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)
Shockingly, arousal skates through me again. “You, of course,” I say with a toss of my head.
His hand smacks down, hard, and brands my ass. “Try that again.”
“You, sir,” I say, my voice like a purr.
“Who bought you for the weekend?” He bites my shoulder and grazes my skin with his teeth.
“You did.”
“Good girl. Now go get ready like I told you to.”
“You’re the one who’s got his full gorilla body weight on me.”
“Gorilla weight? Are you calling me a gorilla?”
“Well, no… I mean, I do have some sense of self-preservation,” I say. Still, he does indeed shift his weight off me. I race to the bathroom and quickly freshen up. Washcloth, face wash, deodorant, dry shampoo.
I slither into an absolutely stunning dress he ordered for me. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I put my shoes on and breathe out a sigh. “And you do have excellent taste in clothing.”
“Glad you think so.”
I wish our time together wasn’t coming to a close. I could sit and just watch him fastening those cuff links, tying his tie—
“I wish we weren’t almost done together,” Fabien says.
I don’t want to tell him I was just thinking the very same thing. It feels like sucking up.
“Oh? Well, I mean, we could get caught at the carnival and end up in jail together.”
He chuckles. “As if being in a jail cell with you would be at all punitive.”
I sigh. “Likewise.”
I stand in front of the full-length mirror and brush off imaginary lint. The gesture doesn’t remove my doubts like I somehow thought it would, as if I could just whisk them away.
He walks up behind me and braces my hips with his large, strong hands. Now that I’ve lost the six-inch heels, he’s a full head taller than I am, and he has to bend to kiss the top of my head.
Fabien has shown me in detail how good he is at masquerading. Playacting. He knows exactly how to behave and what to say.
What makes me think that anything he says or does to me is authentic?
I can’t let myself doubt anything now. He’s paying me amply for a weekend together and for the job we’ll do. We’ll secure the talisman and make history, avoid capture, then go our separate ways.
“You look stunning. The bride herself will be jealous.”
I hold his gaze in the mirror. “Why, thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. So let’s go over the plan again.”
“You manage to either bribe or coerce your cousin into complying,” I begin. “We find out what he has to tell us. Find every entrance and exit, the code to gain entry, and whatever other details we can get from him.” I draw in a breath and release it. “You’ll get the replica of the talisman. Tonight, we’ll decide what our disguises are, and practice. After we’re back in Corsica and have successfully replaced the real talisman with the replica at The Underground, we’ll bring the real one to your delivery guy and ship it straight here.”
“You’re fucking good at this, aren’t you?”
I shrug though I don’t mind the way he praises me at all. “I guess we’ll see.”
He could’ve gotten anyone for the kind of money he’s paying. Why did he choose me?
Because you’re easy to fuck.
“Nicolette?”
“Yes?”
A look of concern flashes in his eyes, or at least I think that’s what it is. Would he really be concerned about a girl like me? Or is he afraid I’ll fuck up our plans?
He holds my gaze in the mirror for long seconds before he shakes his head. “Nothing.” I sigh as he places one more kiss on my temple. “Let’s get this done.”
I love weddings. Love them. There’s something about the promise of an eternity of love and the celebration of something so wholesome and pure that fills me with joy. And though American weddings run the gamut from unconventional to traditional, a French wedding is an entirely different affair.
The gorgeous wedding procession and ceremony, the reception with decadent food and the traditional croquembouche in place of cake, dancing and partying until late into the night.
I once went to a wedding in college where the groom opened a bottle of champagne with a saber, supposedly something that’s not out of the norm here. Sometimes couples even fashion a pyramid of champagne glasses filled by a waterfall of the bubbly liquid. Young girls, reminiscent of American flower girls, will welcome the bride with scattered petals, and the couple will often sit on velvet chairs to exchange vows, like a true king and queen. We’ll party well after midnight and come home bearing traditional little bags of dragée, sugar-coated almonds.
“Your cheeks are all pink with excitement,” he says. “Are you that excited?”
“I am.”
It isn’t just the wedding. It’s attending the wedding on his arm. Stealing that much more of his undivided attention delivered in a way that only Fabien can, that makes me feel like I’m special and important and worthy. Though I may have told myself that working at La Maison was easy enough to do for the money I made, it’s been a long time since I felt special and important and worthy. In some ways, maybe that’s worth more than the money I’ll earn.