by Donna Alam
I won’t tell.
A whispered word. A pout. She’s sliding her arms around his neck, her fingertips at his nape. Her last glance at the camera is a triumphant one as Remy’s fingers trail up her slender arm.
Then the screen goes black, jumping back to the starting frame.
It’s just seconds long. A minute? Two tops.
How long does it take to ruin?
Ruin a night.
Ruin a relationship.
Ruin an appetite for good liquor.
Or maybe not as I throw back the remains of my margarita.
‘Well, if it isn’t the girl who likes sparkles.’
Despite positioning myself as I have, it seems some people can’t take a hint.
‘I’m sorry?’ Flipping my phone face down, I turn my head over my shoulder, not quite in the mood to give a fuck about appearances.
‘Rose, right? You helped me buy my grandma a gift at the Omega store?’
‘Oh. Right.’ I allow my eyebrows to relax as the man rests his forearm on the marble bar top.
‘You wouldn’t let me buy you a coffee, but maybe you’ll allow me to buy you a drink.’
I glance and my glass and decide why the hell not. After all, I’m not the one who’s been cavorting with my ex in my skivvies. Though maybe cavorting is stretching it some, because despite the protestations of my mystery sender’s second text (that’s my mystery sender also known as Amélie, I’d guess) I don’t believe for one minute that the clip cut where it did in deference to the intimacy between them.
I’m not only saying I don’t believe they were screwing. I’m also saying I believe the whole thing to be a set up. Fake. Total bullshit. But that doesn’t mean I’m not very, very pissed. Because I am.
Je suis trop vénère. I am very angry. Énèrve. Pissed off!
‘I think I would like that. Carson, right?’
Drinks are ordered and I turn from my self-imposed timeout to spend a while with a cute guy who wants to talk to me. And talk we do. He tells me he’s in construction, but I guess he means property development. There aren’t many construction workers who wear fifty thousand-dollar watches and smell like oud wood, as far as I can tell. He tells me he studied architecture at Cornell but that he doesn’t practice, instead taking an interest in the family business.
‘So concierge, huh? You must have some crazy stories.’
‘Crazy stories from crazy rich people?’
He brings his beer—the very unfancy Kronenbourg 1664—to his mouth as he nods.
‘Rich people like you, you mean?’
‘My family is wealthy,’ he says, setting down his glass again. ‘Me? Not so much.’
‘Says the man wearing handmade shoes.’ I tip my head forward, glancing down at his feet. ‘Called it.’
‘These were a gift,’ he protests and, as though uncomfortable, hooks his feet around the legs of the bar stool.
‘Um-hm.’ I slide him a sceptical look.
‘Okay, so I’ve got money,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘It doesn’t make me a bad person, does it?’
‘I don’t know you well enough to decide.’
‘Well, I think we need to do something about that.’ He clinks his glass against mine and I suddenly realise he thinks we’re flirting. Damn.
‘You know I’ve got a boyfriend, right?’
‘Yeah. A boyfriend you’ve left at the gala, I’m guessing.’ He tips his glass in the vague direction of the ball room. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Not particularly.’ An ache creeps up the back of my throat, though I swallow it down.
‘Come on. We were getting along so well. Don’t go cold on me now.’
‘I guess you were headed to the gala, too.’
‘The monkey suit gave it away.’ I nod as he straightens his cufflinks then his sleeves. ‘I have a ticket, but I didn’t even make it into the room.’
‘Oh?’
‘I couldn’t bring myself to.’ A smile flitters across his face. It doesn’t last very long.
‘At four thousand euros a ticket, I’d at least made sure I was there for the dinner.’
‘Was it worth it?’
‘Was it worth four thousand euros?’ I shake my head. ‘If I were you, I’d go help myself to a couple of bottles of champagne.’
‘Where are your bottles, then?’ He hooks his arm over the back of his stool with a grin, glancing across the bar to where my clutch lies.
‘That’s different. I didn’t pay for my ticket. But then you already guessed that. Probably even back at the Omega store.’
‘You can’t blame a guy for wanting to take a pretty girl for a coffee.’
‘You were a couple of months too late for that even then.’
‘Because of Remy Durrand.’ The way he says the name of the man I love tells me all I need to know.
‘So, you did hear.’ At the store when I’d mentioned Remy’s name to Yuri. I wonder what else he heard as I take another sip of my drink. I set it down, not quite meeting his gaze.
‘Yeah, I heard. It seems we’re both sitting out here for the same reason.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ I reply, staring at my glass still.
‘We’re sitting at this bar because he’s in there and not out here.’ He taps his forefinger against the bar top to emphasis his point, and though he might be right, I’m not about to agree. ‘My guess is you’ve found out some things about Remy that aren’t in keeping with the man you think you know.’
‘If you’re trying to get me to agree, to say anything against him, you’re wasting your time.’
‘Well, honey, I don’t need to hear your reasons to hate him. I have my own.’
‘I don’t hate him,’ I reply through a deep sigh. ‘Just the opposite.’
‘Then I don’t envy you. He must be a hard man to love.’
‘You’re wrong. Loving isn’t supposed to be hard. That’s why they call it falling in love. Because it happens so fast, it’s impossible to do anything about it.’
‘Falling in love might be easy. Staying in love with a man who treats you wrong sounds like the definition of insanity.’
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ I suddenly decide because this feels wrong. It’s not the act of sitting in a bar with a man, chatting. But rather sitting with a man who seems intent on telling me who the man I love really is. ‘Thank you for the drink.’ I slide my clutch from the bar, taking out a few euros to leave as a tip. ‘But I think I’ll get back to the party.’ And Remy. Because this text isn’t going to sort itself out.
‘Wait.’ His fingers curl around my forearm and I find myself staring at them. ‘Remy Durrand is not a good man. Maybe you haven’t found that out yet, but you will.’
‘You’re mistaken if you think I need some kind of protection. Remy would never hurt me.’
‘No,’ intones a deep and familiar vice, ‘but he would hurt the man who’s touching you.’
I try not to turn, to look at Remy, but the pull him is too great. It’s unfair that anger looks so good on him, his eyes the colour of stormy seas. Meanwhile, my twelve-hour lipstick is likely long gone and the tears I’ve tidied with the napkin have probably ruined my smoky eye.
‘Well, if it isn’t the cunt of Monte-Cristo.’
My head whips to the amiable man I’ve spent the last thirty minutes with. His fingers tighten on my arm, the sudden venom in his tone a shock to me.
‘I’d say it’s good to see you but we’d both know I’d be lying, Durrand.’
‘Let go of her, Hayes.’ Remy’s command is so cold I think it might’ve been less frightening if he’d actually yelled.
‘Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I’m tired of having things taken away from me.’
‘This isn’t business, Hayes. If you have something to say to me about business, you should make an appointment. Not lay your hands on the woman I love.’
‘Hear that, sweetheart. The
man with no heart says he loves.’ Sliding from his stool, he brings his mouth to my ear. ‘The man is a fraud, just like the watch he wears. You can’t trust a thing he says.’
‘Let go of me, Carson. We were just having a drink.’ I’m not sure who needs to hear this; the man who has my arm or the man staring daggers at him.
‘You have my card,’ Carson murmurs. His grip relaxes but doesn’t immediately release me. ‘If you need me, I’m only a call away.’
‘She won’t be needing you.’ Remy’s declaration is filled with menace as I take a step towards him. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Hayes,’ he adds as I brush past him without the slightest intention of being the bone these two dogs are baying for.
‘What the fuck was that all about?’ One grip is exchanged for another, Remy’s question a low growl in my ear.
‘What does it matter?’ I retort, trying to pull away. After the drama, my heart is now smarting. I dash the back of my hand against my cheeks, reluctant to let him see the manifestation of my anger.
‘Rose, what is it? Did he hurt you?’
‘Him?’ His head jerks back at my tone, almost as though I’d dealt him a slap. ‘Carson Hayes hasn’t hurt me. You, however . . .’ My gaze rakes over every painfully beautiful inch of him.
‘What on are you talking about?’ This isn’t an appeal for information, more a deflection. A swerve. ‘One minute you were dancing with Rhett, the next you were gone. How the fuck do you know him?’
‘He was in the store when I got your watch fixed. Not that it’s any of your business.’ I steeple my hands over my nose, the tips of my fingers at the very corner of my eyes, blotting those building tears. ‘I helped him choose a watch for his grandmother’s birthday.’
‘Carson Hayes doesn’t have a grandmother,’ he growls again. ‘His grandfather has a succession of women in his life younger than his grandson.’
‘How very Riviera,’ I snipe. One walk along any marina on the Côte d’Azure and you’ll see rich old men surrounded by a bevy of beautiful and much younger women.
‘And you just happened to see him in the store, but you didn’t think to mention it to me?’
‘Why would I mention it? I mean, it’s not like I had a fiancée hiding somewhere, is it?’ I retort, using the same tone. ‘You don’t get to make me feel like shit, Remy Durrand. Not when I was doing something nice for you. I’m not the one who owns liar pants.’
‘What?’ His brows draw down over angry green eyes. ‘Why weren’t you there for the speeches?’
‘The speeches? Or your speech? Urgh!’ My feet start to move again to put distance between me and this situation. Me and this fuck up.
What’s the big deal?
Like I speak French!
I don’t get far as he spins me around, pressing me against a nearby door, my palms flat against the wood.
‘Listen to me, I don’t care about the speech. I just want you to tell me what this is about?’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there, but while I know you like an audience, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen enough of you today.’ I snatch my hands away, sliding out between his body and the doorframe. I’m so angry right now, I can’t even think. I need a moment alone to process how best to approach this fucking text.
‘You can’t leave.’
‘Pretty sure that’s what I’m doing,’ I mutter, sweeping down the long corridor to the elevator.
‘Tell me what I’m supposed to have done,’ he roars after me, bringing my feet to an immediate stop. I swing around.
‘You lied to me again. You were with her in the penthouse. Drinking wine, half undressed, her in her fucking underwear!’ My fists pound his chest, and I wonder how I got here—got to be in front of him when he was behind me just a moment ago.
One giant leap for Rose.
One angry blow for Remy.
One aching heart.
‘When are you going to stop hiding things from me?’
46
Remy
My fingers loop her wrists as she stares up at me, her eyes bright with recriminations and tears. I want to wrap her in my arms and squeeze my love into her. Make her understand this is who I am. That I don’t know how to be other. That I will always seek to protect her. That I’ll do anything in my power not to hurt her, even if that includes hiding things.
Motorcycles, yachts, helicopters. Money, motivations, inheritance. Where would I even begin to explain? Tell of the secrets I keep? And how could I describe to her the magnitude of my dread when I’d returned to the table to find she was missing. And then to see her sitting with Carson Hayes; a man whose legacy I have ruined?
She could never understand. Not in a million years.
‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should’ve told you, but I didn’t see what that would achieve.’
‘It might’ve stopped me from feeling like shit.’ Her voice is husky with emotion, laced with pain. ‘She sent me a video, Remy. She was in your bedroom.’ Her fists unfold, her forehead and fingers pressed to my chest as though she’s not sure if she’d like to hold me tighter or disappear.
I underestimated Amélie’s level of cunning. I should’ve known a revenge fuck wasn’t on her agenda. Just revenge.
‘There was nothing to show. I didn’t touch her.’ Surely any recording would reveal just that? My mind flits back to that evening. Lingerie. Wine glasses. My shirt already open. I can see how it might’ve looked, but the evidence is hardly damning.
‘It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.’ Her words are muffled against my chest and though I long to wrap her in my arms, it feels safer to keep her manacled.
‘She wasn’t there by invitation, and nothing happened, I swear it. It happened the day I asked you to bring me my fencing kit. I got home that evening and she was there. A few words passed between us. I told her to get dressed and get out, yet I left first.’
Her gaze rises to mine. ‘You just left her there?’
‘It seemed easier. I haven’t been back to the place since. She was the reason I was staying on the yacht.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this?’
‘I didn’t see how it would be helpful. What it would achieve. I have no interest in Amélie Pastor.’
‘What about me. Do you have any feelings for me?’
‘I love you.’ My reply is instant and vehement. ‘I would do anything for you, you know that.’
‘Then you have to start telling me the truth.’
‘Come with me.’ Without letting go of her wrists, I move her in the direction of the elevator. The doors open. We step inside, and I swipe my card against the sensor, keying in the number of the top floor.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To somewhere I can show you my truth.’
‘I sense that’s a euphemism.’ She huffs unhappily, unfolding her purse from where it’s pressed between her ribs and the inside of her arm. The action pulls my attention to the angry rise and fall of her breasts. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks as I take the tiny purse from her hands, slipping it to my jacket pocket.
‘How could you think for one minute I would want anyone but you.’ My gaze drinks her in, bold and possessive
‘That’s not why I’m angry.’ She angles her chin, her gaze burning defiantly.
‘Isn’t it? Not even for a minute?’ I step closer, my hand pressed against her ribs, just as her purse was. She feels so delicate here, her ribs the fine lines of an artist’s brushstroke. And I should know because I’ve catalogued every dip and curve of her.
Her chest expands but I don’t give in to the temptation, keeping my eyes on her face. ‘When I saw you with Carson Hayes, I would’ve happily ripped off his arms for touching you. Tell me you don’t feel the same way about Amélie.’
‘This is about you keeping things from me.’
‘Everyone has secrets, Rose. We even hide the truth from ourselves. But this, this is something else.’
‘It isn’t jealousy, Remy.’
‘Isn’
t it? Not even a little bit? Because, right now, I myself am feeling very covetous,’ I whisper as I trace the slope of her shoulder, my finger sweeping down her bare arm. She shivers as I reach her hand, her breath hitching a little as I press it between us to where I’m rock hard. ‘He touched you, and you’re mine. I want you to feel that possession, Rose. I want to obliterate his touch with mine.’
‘Except you don’t own me.’ In the soft light of the elevator, her gaze is burned honey, her words a soft barb.
‘I own you here.’ I press my lips to the rise of her breasts. ‘As you own me.’
As her fingers tighten around my cock, the elevator doors slowly open, which is probably good timing, considering the placement of the security cameras.
Six steps and we’re at the door to my suite. Two more and we’re inside, the door slamming closed. Our mouths immediately fuse, her hands grasping and frantic as she grapples with the lapels of my jacket, pushing it from my shoulders.
‘Let’s go inside.’
‘No.’ Her response is immediate and adamant. She gives up on my jacket, her hands at my chest now instead as she backs me up against the wall. I’m so sorry I hurt her, but so ready to make this about something else when she drops to her knees in the foyer, her fingers plucking at my shirt and my belt.
As much as I want this, my conscience gets the better of me.
This is my fuck up. I’ve made her hurt. I don’t deserve—
‘Rose, non. Come here. Let me touch you.’
‘Fuck you, Remy Durrand.’
The clink of my belt and the roar of my zipper, and any protest I might have is swallowed as her cool fingers wrap my cock. I hiss out a quiet curse as she squeezes just the right amount.
‘You let her touch you.’ In the dark, her words are a recrimination, her dress a shimmering pool in the moonlight.
‘No.’ My denial is a carnal, needy groan. ‘I pushed her away because she wasn’t you.’
‘Not in the video. In your office that first day. I didn’t even know who she was, yet you let her kiss you. You didn’t even look at me. You wouldn’t look at me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ My apology is slurred as she runs her thumb over my crown. I sound drunk—drunk on her. ‘I was protecting you.’