Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“Let’s sit over here,” Fabien says with a twinkle in his eye. Holding two plates, each with a croissant and a small, rich cup of espresso with an aroma that makes my mouth water, he jerks his head toward a familiar corner of the café.
It’s the table where we first sat. Where we talked about our families and our pasts, about philosophy and literature. Where I first witnessed the sophisticated gentleman with impeccable manners and a voice that would melt panties.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Oh, nothing.”
With expert skill, he slides the plates onto the table and reaches over to pinch my ass.
“Fabien!” I hiss.
“I asked what was so funny,” he says, eyebrows raised to underscore his point.
I slide into my seat so he can’t reach my ass again and reach for my espresso.
“I was just thinking,” I say, giggling into my cup. I speak in a low voice, so we don’t blow our cover. We have a job to do today. “That the last time we sat here, I thought you were such a perfect gentleman.”
“A lot’s changed in a year,” he says as he sits across from me.
So much.
We’ve sold La Maison. Some of the women – most notably, Cosette and Gwen – have relocated to work with Thayer. I keep in regular contact, but we haven’t visited that often. This is really the longest we’ve spent in Corsica in the past year. We’ve only come back to visit, to make sure the girls are well established with Thayer, and because at one point we heard the rumor that the Lyon family had gotten an anonymous tip about a rendezvous involving the talisman. Apparently, no one’s yet discovered where the real talisman is.
They won’t.
The real talisman belongs to my husband.
My husband.
I smile down at my wedding band, the only piece of jewelry I wear that isn’t part of my disguise.
Fabien reaches for my hand. Tracing the wedding band with his thumb, he says in a low voice meant only for my ears, “Mine.”
I sit across from Gwen in the lounge. Thayer, the master of ceremonies, paces behind us.
I’ve never seen a place like this. Le Luxe masquerades as a luxury hotel.
Nestled discreetly off the Ajaccio Coast, no one but members and curated guests are allowed through the gate half a kilometer from the main entrance. When we step inside, at first it seems as though we’re in a luxury hotel unlike any other – gleaming, silver mirrors, sparkling chandeliers, shining marble floors. I turn to the rhythmic sound of flowing water to find an actual waterfall, bordered with stones of silver and white, along one wall. The lobby’s outfitted in elegant chairs in white matte leather.
But this is no ordinary hotel.
For starters, there are no single rooms, only twelve well-appointed and decadent suites. Gwen and Cosette are living in the lap of luxury, sharing a suite on the second floor.
On the main floor there’s a concierge and bellhop station, leading to a wide hallway with elevators that nearly purr when they open.
“Room service,” Cosette whispers. “Nicolette, the towels are so thick and plush, it feels like you’re wrapped in clouds.”
It isn’t just the accommodations, though. I’ve never seen clients like this. The air is pungent with the scent of luxury and opulence, prestige and power.
Sex.
I lean in to speak to Gwen. “How do you like it here?” I whisper.
“Oh, it’s fine,” she says with a casual flick of her wrist. “If you like this sort of thing.”
Fabien has taught me that I do, indeed, like this sort of thing.
When I’m with him, that is.
“There are like these complimentary services,” she continues to whisper. “The suites are bigger than some houses I’ve seen. And there’s like this gorgeous pool with these huge windows that overlook the sea. A spa that’s open twenty-four hours a day, a salon, a fully equipped gym. These adorable little mini fridges in the rooms, with small bottles of wine and sparkling water and snacks.”
Her eyes are as wide as a child’s.
“But there’s a cost for all this, Cosette,” Gwen reminds her.
“Oh, I know…” Cosette bites her lip. But I can see the wheels spinning in her head.
What would it take to be a slave to a master? Would it make being an escort look easy?
While Joëlle left for a job with her cousin in Amsterdam, Gwen and Cosette have both taken jobs here that were meant to be temporary, but it’s been a while…
Thayer and Fabien are speaking in hushed voices. I don’t know, and honestly, don’t much care, what kind of business they’re dealing with now. Thayer’s phone rings as Lyam walks in and gives Cosette an obvious wink. He walks away, his shoes clicking on the marble floor, then presses a button for the elevator.
“I saw that,” Gwen says warningly. Cosette bites her lip and shakes her head.