“I smacked my cheek on one of the brass poles of the awning,” Nina fibbed quickly as she dabbed on a bit more makeup. Cakey stuff in the beginning, but if she blended it well, it wouldn’t look too horrid.
The bigger problem was that the slightest touch sent needles of pain through her cheekbone. She hoped Calvin hadn’t cracked it.
“You’re so clumsy, Mom.”
Olivia laid her head on Nina’s shoulder, and for a moment, Nina placed her hand on the little girl’s cheek and held her close. Tomorrow, Olivia would go back to Massachusetts. It was worse every time she left, but there was no other option. Nina certainly couldn’t bring up her daughter in this house.
“Can I sleep in here with you tonight?”
Nina’s stomach churned. At nine years old, Olivia was getting too old for sleepovers with her mother. She knew it too, which was why Nina knew she only ever asked for them when she was worried about something. When Calvin had been unnecessarily cruel to the girl, who reached out to him as any child would in search of their father.
“Of course, darling,” Nina said. “Go put on your pajamas and brush your teeth. I’ll meet you back in here.”
Once Olivia was gone, Nina examined her face again. She never slept with makeup on, but she couldn’t risk Olivia seeing what had happened. It was just a chance she would have to take for some much-needed closeness with her daughter.
Because after tomorrow, it would be back to normal. Back to being totally and utterly alone.
Nina pulled her phone out of her vanity drawer. Her fingers hovered over the buttons as she opened a text chain.
She shouldn’t. But she knew she would. Because she had meant what she said. She couldn’t fight it any longer.
In this world, Nina felt like she was drowning. Matthew was the only fresh air to be found.
Nina: I need to see you. Tomorrow. Please.
It took a few long minutes of staring at the moving ellipses, but he did reply. He always did.
Maya: I told you. We can’t.
Nina: You told me that, and then we saw each other the next day. I need to see you.
More ellipses. More wavering again and again. Nina turned her face to the side to examine her makeup. If she kept it up, no one would notice while the bruises healed. Except maybe Matthew.
If she were smart, she would cancel this plea.
Maya: Our place at eight. I’ll be in the back.
Nina: Envy. See you there. x
To be continued in…
THE PERFECT WOMAN
June 2020
Preorder here: www.nicolefrenchromance.com/theperfectwoman
Need more Nina and Matthew now?
Read their FREE first night together at the Grace Hotel, three months earlier in THE SCARLET NIGHT: www.nicolefrenchromance.com/thescarletnight
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(Keep reading for a sneak peek!)
Acknowledgments
I sat down the other day and sketched out all the things that have happened to me over the course of writing this book. It was a lot. More than I really expected. During this time (approximately six months), I experienced the death of my grandfather and the passing of one of my best friend’s husband, my son’s transition into one new school, and then another, a severe allergic reaction during the holidays, a basement that flooded four times within the span of as many weeks (yes, we lost most of our furniture, but thankfully, not our keepsakes), and then a move to a new home.
It’s been a LOT. But you’ve hung in there with me. And for that, I have some special thanks:
To my readers, especially the diehards (you know who you are): you’ve been patient. Matthew Zola came into your lives, what, three years ago now? You’ve been asking for his story ever since. And then to have it delayed multiple times…and then, on top of that, for it to be “this” kind of story?
Saints. All of you.
To my alpha readers (Patricia and Danielle): your constant cheerleading keeps these stories going, this one more than most. I doubt I could have finished it without you. And for the beta readers who took this on and took the time to give me feedback while reading (Erika and Shauna in particular), thank you for alllllll you notice. You take a half-decent book and make it sing. Additional thanks go to Talia from Red Hot Ink Book Blog for checking my Italian—both the language and customs.
To my outstanding editorial team, Emily Hainsworth and Judy Zweifel, thank you for being so flexible and working with my nutty schedule for the last year. I could not do this without both of your expertise and eagle eyes. Additionally, thank you to my publicist, Dani Sanchez, for directing my madness when my plans seemed to be changing, on average, about once a week. You save me constantly.
To author friends who cheer me on, listen to my gripe, sometimes read chapters, or just say hello when things are REALLY happening, your support means everything. This goes times a million to Laura Halloran (I LOVE YOU, my seeeeester), Jane Anthony, Kim Loraine, Harloe Rae, Claudia Burgoa, Parker S. Huntington, and Maya Hughes.
Last but not least, to my family. To Trish—thank you for believing in me enough to join me in this venture! Your cheerleading means the world. To my kids, for humbling me and being a constant source of joy and pride. And to the Dude, for inspiring Matthew more than you know and letting me drag you all the way to Arthur Avenue and for sitting through Turandot at the Met in the name of research. I love you. You are home to me.
About the Author
Nicole French is a hopeless romantic, low-key fashion addict, and total bookworm. When not writing fiction, she is hanging out with her family, playing soccer with the rest of the thirty-plus crowd in Seattle, or going on dates with her husband. In her spare time, she likes to go running or practice the piano, but never seems to do either one of these things as much as she should.
For more information about Nicole French and to keep informed about upcoming releases, please:
Visit her website at www.nicolefrenchromance.com
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Also by Nicole French
The Hate Vow
Eric de Vries. Looks like millions. Worth billions. A body like the David with a mind to match.
Unfortunately for this wayward heir, to keep his money, he needs a wife. And of all the women in the world, he chooses me.
Too bad I've hated him for five years, since he took all my tears and tossed me away. The guy slept his way through half of New England and discarded women like hotel toiletries.
Been there. Done that.
Still...what would you do for twenty million dollars? Would you wear the dress? Fake a smile for the man who broke your heart?
Or would you run far, far away?
Yeah, that's what I thought. I'll see you at the church.
Start reading here: www.nicolefrenchromance.com/thehatevow
Legally Yours
I had a plan.
Finish law school. Start a job. Stay away from men like Brandon Sterling.
Cocky, overbearing, and richer than the earth, he thinks the world belongs to him, and that includes me.
Yeah, no. Think again.
It doesn’t matter that his blue eyes look straight into my soul, or that his touch melts my icy reserve.
It doesn’t even matter that past all that swagger, there’s a beautiful, damaged man who has so much to offer beyond private planes and jewelry boxes.
But I had a plan: no falling in love.
I just have to convince myself.
Book I is available FREE: www.nicolefrenchromance.com/legallyyours
Bad Idea
Repeat after me: stay away from the hot girl.
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The beautiful girl.
The f**king ray of sunshine in the middle of your delivery route.
Layla Barros is everything I never knew I wanted. Everything I’ll never have.
She’s an innocent young student.
I’m a convicted felon.
She’s rich girl from a nice family.
I’ve got nothing but a broken home.
But if I’m an addict, she’s my drug. I can’t stay away, even though I know I’ll ruin her in the end.
She might be the girl of my dreams, but I was always a bad idea.
Start reading here: www.nicolefrenchromance.com/bad-idea
The Hate Vow
An Excerpt
Tick. Tock. Tick.
The gong of the antique clock rippled through the air at exactly 10 a.m., Eastern Standard Time. Eric knew this because it was synced to his watch, and his grandmother, Celeste de Vries, always had the correct time. She was nothing if not punctual. And she demanded the same from everyone else.
Normally he wouldn’t have minded the familiar old clock. It might have even been a comfort, considering he hadn’t heard it for so long. But today he was hungover like a piece of wet laundry, a headache splitting his temples in two. Now, that wasn’t particularly odd for his average Sunday morning. Usually he’d be wrapped up in a pair of shapely legs—sometimes two pairs if he’d played his cards right the night before.
But emergency tea with the de Vries clan matriarch? At ten in the morning? In New York, four hours from his apartment in Boston? Not Eric’s modus operandi. Not by a long shot.
It didn’t help that he hadn’t seen his family in close to ten years, and the last time wasn’t pretty. “Call me when someone’s dying.” Famous last words to Celeste de Vries, the formidable head of the de Vries family. Right before he stormed out of this very penthouse to make a life of his own, separate from this tangled web of power and manipulation.
Well. She did.
“Madame will see you now, Master Eric.”
Eric looked up to find Garrett, Grandmother’s butler, waiting for him in the hall. It was amazing. The man really hadn’t changed in a decade, despite being as ancient as ever. Eric was thirty-two, with the filled-out chest, occasional gray hair, and three fine lines over his forehead to show for his time away. But Garrett was just as much of a well-maintained antique as the Ming vase sitting in the foyer or the salmon-colored wainscoting of the penthouse’s halls. He was an anachronism, something frozen in time. A butler in New York City in the twenty-first century. But that was Grandmother. Tradition or death.
“Thanks, Garrett.” Eric followed the butler to the parlor at the southeast corner of the apartment.
Yes. His grandmother had a parlor nestled in a maze of hallways crisscrossing the complete top floor of a building she owned on Eighty-Seventh Street and Park Avenue. In New York City, one of the most crowded places on the planet, his ninety-pound grandmother occupied more space than the mayor.
Nothing in that room had changed either. Not the priceless antiques, the Chesterfield furniture, not even the family portrait that was painted twenty-five years ago at her famous rose garden in the Hamptons. There was Eric’s father, mother, and him as a child; next to his aunt, uncle, and their daughter, Nina; plus a whole host of extended family, all presided over by Grandmother, sitting in the middle of them like a brood hen.
Their smiles were the opposite of genuine. The kinds of smiles where people stare imperiously at the camera without showing their veneered teeth. Blue and gray eyes vacant in the summer sunlight. Despite the life blooming all around them, everyone was dead inside.
A flood of memories washed over Eric. Him at five, in knee socks and a sweater vest, trying not to fidget while Grandmother lectured all the ways he was expected to fulfill his destiny as the heir to the family fortune. Nina, his younger cousin, listening curiously while she tugged at her braids and clutched a stuffed panda.
Eric at eleven, arguing over playing fucking polo in Westchester instead of baseball in Central Park like he wanted. Like his father, deceased just a few months prior, had promised. Nina had cried and been shuttled to her etiquette lessons.
Eighteen, howling his decision to attend Dartmouth instead of Princeton like the rest of the de Vries clan. Nina, watching with wide eyes while she focused on her homework. She would attend Smith, of course, like her mother, Violet.
And the last time. Twenty-two, fresh out of school with a degree in English instead of finance. Eric was expected to take the reins of the family business, but instead he gave it the finger and went to Harvard Law instead. He had enough money in the trust from Father’s death to pay for it himself. Okay, so it wasn’t much of a rebellion, trading one white-collar career for another. But he did it himself, and did it without being held under the cranky, wrinkled thumb of the resident tyrant of the Upper East Side.
Celeste Annika Van Dusen de Vries.
“Grandson.”
Her voice also sounded exactly the same: sharp, but rough around the edges, like a serrated knife. But when Eric turned toward the leather armchair under the original Van Gogh, he found the one thing that had changed completely: Grandmother herself.
She was never a big woman, but now she stooped like a vulture, withered like a half-sheared, weather-beaten branch. She wore a scarf around her head—Hermès, no doubt—though wisps of white hair slipped under its edges. She still wore matching Chanel coordinates, but the tweed pantsuit hung off a frail body that seemed mostly skin and bones. When she breathed, something rattled in her lungs from across the room, like a brewing storm.
“Sit down, Eric,” she ordered, gesturing toward the couch with a thin fingernail still polished a tasteful, girlish pink.
“Grandmother.” He greeted her with a stiff nod, but obeyed. Old habits die hard. “It’s…a pleasure to see you again.”
It was not. But Eric’s manners were too well-entrenched to say anything else. He might not have forgiven her for what she did, but he was too well-bred to be rude. Fuck.
Grandmother balanced her hands on the oxygen tank in front of her, then appraised her grandson openly. Eric willed himself not to look away or fidget with his clothes. You’re a man, Eric. Remember that. Because he was not the scrawny twenty-two-year-old she last saw. Since telling his family where they could stick it, he had gone to the best law school in the world, worked his ass off at a top-twenty firm, and then started his own shop with one of his best friends. Eric was proud of what he had accomplished without his family’s money or connections. He didn’t need this frail woman’s approval anymore. He didn’t need any of them and hadn’t for a long time.
“You’ve grown up.” Grandmother waved at Garrett to bring in the tea. “You’ve done well with your little law firm, I understand. Although I see it hasn’t taught you to stop dressing like a pauper.”
Eric crossed one foot over his knee, ignoring her jibe at his T-shirt and jeans. He generally preferred more tailored looks, to tell the truth. A whole rack of designer suits hung in his closet at home. Armani. Boss. Tom Ford. Burberry. He liked a nicely cut lapel, a well-chosen pocket square. He had a tailor in Boston on speed dial. The worn denim and concert T-shirt were for her—He knew they would piss her off.
“I have done well,” he agreed. There was no point in being modest. Since he, Skylar Crosby, and Kieran Beckford started Copley Associates two years ago, the firm had gone from three attorneys to ten, and they were looking to hire two more. They’d already developed a reputation for being ruthless and savvy in a city chock-full of lawyers.
Grandmother nodded. “Yes, yes. Although I’m sure it’s helped to have the Sterling and de Vries names behind it, hasn’t it? Nothing like new money to get things started. Isn’t it Sterling’s wife, that little no-name from Brooklyn who nearly ruined Ellen Chambers’s family, who’s your partner? Pity. His first wife came from such good family.”
Her eyes gleamed in that way they always did when she talked about other members of her “stat
ion.” Always conniving, always judging. She wasn’t stupid. She likely knew all the details of Eric’s business arrangement with Skylar and her husband, Brandon Sterling, a former investment magnate and now-inventor. Brandon divested from his companies six years ago to play in his lab, but the guy still had one of the biggest stock portfolios on the eastern seaboard, and his new company’s legal needs initially kept Copley afloat. In Grandmother’s estimation, Sterling was a fish worth watching.
Or, Eric wondered vaguely, was Brandon a whale? Would that make his grandmother Captain Ahab?
Instead of answering, Eric remained quiet. He knew that game, and he wasn’t there to play it. It would be easier, though, if he actually knew why he was there at all.
Garrett wheeled in the tea tray and fixed them cups while they eyed each other over the porcelain. By the time he parked it on one side of the room, even Grandmother was ready to be done with the silence.
“Leave us, Garrett.” It was not until the old man was gone that she turned again to Eric, taking a deep breath through her oxygen mask before speaking. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I requested your presence.”
“‘Request’ is a bit generous, but sure. I’m curious.”
He had received a phone call two days ago from her personal assistant, who simply said Eric was expected for tea. To deal with an emergency. That was it. He could have ignored it, just like he ignored all of the embossed invitations for Christmas dinner or sporadic phone calls to join the family at the Hamptons. They had an arrangement. She could pretend Eric hadn’t told his entire family to stay the fuck out of his life or he’d air their dirty laundry to the press. And he could pretend they didn’t say anything to him at all.
The Other Man (Rose Gold Book 1) Page 39