forget that, Mona.
“I’m not asking you to sleep with him, Mona. I just want you to talk to him. Flatter him, you can do that, surely?”
“No, I really can’t, Jake.”
He’s annoyed at me, but I’m telling the truth. Flirtatious or coquettish behavior just isn’t me.
“You can talk to him, though?”
“Of course. If it’s just general chat.”
“You wouldn’t be uncomfortable or embarrassed?”
“No. But if you wanted me to flirt with him, then I’d just screw it up, and I really want to help, Jake. Honestly. I’m not trying to be difficult. I just want you to know my limitations. I’m useless where men are concerned.”
Even Marina agrees with me, and she says that every woman can be taught to flaunt her best assets. She’s tried and tried to help me open up, to get me to chat and flutter my lashes at guys. I always fail her test. It’s just not in me.
“Okay, change of plan. We’ll blow him away with your brain.”
“My brain?” I ask, unsure of where he’s heading.
“He isn’t just attracted to dumb blondes, Mona. One of his old mistresses had a PHD in archaeology. Did you read up on the bi and the ancient Chinese dynasties involved?” At my nod, he grins. “Good. You can impress him with your knowledge.”
“Will that even work?” Doubtfully, I flicker my gaze between Jake and Rousset. He doesn’t look the sort to be swayed with the size of a woman’s brain. Her boobs, yeah. But cerebral capacity? Uh-huh.
“We can only try, Mona.”
Frowning, I ponder something that’s been bugging me the last few days. “There’s more to this than the commission, Jake, isn’t there? Unless you’re really desperate for the cash, which I doubt, because you’ve spent a small fortune on me to play this part. So, what else is going on? Why are we even going to these lengths, or is this your usual modus operandi?”
His eyes catch mine and there’s a chill to their depths. At the same time, as I’m growing accustomed to, there’s respect there too. I have quite the tendency of superseding his expectations of me. “Rousset is one of Paris’s most renowned fences. This isn’t the first time he’s crossed my radar and if I don’t stop him in his tracks, this won’t be the last either. He’s the only criminal to repeatedly slip through my fingers.”
“So, he’s your nemesis?”
My teasing lightens the harsh cast to his face, a gesture that had his jaw firming, his mouth pursing and tightening. “If nemeses even exist, then yeah, I guess he is.”
“Okay. I’ll help.”
“Thank you, Mona,” Jake murmurs, his gaze on Rousset and not on me. “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
And boy, do I mean that.
The ballroom is filled with people, so much so that the actual temperature of the room has been affected. It’s a crush, and wending our way through the crowd is more than difficult. It takes ten minutes to cross the room and to make it over to the bar. Thankfully, our marks are still in position.
We’re about two feet away from them, waiting for a bartender to appear, when I say the first thing that pops into my head: “If he contacts you, you will buy it for me, darling, won’t you?”
“I’ve told you, I won’t buy you anything illegal. It’s more than my life’s worth, you know how Father gets about wasting my inheritance on unimportant tchotchkes.” Jake is quick to act, thank God, and his words are bland enough that I can continue to weave a tale.
One that will entice a man like Rousset and hold his attention.
Big ask, or what?
“But this isn’t a trifle. This is history. And not just any history. Ancient Chinese history. We’re talking about thousands of years of history wrapped up in one bi. Please, darling, I know you have contacts. Ask around. Look for it. I want it and you know I’ll do anything if you get me something I want.” There’d been about a foot of space between us, but as soon as my words drift off into the noise of the party, I lean into Jake and rest a hand on his shoulder. My other one slips down to his waist and could have been doing anything to Jake’s unsuspecting form. However, I know his jacket will hide my movements from sight.
“You’ll need to make good on that promise if you want me to contact Henri Leroy.”
As I have absolutely no idea who Henri Leroy is, I get the feeling the name was for Rousset’s benefit.
“That’s a given, Jacob.” My voice is a low hum and, I hope, vibrating with seduction and sensual promise.
Ha. Just the thought makes my lips quiver. Sensual promise? Me? Hopefully, my charade will withstand close scrutiny. Otherwise we’re up shit creek without a paddle.
“You know how much I love that period of history. And I’m sure the bi from the Institute is the Imperial Heirloom Seal.”
Jake snorts. “We both know that’s just a guestimate on your part. There’s nothing to substantiate that. I’m not willing to spend more than fifty thousand dollars on it, Mona,” he tells me in a voice that is quite obviously a warning to a cheeky wife.
I pout. “But what if Leroy wants fifty-one thousand?” My hand creeps up to his lapel and inches upwards to almost cup his throat. My fingers spread before they can do that and I play with the lobe of his left ear, gently caressing it between my fingertips.
He licks his lips, his eyelids lowering at the move, arousal making his pupils dilate and for a second, as our gazes clash, I know he isn’t pretending, because the body can’t fake that kind of response.
And for my part, this come on isn’t the torment it would have been with another man.
Gulping, I can feel myself slip out of the character I’ve created and I shake myself back into it.
“If he plays fair, then I’ll get you the bi.”
I squeal in excitement, throw my arms around his neck and leap… Thank God, he catches me, his hands cupping my hips and holding me against him. The brush of my breasts against the crisp wool of his tux is a silken glide thanks to the satin bodice of my dress. I try not to pull away too quickly to remove myself from his vicinity, as that would be counterproductive for the role play we’ve just established, but it’s a close-won thing. My cheeks are flushed and I’m hesitant and not entirely sure why I am, but for whatever reason, to look at him above the throat, where his bowtie is neatly knotted, is impossible.
My discomfort isn’t given much time to lay fallow. All of a sudden, from being overheated, I’m drenched in an ice-cold liquid that has me gasping with shock.
Sucking in two huge breaths, I seek calm and spin around to glare at the person behind me. It’s difficult to retain my cool, but I manage because it’s Renée Rousset with the empty champagne glass in her hand and a face with lines written in apology.
And that can’t be a coincidence. Can it?
“Pardonnez-moi, Madame.”
“Je vous pardonne,” I grit out, telling the woman that I forgive her, even though I don’t.
Christ, of all the ways to attract our attention, she had to throw champagne down my back? Not only scaring the crap out of me, but also ruining my first glam dress.
Bitch.
If I hadn’t agreed to he
lp Jake, that would have cemented my avowal.
Childish, perhaps, but dammit. Luxuries have been short in my life and that isn’t a moan or a complaint, just a fact. When I’m gifted something, I appreciate it and try to care for it. And tonight, I’ve failed to do that.
I’ve never had to wash champagne out of anything. As I’m pondering how best to treat the stain, Jake steps forward and simultaneously Pierre Rousset drifts closer to us. There’s a quick garble of French, the majority of which I understand, running along the lines of, ‘You stupid woman. How could you be so careless. ’ etc. Etc.
They were sticking to their part just in case we can speak their language.
Clever kids.
Rousset is a larger character than the photographs Jake has of him would have had me believe. He’s taller, for one thing. Still short and rotund, but his suits and clever tailoring have him looking more dapper than his humble face should allow. In one hand, even though it’s illegal to smoke indoors, a billowing cloud of smoke puffs free from a fat cigar. The scent makes me want to sneeze, but I manage to withhold the urge. In his other hand, he has a tumbler filled with amber liquid, undiluted as it’s free from any rocks. And his florid features tell me this isn’t the first rockless drink he’s supped tonight.
“You must forgive my wife, Madame, I fear she has imbibed too much this evening. Please, here is my card, feel free to send the dry cleaning charge to my address.”
Rousset proffered me the card, but Jake’s hand snatched out to intercept it. That same hand curls about my waist in what can only be described as a possessive hold.
It’s entirely inappropriate, but a tingle shoots down my spine and back up again.
“If she’s drunk, then you should have the decency to send her home rather than have her making a fool of herself in front of a crowd.” Jake’s voice sounds more American than I’ve ever heard it. And his tone is more akin to a yell than a soft chastisement.
Rousset isn’t pleased, I can discern that from the clench of his jaw. He pulls his wife aside, his grip rough and pincer-like, if the red marks on her arm are anything to go by. He whispers something in her ear and Renée glares at us, before disappearing amidst the crowd.
“Geraldine, please, help Madame. . . ?”
Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I Page 16