She clears her throat and slowly sits up straighter. “Sadie. What’s yours?”
Sadie. I like that name too. It could be French. So much better than Jane Doe.
“Olivier,” I tell her, holding out my hands and grabbing her by the elbows to haul her out of the car.
She’s quite short, and while she’s got an ample amount of curves on her—a refreshing change from the skin-and-bone runway models—she’s still light. I practically pick her up and carefully place her in the chair.
She’s wincing from all the movement but then covers it up as soon as she catches me looking. “I’m fine, I’m good.”
“I’m sure the doctor will prescribe you a generous amount of drugs to take the pain away,” I tell her, placing my hands on the handles and wheeling her toward the doors. “And if he doesn’t, I know where I can get you some.”
She glances up at me over her shoulder. “Money talks, huh?”
Normally I would be more on guard, but I have the feeling that she has no idea who I really am. How could she? She probably just thinks I’m some rich French man with a new Mercedes who was in the right place at the right time.
“Knowing how to speak French talks,” I tell her. “I’m guessing you don’t know any.”
“I know merci and bonjour and ‘Zut alors! I have missed one,’” she says in a ridiculous accent. “That last part is from The Little Mermaid,” she adds.
“I think you’re a bit young to know that movie.”
“I’m twenty-three,” she says stiffly, “and I grew up watching cartoons. Animation is so much more interesting than reality.”
That explains some.
Once inside the emergency room, I take her back to the nurse at the front desk.
“Is this Jane Doe?” the nurse asks.
“What is she saying?” Sadie asks me with those big eyes. “Jane Doe?”
I give her a quick smile and turn my attention back to the nurse. “Her name is Sadie.”
“Sadie what?”
I glance down at Sadie. “Your surname?”
“Reynolds.”
“Sadie Reynolds,” I inform the nurse.
“And she’s not French?”
“No, she’s American. From Seattle.”
“Does she have insurance? This isn’t free for everyone, you know.”
“Don’t worry about that, I’ll cover it.”
Another brow raise. “And who are you?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because I need your credit card.”
“Already? Can’t she see a doctor first?”
“It’s to hold it. It’s the weekend. Many tourists get treated here for God knows what and skip out on the bill.”
I sigh and reach into my pocket, pulling out my wallet.
“Seriously, you don’t have to pay for me,” Sadie says.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, not wanting to explain that it’s not paying that’s the problem here.
I hand the nurse my American Express Black Card, and she stares at it.
“Olivier Dumont?” she repeats.
“That’s me.”
She squints at me, but there’s something changing in her expression. She’s softening, and not in a good way. “You mean the Olivier Dumont? Son of Ludovic Dumont. Of the Dumont family. The handbags.”
Handbags, perfume, haute couture. The Dumont brand is on par with Chanel and Hermès in terms of the billions of dollars in revenue and being intrinsic to French culture and society. Outside of France, no one really knows we’re behind the label, thanks to my father’s wishes to remain as discreet as possible. Inside of France, though, everyone knows who we are.
You buy a Chanel to show the world you’ve made it. You buy a Dumont to show yourself you’ve made it.
At least that’s how my father spins it. It’s worked for him.
“Yes,” I say to her tightly, not wanting her to go on, “that’s me.”
“What’s going on?” Sadie asks, brows furrowed, and I realize she can’t understand a word we’re saying. Thank God. “Is there something wrong?”
Not yet, I think. The thing is, I don’t even have a problem with being recognized. It’s just that, for what it’s worth, I’d rather Sadie keep thinking I’m some random guy, and I want to keep her out of the tabloids. She may be a stranger to me, but she’s been through a lot, and the last thing she needs is to be splashed across newspapers as the mystery girl I “saved.”
As for me, well, this might be the last chance I have to remain as I am in the public eye. The clock is ticking, and I only have three weeks until I need to make a choice. If I choose wrong, the world won’t smile very kindly on me—my uncle will make sure of that.
“Nothing is wrong,” I tell her. Then I open my wallet, take out a wad of hundreds, and slide them toward the nurse. “This,” I say, lowering my voice and leaning in, “is for you to keep quiet about this. I don’t know this girl, I saw her being attacked on the street. She’s a poor American student. She doesn’t deserve to be sold out in any way, nor do I, you understand me?”
The nurse stares wide-eyed at the cash and then quickly nods. She goes to grab it, but I don’t let go. I give her a hard look. “I mean it. Tell me you understand me.”
“I understand,” she says.
“And I want to see a doctor right away,” I tell her, letting go. She quickly takes the money and tucks it in her uniform. Now she’s all smiles.
“Of course,” she says. “Let me see what I can do.”
She gets up and leaves her position, passing through the waiting room full of sick and miserable-looking people.
“What was that all about?” Sadie asks.
“I just made sure we could see a doctor as soon as possible,” I tell her, giving her an easy smile.
“You handed her like five hundred euros!” she exclaims softly.
I shrug. “You get what you pay for.”
Sadie frowns, seeming to sink back in her chair, and I can tell she’s extremely uncomfortable with all this. Too bad. Once I decide to do something, it’s hard for me not to see it through. It’s the only reason why I’ve gotten as far as I have in life.
But money does talk, and it’s not long before we’re being ushered into an examination room, where the doctor does a thorough once-over, complete with X-rays. I stay outside for most of it, checking emails on my phone, because even though it’s Friday night, the work never really stops. A proper vacation should be in order, just a few days without having to do any business, but I always think that when I come down to the Riviera, and it never happens.
Then, just as Sadie is being bandaged up for her sprained ankle and prescribed meds for the pain, the police show up, and the two of us have to give statements.
Naturally, the police are more interested that it’s Olivier Dumont who saved the American stranger than anything. But in this case, it works in our favor, because now they have more reason to track down this man, and, with my penchant for remembering faces, I give a pretty good description of him. If I had to spot him in a lineup, I could with ease.
“Did the police think I was faking the whole thing?” Sadie asks me afterward as I wheel her out to the car. She’s just taken the painkillers, but they haven’t kicked in yet, and I’m carrying her crutches under my arm.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. They were acting weird.”
“It’s probably because you don’t speak French.”
“They were wary of you.”
I cock my brow. “Is that so? I hadn’t noticed. Come on.” I open the car door and bend over to help her out of the chair.
“They were. The doctor was too. And the nurse. They treated you differently.”
“Maybe they’re not used to seeing someone as handsome as me.”
She bursts out laughing, and I try not to feel insulted. It’s not that I doubt my looks for a minute, but it wouldn’t hurt if this pretty little girl thought of me in such a way.
“Maybe,” she says with a wry smile, and she slowly eases into the seat.
While she buckles in, I toss the crutches in the back seat. Then I leave the wheelchair just outside the hospital doors and get in the car. As I start it, I glance over to her and say, “Where to?”
She blinks at me. “I guess it’s too late to catch a train.”
“It is.”
She nods, determination setting over her face. “Well, okay. I guess you can take me back to the hostel. No one took over my bed all day, so it should still be available. Ryan might even let me stay for free.”
For some reason my chest feels hot at that. “Who is Ryan?”
“Oh, no one. He just works the front desk at the hostel.”
“So you want me to drop you off at a hostel?”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” she says, fixing her big blue eyes on me. Merde. She’s serious. As if I would drive her back to a fucking hostel, of all places, so she can fend for herself with a bunch of dirty backpackers.
“I am not taking you to a hostel,” I tell her. “Not even if you weren’t in this condition.”
She snorts loudly. I’m not sure if she meant it to come out that way or if it’s the drugs kicking in, but it’s rather adorable. “Please, I’m used to it. Believe me, I have no problems with slumming it. Been doing it all my life.”
“I’ll put you up in a nice hotel.”
She shakes her head, pressing her lips together for a moment. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“And I’d rather I did, lapin.”
She rolls her eyes and reaches into her purse for her phone. “Okay, I need to know what the hell lapin means.”
I reach over and put my hand over her phone, holding it. “It means you remind me of something good.”
I want to say that it means she’s cute, but I have a feeling she hears that a lot, and in my experience, girls don’t seem to like that word. I also want to say she’s unbelievably sexy, but I know at some point she’s going to figure out I’m calling her a bunny, and she’s probably going to think I’ve got a few screws loose.
A flicker of something dances in her eyes, making them seem lighter. “As long as it’s a good thing,” she says softly. Then she clears her throat. “Who the hell knows what I’ve been called so far on this trip. Men yell at me in French, Italian, German. I doubt any of it’s something good. Probably always to do with my knockers.”
I laugh at her phrase and fight to keep my eyes glued to the road and not her knockers, which are pretty fucking fantastic from what I’ve seen.
“I guess it comes with the territory of backpacking alone,” I offer.
She shrugs and lets out a heavy sigh before leaning her head back on the seat rest. “Yeah. I mean, they did it when I was with Tom, too, but of course he didn’t fucking care. Now I know why.”
Again, heat in my chest. “Who is Tom?”
What other guy’s name is she going to mention?
“Tom is my . . . my ex-boyfriend,” she says. “Fucking asshole supreme.”
At least he’s her ex. “What happened?”
“Well, to give you the bullet-points version, he and I were together, we planned this trip together, we started on this trip together, and then, a month into it, we broke up. He’s back at home. I’m here.”
“You know you’re going to have to give me more than that. What happened?”
“Ugh,” she says in a moan. “Let’s just say I got screwed over. What does it matter, anyhow? We’re done.”
“How much longer do you have left in Europe?”
“I was planning on spending my last three weeks in Spain. I fly out of Madrid. Hoping I can survive grazing on tapas all day, but who the fuck knows if I’ll even make it out of my hostel since I can barely walk.”
I feel bad for her. Not just going through a breakup but having to deal with her injuries as well. “You can’t get an early flight back?”
“No. There’s no changing it. My flight was bargain-basement bin. I’m probably seated on the toilet.”
“You can book another flight back.”
“With what money?”
She stares at me, and I know she’s almost daring me to say, “My money.” But I have a feeling she’s going to see that as charity and get defensive again. “Don’t you have parents or someone back at home to help you out? This is kind of an emergency.”
With a shake of her head, she snorts again. “Parents? No, my dad left when I was young. My mom is broke as fuck. I help her out when I can; it’s not the other way around.”
We drive in silence for a few moments as I pull onto the motorway, heading south. “Your foot will heal fast. The doctor said it was a very light sprain. You’ll be walking in no time.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, and seems to be dozing off. Suddenly she lifts her head. “Where are you taking me?”
“To a hotel. As I said.”
“Where? We’re leaving Nice. Right? That was Nice back there, wasn’t it?”
“The hotel isn’t in Nice.”
She tenses up and stares at me with wide eyes. “Where is it?”
“Relax,” I tell her.
“Are you abducting me?”
I give her a steady look. “S’il vous plaît.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know you. I know your name is Olivier, and you’ve done nothing but be nice and gracious so far, but being taken out of Nice wasn’t part of this whole charity mission.”
“It’s not a charity mission,” I say patiently, even though she’s trying mine. “I’m taking you to Antibes, to the hotel I’m staying at. I can get you a room. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
She grows quiet after that, and I think she may have fallen asleep. I’m starting to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. It’s already two o’clock in the morning, and I have a feeling those drugs are going to hit her really hard, really soon.
That said, she might be easier to handle.
“Why are you doing all of this?” she eventually says, her words slurring slightly. “What do you want from me?”
I can’t help but bristle at that. This girl seems to know how to get me where it stings.
“I can’t just be a concerned citizen, no? A nice guy?”
“There are no nice guys,” she says. Her voice is low, and she stares out the window at the darkness. She’s definitely been fucked over.
“Maybe you’ve been looking in the wrong place.”
“I’m not looking for anyone,” she says sharply. “And anyway, there are no nice guys with money.”
I don’t know how to argue with that. I think of Pascal and Blaise, my cousins. I think of Uncle Gautier. They’re worse than Sadie can probably even imagine. I’ve spent most of my life trying to take after my father, trying to differentiate myself from them. I’ve tried to be seen as the nice guy, but it’s a hard fucking line to walk, and it’s a dirty world.
“You’ll just have to trust me,” I tell her after a moment. “That’s all you can do. If you really want me to turn this car around and take you back to Nice, to that hostel, so some Ryan guy can take care of you, then I will.”
She seems to shut up at that.
“If it helps,” I go on, “the police have seen us together. Believe me, if anything were to happen to you—and it won’t, but you do seem to be terribly suspicious—they would look for me first. They know who I am.”
“And who are you?”
“Olivier Dumont,” I say simply. “And I’m trying to be a fucking nice guy, d’accord?”
The name does nothing to her. She doesn’t know me. I feel a well of relief inside.
“I have a right to be terribly suspicious after what just happened to me,” she says after a moment.
I sigh, my hands squeezing the steering wheel. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”
“But I am choosing to trust you,” she adds quietly.
I glance at her. Her eyes are heavy lidded, her smile wea
k.
She’s passing out.
Luckily, the drive to Antibes is only thirty minutes, especially in this car and on a near-empty motorway. It’s not long before I’m pulling up to the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc. I park the car right in front of the doors and run around to her side.
“Mr. Dumont,” Felix, the valet, says to me as he trots down the stairs. He pauses once he sees me attempting to get a very drugged Sadie out of the car.
“Can I help?” he asks.
I get her arm around my shoulder, her head lolling from side to side like a rag doll. This isn’t going to work if she can’t walk.
“Just get the backpack and crutches,” I tell him. “I’m taking her to my room.”
As Felix does that, I stoop and pick Sadie up in my arms, climbing the stairs to the hotel with her. I stride through the lobby, glad that no one is about—not that anyone here would dare report on anything about the guests. Absolute discretion—along with luxury amenities and the sea—is the reason why so many celebrities and politicians stay here.
“Marie,” I say to the night receptionist as I pass by her, “do you have any of the villas available tonight?”
She stares at the passed-out girl in my arms for a moment before remembering her manners, shaking sense into herself. “Let me check.” As I wait for the lift, she does a quick search in the system. “Villa Eleana is free. That K-pop band left this morning.” She trails off, staring again, this time at Sadie’s bandaged foot. “Is she . . . okay?”
“She’s fine. Just a sprain, and the doctor gave her drugs,” I say quickly, not wanting her to pry any more.
“And the villa is for . . . ?”
“It’s for me,” I tell her as the lift doors open and I step in. “This is Sadie. She’ll be staying in my room.”
She makes an O motion with her mouth just as the doors close. It’s the first time Marie has seen me bring a girl to the hotel only to get her a separate room.
There’s a first time for everything.
CHAPTER THREE
SADIE
Pain invades my dreams.
Then light behind my lids.
In the moments before I open my eyes, I try to figure out where I am. There’s a bit of a delay to my thoughts, and for that I’m grateful. I know normally I would be panicking because—
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