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)
A frown ripples across her brow. “Just try it and you’ll see.”
I press my hand to the shelf nearest her head. “Fuck around and find out?” The way my breath disturbs her hair is fascinating.
“Exactly,” she whispers softly, her hand tightening on her towel as her chest heaves.
“You should leave before I have you arrested for trespassing. Emmy will never get another job after I’m done. I’ll ruin her career.” I pull back so she can’t mistake my meaning. “Then I’ll ruin yours.”
“There is no conspiracy and no impending blackmail. If you knew Em at all, you’d know she’s too pure for that.”
“I suppose you’re going to try to tell me you’re pure, too.”
“No, I’m a shrew.” Her gaze studiously avoids mine as she suddenly sweeps her hand across my chest as though wiping away dust. It’s hardly the manner of a seductress, more like she’s getting rid of crumbs. Had I still been seated, I think she might’ve patted me on the head. “And I’m vindictive with it,” she adds, suddenly sliding under my arm.
“A warning?” I turn and watch as she crosses to the fireplace. “Please don’t tell me you’ll play the woman scorned.” I sound terribly bored.
“As if I’d ever want anyone to know what happened last night.”
“Excuse me if I don’t believe you.”
“Get over yourself. You weren’t even that good.”
My incredulous laughter bounds from my office walls.
“I can’t even believe I was there myself,” she murmurs as she saunters over to the fireplace, stopping at the Picasso. “It was stupid really.” She tilts her head as though to study the brushstrokes. Maybe she’s considering stealing it. She can. It’s a fake. The real one is in a Geneva freeport as a little legal tax evasion. “I haven’t had sex in well over a year,” she muses, almost to herself. I go still. “The last place you’d catch me hanging out is with a load of sexperts.”
Sex… experts?
Fuck that. “I’m not biting.”
“I don’t care.” She casually strolls to the bookcase at the far end of the room like she has no more fucks to give. Barefoot and almost silent, she trails a delicate finger over the rows of antiquated books.
“You should care. The fate of your friend is—”
“It’s just two days.” She tips back a small volume, then flicks through the pages. “I’m sure we’ll both get over it,” she says, slamming thousands of dollars of book shut.
“I’m not sure I will.” Am I not sure I’ll get over it, or not sure I’ll go through with it? Damned if I know.
“You’ll manage,” she says, at the door now. She loops her fingers around the handle and slides a doe-eyed glance my way. “Because, the thing is, I might not have been wearing a wire or whatever, but I’m not just some girl you can push around. I have choices, resources, connections, and stuff.”
“How, exactly, does that not sound like blackmail?”
“It does a bit, doesn’t it?” This she says with a small smile as she twists the handle. “But at least it isn’t going to cost you anything but a little discomfort.” The door swings open and she takes a step before glancing back. “But try to make me leave, or fire Em, and I promise you, seeing your face in a gossip magazine will be the least of your problems.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. And you owe me a pair of knickers.”
And with that, she slams my office door shut.
8
PRIMROSE
What in the fairy-tale fuck—why did I have to mention my knickers?
My heart hammers in my chest as I keep my hand on the doorhandle, as though afraid he might follow me.
The hallway is blessedly cool, dark, and best of all, empty as I try to fit the puzzle pieces together. Out of all the men in Paris… I just don’t understand.
And how come he sounds as English as pinstripes and bowler hats?
At least he’s a widower. I mean, I’m sorry for his loss, but I’m happy to learn for my own peace of mind that he isn’t married. Even if he is a low-down dirty liar. Who gives the most amazing head. He’s also mean and kind of sadistic. I think I hate him.
Releasing the handle, I hurry through the house, hoping I’m heading in the right direction for the staircase. I need to find the room I was assigned earlier. My footsteps echo against the marble floors as I pass vast salons with soaring ceilings, and a grand piano gleaming beneath a heavy chandelier.
He’s not the only liar, I suppose. I do have a pretty good understanding of French. Not that he deserves to know. Not the way he’s behaved. That man has given me a galloping pulse and jelly legs twice in less than twenty-four hours. In very different circumstances, yes. But I’d be a big fat fibber if I said I didn’t think about last night as he’d loomed over me in his office while toying with my bikini strap.