Chapter 44
Caroline
I had been at Blackstone & Moreau for three weeks when I received a phone call from Lucien.
I stared at the name on my phone screen, feeling a tingle of curiosity mixed with something deeper. It had been a while since I’d heard from him, but I let it go to voicemail instead.
Then, I showed an admirable amount of restraint by not listening to the voicemail. The last thing I needed was a distraction while I was in a good groove working on Harrison’s biography. I’d been banging away at my keyboard all morning, and was almost done with this chapter.
A little while later, my focus was broken once more by a commotion out on the trading floor. Analysts were standing up in their cubicles to look at something. I couldn’t help but peel off my headphones and crane my head to get a glimpse.
It wasn’t something they were looking at. It was someone.
Lucien.
The tall French billionaire strode across the floor toward Harrison’s office. Rafael met him outside the door, the two of them exchanging a few words. Rafael was blocking his path, a bored expression on his face.
But then Harrison appeared, patting Rafael on the back before embracing Lucien like they were brothers.
Only when they went inside the office did I check my voicemail.
“Caroline,” came his familiar French accent, smooth and seductive without even trying. “I am in your city for the next two days. It is my desire to see you. To discuss my biography, of course. Please let me know when you are free. I would be delighted to take you to dinner.”
Hearing his voice ignited something in me that had been dormant for the past month. In the blink of an eye, I was back in his bedroom on his yacht, staring into his eyes while he drove into me…
I gave myself a shake. Stop it, Caroline. You’re regularly sleeping with Harrison and Rafael. There isn’t room for a third man in your life.
I put my headphones back on and tried to return to my chapter. But I was interrupted again when Lucien left Harrison’s office. Head held high, he strode across the trading floor toward the elevators, smiling and nodding to analysts as he passed.
His gaze swept across my office… and then clicked back into place.
He stopped, smiling broader.
“Here we go,” I muttered to myself.
“Caroline!” he said, opening the glass door. How was it possible for a man to look that good in a suit? “I was not aware you were using an office here at our firm.” He leaned back, reading the placard on the wall. “Public Relations Manager? Carol Ashburn?”
“Long story,” I said, not wanting to get into it with him. Already, being around him filled my head with intrusive thoughts. His mere presence was like an intoxicating cologne. “I just listened to your voicemail. I would love to have dinner, but…”
“No buts,” he said, stepping into my office. “Meet with me. My biography cannot be written by anyone else. It must be you. And surely you are nearly finished with Harrison’s?”
“She is,” Harrison said, stepping up behind him. He clapped the Frenchman on the back. “She’s doing a fantastic job, too.”
Lucien spread his hands. “There you have it. Shall I send a car for you this evening?”
I glanced at Harrison, looking for a way out of it.
“I don’t have a problem with it,” Harrison said smoothly. “If you’re serious about wanting to take some time to write more biographies, you should meet with him. I promise not to get jealous.” He punctuated it with a wink.
“Okay,” I told Lucien. “I’ll meet with you tonight. To discuss the biography.”
“Wonderful!” he said. “I will count down the minutes until then.”
He gave me a slight bow, placing his hand over his heart, then ducked out of the room.
I watched him go, then turned to Harrison. “I thought you wanted me to avoid Lucien.”
“He’s offering you a lot of money to write his book,” Harrison said. “There’s no reason not to meet with him. Even if you choose not to write it, you can use that meeting as leverage against the other people who have reached out to your agent.”
I blinked. “You really are a shrewd businessman.”
“Always.” He gave me one final, private smile, before returning to his office.
Lucien sent a car to pick me up. He was staying at the Aman New York, an absurdly expensive hotel in the Crown Building on Fifth Avenue.
While the doorman let me inside and held the elevator for me, I looked up the cost. The cheapest rooms were twenty thousand dollars per night, and Lucien was staying on the top floor.
Although to a billionaire, twenty grand was probably the equivalent to the spare change in my couch.
The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped into a sanctuary of quiet opulence.
The top floor of the Aman New York was a vast, softly-lit suite with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering sprawl of Manhattan like a living painting.
Pale oak floors gleamed beneath my feet, interrupted by a plush ivory rug that led down a hallway into the kitchen.
The smell of roasting meat and savory garlic bombarded my senses as I rounded the corner.
“Ah, you are early!” Lucien stood over a pot in the kitchen, stirring the contents with a wooden spoon. “Dinner will not be ready for another twenty minutes.”
He turned around and smiled widely at me. He was wearing the same suit from the office, but he’d taken off the jacket and had rolled the shirt sleeves up. “Fortunately, we have hors d’oeuvres.” He gestured to a plate of bread, cheese, and sliced meat.
“You’re cooking?” I asked skeptically. “Or is there a chef hiding in the closet, and you’re only pretending to finish the meal?”
He gave me a puzzled look. “This meal is a family recipe. Beef bourguignon. There is no one here but me.”
Lucien carefully wiped the wooden spoon on a cloth, placed it next to the stove, then strode toward me. He embraced me like I was an old friend, kissing me on the cheeks.
The memory of him from that day on the yacht returned. The smells, the warmth of his skin, the sparkle in his eyes. His reputation as a chaos investor dropped away, leaving me with the man himself. A man who was beautiful, and charming, and exotic.
And just like that evening on the yacht, I couldn’t help but kiss him. His lips were warm and tasted faintly of beef, but there was a deep, red wine flavor underneath. And unlike that night on the yacht, he didn’t push me away.
The kiss deepened, Lucien bracing my arms and leading me out of the kitchen. I allowed myself to be escorted into the bedroom, kissing and touching and feeling him all over. I was drunk on the taste of him, the scent of him, the way he made me feel when he gazed into his eyes.
With firm, confident hands, he pulled my blouse over my head and bent to kiss my breast, fingers flicking at the back of the bra until that fell away too.
Then we were sitting on the edge of the bed, and laying down, Lucien covering me with his body and making me forget all the reasons I thought I didn’t want this.
His movements were urgent, but not rushed.
Sliding my skirt up, pulling my panties to the side.
Dragging his fingertips up and down my drenched slit, then licking my juices off his fingers.
Crushing his lips against my mouth, tongue dancing with mine as his cock filled me, feeling every bit as wonderful as it did that day down in St. Kitts.
The bedroom was filled with whispers, and moans, and desperate pleas. He cupped the side of my face, gazing into my eyes as his thrusts sped up, and when he cried out my name, Caroline, exotic on his tongue, it drove me over the edge and we came at the same time.
“This is not why I invited you here,” he said as we put our clothes back on.
“I doubt that,” I said. I didn’t feel any guilt or regret about sleeping with him again. Deep down, I had been hoping something like this might have happened tonight, even if I didn’t want to admit it to myself. So I projected that onto him: “Surely you hoped something like this would happen.”
“Of course,” he said firmly. “I have hoped to touch you again every day since we were last together. But my intentions this evening were pure.”
“I still doubt that,” I said, kissing him on the lips. “But I can pretend to believe it for your sake.”
“I have something to show you.” He took me by the hand and led me back into the kitchen, pausing to stir the pot once more and then turn the burner off. Then he picked up a thick stack of papers from the dining room table, handing it to me.
“What’s this?”
“The outline for my biography,” he said. “You do not need to use it, of course. But I have given my book a significant amount of thought in the past month. There is a proposal on the final page for you.”
The outline was extremely detailed, with a timeline of his entire life. I flipped to the last page and skimmed until I saw a dollar sign.
“This is a very large advance,” I said.
“As well as eighty percent of all royalties,” he added, brushing a strand of hair away from my face.
“Eighty? As in, eight-zero? Lucien, that is far more than the standard rate. If your book does well, you’re losing millions of dollars.”
He shrugged and returned to the pot in the kitchen. “I have no need for the money the book will generate. I only wish for it to be written, and written by the best person out there. Which I believe is you.”
“I have almost no experience writing biographies,” I said, following him and popping a piece of white cheddar into my mouth. “Harrison’s is, quite literally, the only one I have ever worked on, and it’s not even published yet.”
“I have read all of your works at your Wall Street Journal,” he replied while spooning chunks of beef onto two plates. “I have fallen in love with your voice. The way you describe things.”
“Sure,” I snorted. “Name one article I’ve written.”
“Tech Giants Drive Market Rally,” he said immediately.
“Okay, so you read one of the last pieces I wrote before going on sabbatical.”
“Investors Bet on AI Expansion,” he continued. “Fed Signals Caution on Rate Cuts. Oil Prices Surge as OPEC Extends Production Cuts. Private Equity Firms Target Distressed Real Estate Portfolios. I did not enjoy that article. You implied that firms such as ours prey on homeowners during recessions.”
“Firms like yours do prey on homeowners during recessions,” I argued. “Wait. You really did read everything I’ve written?”
“From the past three years. Perhaps there are older articles I missed.” He added some noodles to the plates, then carried them over to the dining room table. “I am quite serious, Caroline. There is no one I would rather have writing my biography than you.”
Feeling dazed, I took a seat at the table. He returned a moment later with a decanter filled with red wine, and filled both of our glasses.
“And I am willing to wait.” He sat down and unfolded his napkin in his lap. “I do not wish to poach you away from Harrison, as you have accused in the past. For you, Caroline? I will patiently wait until you are finished with that book. For you, I would wait until the end of time.”
I picked up the biography outline and thumbed to the third page. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
He leaned across the table, leg brushing against mine, and pushed the outline away. “You can read that later. It is for you to take home. For now? Let us enjoy my family recipe. I am not content with the cut of beef I was able to acquire here in the city, but I believe it will still be satisfying.”
I took a bite, and let out a moan that rivaled the ones from the bedroom minutes ago. “This is incredible.”
“As I said. An old family recipe. Please, try the carrots next. They have been roasting in brown sugar since I arrived this morning.”
I stabbed a carrot with my fork, then hesitated. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“If it is about the biography, then it can wait until after the meal.”
I wanted to put this off, to tell him later. But I was afraid that if I didn’t do it now, I would lose my courage. “Lucien… I’m sleeping with Harrison.”
He didn’t look up from his meal. “I suspected so. And Rafael as well?”
I paused with the glass of wine an inch away from my lips. “What? Why would you think that?”
Lucien wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin and smiled. “The two of them have shared a woman before. And the look in your eyes tells me they have shared you.”
I put the glass down and stared at him. “How do you know that?”
“They told me, of course.” He sipped the wine, sighing happily at the taste.
“Harrison and I used to be quite close. We were good friends when we began our partnership. Sadly, our friendship withered somewhere along the way, and now our relationship is strictly professional.” He flashed a smile. “There are worse things.”
“What happened?” I asked, suddenly intrigued. This would be excellent information for Harrison’s biography. “Did you two have a falling-out?”
“Unfortunately so.” He waved a hand. “Please. Let us not discuss such depressing things tonight. Tell me, how did you begin to work for our firm? I would have visited the city sooner if I had known!”
We began discussing my new stint at Blackstone & Moreau, but in the back of my mind all I could think about was what had happened between the two billionaire partners.