Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
“Where is Madeline?” I demand, though I assume she’s overseeing the new nanny. I expected to find all four of them here.
The chef, pivots at my voice. “There was an emergency,” Zoe begins. “Madeline’s granddaughter…” But the rest of her answer trails off under the weight of my angry stare.
“Where are the children?” My insides contract again but not with appetite this time.
“With the new nanny. In the garden, I think.”
“Alone?” I growl, pivoting away. “Outside, with the nanny we know nothing about?” I demand of Jacques.
“Within the property boundaries with the nanny whose background check—”
“Is still in the preliminary stages,” I snap because not even Jacques is that good. “Get out of my way.” I brush by him, making for the garden.
“Madeline’s daughter had an accident.” His voice follows me out onto the terrace. “She left under an hour ago to look after her granddaughter.”
“You should’ve said,” I snap, not bothering to turn.
“It wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“You’re fired.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Pack your bags,” I snarl, stepping into the blinding sunlight. I automatically shade my eyes, scanning the grounds as I try to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. It’s a large garden by Paris standards, which is to say it’s not much bigger than a couple of tennis courts.
“Before you make a complete ass of yourself, remember that you trust Emmy implicitly. And she trusts her friend with her livelihood. Hell, probably with her life. Plus, the woman is a fucking a doctor, Luc.”
“Doctors are susceptible to the same temptations,” I mutter. “Money is—”
My words halt as Sylvie ’s muffled scream cuts through the air. My heart seizes, my next reaction purely instinctive, as pivot I break into a run.
“Merde.” Following the sounds of her anguish, I race across the terrace, swinging around the balustrade of the outdoor staircase. The soles of my shoes almost slip against the marble steps as I sprint in the direction of her distress. The basement.
She shrieks again, the sound quickly followed by an angry bellow. Felix.
I call my son’s name in a blind panic. He shouts out again, but I can’t process as my quads work like pistons and my lungs like bellows.
Mon dieu. Please keep them safe.
“I’m coming!” I shout, yanking on the doors and…
I halt at the sight of Felix and almost skid on the wet tile. He’s wearing his swimming shorts, and his hair is wet.
“Watch and weep, losers!” he crows from the far end of the pool. At the other end, Sylvie begins up an angry chant.
“Cheater, cheater, nev-a, nev-a beat-er!” Her bare arms pump angrily, her displeasure drowned out by her brother’s bellow as he cannonballs into the azure pool.
The pool. They’re at the fucking pool.
“Tu triches!” With a squeal of frustration, Sylvie swings around. “He is cheating! Primrose, it was not his turn. Tell him, please!”
My gaze moves to the figure behind my daughter. Medium height and curvy, her honey blond waves haphazardly escaping a hair clip as she bends over the padded lounger to rummage in a large cloth bag.
“Cheaters never win,” the woman answers distractedly.
I give my head a shake because her ass is entirely too distracting clad—barely contained—in a pair of tiny red bikini bottoms. Fear relinquishes its hold on my gut, the sensation morphing and stirring to an inappropriate one. It’s a base reaction, an animal one. A reaction that’s hardly surprising thanks to the woman’s outfit, which is more appropriate for the beaches of
San-Tropez than swimming with small children.
Small children under her charge.
“But he is winning.” Sylvie scrunches her hands into tiny fists. “And he is cheating!”
“Only if you let him.” Something about the woman’s voice seems familiar. “Where is that… ah, got it!” She pivots, a wide smile on her pretty face.
I think I must be seeing things.
“Now, let’s pop this adorbs little swimming cap on your adorbs little head. Even if it is a bit like shutting the gate after the horse has bolted,” she almost mutters under her breath.
“We don’t have horses in Paris,” my daughter scoffs. “Primrose, what is adorbs?”
“Adorbs is short for adorable. Tu es trop adorable,” she adds, attempting to wrestle my daughter into her swimming cap. “There must be a learning curve to this, right?” Her eyes suddenly lift, and her words halt.
My heart follows both those actions. And in the same sequence.
I’m not seeing things as her face, heart-shaped and angelic, blanches, and her rosebud lips fall softly open for the second time in our very short acquaintance. The first being right before she tipped on her toes to kiss me last night.
My hands clench by my sides as I recall the vivid feel of her. The full softness of her breasts and the soft brush of her breath as I’d kissed her neck. She’d looked so out of place, like Little Red Riding Hood lost in the forest full of wolves. Though she wore no red cloak, just red lipstick on lush lips. The minute I’d set eyes on her, I’d wanted to kiss her. But I’d sensed she wasn’t for me. That she wasn’t in the right place.