Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
This is a total disaster. My meeting with Julien wasn’t supposed to go like this. I didn’t expect to have some instant true love connection with the guy, but I also didn’t imagine he’d express nothing but disdain at first. He’s being okay now, if at least a little dickish and pushy, but it’s that first impression still lingering in my head.
I’m not the greatest beauty in the world. I think I’m okay-looking, sometimes even decent, but I’ve never had a man look at me with utter disappointment before. I know Kim’s prettier and more outgoing than I am, but I like to think I can hold my own.
Now I know that’s all stupid vanity.
Julien wanted her, and now he’s settling for me because Ronan told him to.
Which shouldn’t matter. He’s right—I’m not marrying him because I give a crap about who he is or what he looks like. I’m open to it for my own damn reasons.
But that still felt like total crap, and I just want to be done.
“Alright, mon minou, I’m in your phone as Julien Moreau. I’ll be in touch.” He hands me back my device.
I lock the screen. “Okay, great.”
“And as for our marriage—”
“I’ll think about it. I mean, nothing’s decided. We have some time.”
He nods slowly. “That’s true. Nothing’s decided yet.” Then his lips pull into a handsome, arrogant smile. “But perhaps I can change your mind.”
“Maybe, okay? I don’t know. We’ll see. It was good talking to you.” I turn to walk away. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get over that first impression, even if my reasons for this marriage are still valid.
“It was nice talking to you as well, Brianne. And by the way, I love that list of yours. We have a lot in common, mon minou.”
I stop in my tracks. My feet go cold and my blood hammers in my ears.
I slowly turn, but Julien’s already striding away.
No. No no no.
He didn’t see it.
He couldn’t have—
I unlock my phone. It goes straight to my messages app.
There’s a single text thread with a contact called Julien Moreau on the screen.
A strangled moan drags itself from my throat as I stare at the two texts sent to his number.
The first is a simple message. I look forward to checking off all your filthy little boxes, mon minou.
And the next is a screen shot of the list.
The dirty list.
Every single filthy entry.
I am going to murder Kim. If she hadn’t tipped him off, there’s no way he would’ve gone looking for something.
But he sent it to himself. The bastard must’ve swiped into my previous apps, screenshotted it, and sent it to himself.
Which means he has a list of all my stupid, weird, mostly-joking-but-kinda-not sexual fantasies.
All I want to do is melt into the floor and disappear.
Chapter 2
Julien
Fall wind blows across the private tarmac of the O’Hare Airport. The small twin-engine jet taxis toward my position near a large hangar and comes to a stop not far away. Several of my men stand at attention further back, all of them impeccably dressed in expensive black suits and wearing dark sunglasses.
Jean, my second-in-command, stands by my side. We’ve known each other for a long time, ever since we were young boys picking pockets on the streets of Marseille. If I’m the face of the Moreau Family in America, then he’s the shadowy brains behind the scenes.
Together, we run this organization with ruthless efficiency.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Jean asks. He doesn’t look at me, only stares at the plane. Airport staff push a set of stairs over to the main door.
“Years,” I say, acting as though I can’t recall, but I remember the exact moment. It was six years ago, two days before I came to America for good. That was a very bad afternoon.
“I can’t recall the old man ever leaving France,” Jean notes.
“He pretends like he’s some great French patriot, but really he’s lazy and a prick.” I take a deep breath but my bravado hasn’t helped my nerves.
Six long years. I remember being a child and standing in his study, looking at him looming behind his big desk.
I’d never seen something so resplendent or powerful in my entire life, and at the time I thought he must’ve been the most impressive man in the world. I was nothing more than a street urchin back then, barely literate, more feral rat than human, but he took me in anyway, bought me tutors, and molded me into the man I am today.
Without him, I don’t know where I would be.
Dead in a gutter, most likely.
The plane door opens and he steps out. Pascal Moreau looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him. White hair pushed back and meticulously styled. Bushy brows, still slightly dark. A well-trimmed beard. Sagging skin around his piercing blue eyes. In decent shape for a man in his early eighties, trim and somewhat muscular. I note he’s walking with a slight limp. His suit is unassuming and simple, even though he’s one of the wealthiest men in France, and perhaps the whole world.