Chapter 4
Gustave
Did she know who I was? Putain!
“Gustave, this is Tara Gayarre. She’s restoring your Carriera.” Giselle smiles at me in the way she has since my divorce—deferential and hopeful. She gestures toward the woman at her side. “Tara, this is Comté Gustave de Valois. His family is loaning us the Carriera you’re working on.”
Tara Gayarre.
My mystery woman.
Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, catching the golden light filtering through I. M. Pei’s glass pyramid.
The dress she wears is no couture creation.
It’s some flowing cream-colored concoction, layered with scarves, bangles, and beads.
She wears it like a queen without a throne or a crown.
And, in this sea of Chanel, Dior, and Givenchy, she looks like she wandered in from another world—a Bohemian princess among duchesses.
I cannot look away.
The reception buzzes around us. Waiters glide by with trays of champagne and ruby cocktails in cut-crystal glasses. Platters of oysters sparkle on ice, foie gras is served on thin toast, and guests murmur in polished French that drones beneath the glass above us.
Diplomats, patrons, old aristocrats—all in tailored suits and shimmering gowns—form glittering constellations across the marble floor.
I take her offered hand. Her bangles chime softly.
I clasp her fingers like they didn’t bring me to the edge while she sucked me off that night. But it’s the memory of them against my cheek when I was inside her that threatens to undo me.
“It’s nice to meet you…ah…Comte de Valois.” Her shock is apparent, even if her smile is disarming.
A sudden knot pulls tight beneath my ribcage. She must have known who I was. Surely she knew. That night, she wasn’t lost and lonely. She was…calculating? Did she lure me, or did I go to her of my own accord?
“Please call me Gustave.” I release her hand, all but dropping it like it singed me. “How fortunate that Giselle found you. The Carriera is important to my family.”
Her brow creases, confusion flashing in her eyes.
I don’t let myself believe it.
Someone takes Giselle away, and it’s Tara and me, alone, in a crowd of silk and perfume.
I motion for her to walk with me. I’m hoping to lead her to a quieter corner, so I can find out what her agenda is.
“How are you finding working at the Louvre?” I ask courteously as we stroll past servers and guests.
It’s innocent enough. I am talking to the art restorer working on one of the paintings I loaned to the Louvre.
“Very…it’s…good.” She’s rattled. Why? If she knew who I was, then she should’ve expected to see me, non?
Did she take any pictures of me that night? Merde! I had thought she was an American tourist, in and out of Paris…not staying here, not working on the fucking de Valois Carriera.
We slide under one of the marble staircases, and the shadows swallow us, but the buzz of voices carries like an ominous threat right there on the edges of our bubble.
“Do you always go to cocktail bars alone on Valentine’s Day?” I murmur.
She blinks at me, startled. “What?”
“You knew who I was,” I press, my jaw clenched. “Didn’t you?”
Her lips part. “No, I…no, I didn’t—”
I cut her off with a shake of my head. “Spare me. My family’s name has been fodder for the press for too long for that to work.”
Her chin lifts. “If you think I slept with you because of your name, you’re more arrogant than I thought.”
Her words are crisp with an undertone of fury.
Around us, the party continues—laughter rising as a cluster of men toast with champagne, the clink of crystal punctuating her accusation.
“What are you after?” I sneer.
She takes a step back, away from me…not like that night when she was holding me close.
“After?” She says the word like she’s tasting it for the first time.
“Mon Dieu! Will you keep repeating what I say or get to the fucking point?” I bite out. “How much do you want to keep quiet…about that night?”
Her brown eyes flash pure rage.
I regret my words. Almost.
“How about you get your head out of your ass?” She flings at me. “That will be payment enough.”
I close my eyes for a moment and run a hand through my hair. I can’t afford to be reckless—not with the de Valois’ name on the line, with Aubert facing the brunt of tabloid bullshit.
“Did you take any pictures that night?” I ask.
I have to.
“Yes, I did.” Her words are dripping with sarcasm. “Hell, I made a sex video. I’m going to share it with all my followers…all zero of them.”
I swallow. It won’t do to antagonize her. “Look—”
“No. I don’t know what kind of people you’re used to…or rather, I can guess based on how you’re talking to me, but I’m not remotely interested in announcing my private life to the world. And I’m not even freaking royalty.” She has her hands on her waist, and her chin is pointing at me.
I remember how those hands had touched me—the best fucking night of my life.
“I can’t afford a misstep.” The words are more for me than for her.
“You think I’m a misstep?” Her eyes flash, hurt and furious. “You think I planned this? I didn’t even know your last name until five minutes ago.”
I want to believe her. God help me, I want to. But paranoia whispers louder. Simone taught me well. The tabloids taught me better.
“Forget we met that night,” I say softly.
Her mouth tightens. The bangles on her wrist jangle as she retreats…away from me, and for a moment, I remember them tangled in the sheets.
Merde!
“Giselle Durand speaks highly of your skills as an art restorer, Mademoiselle* Gayarre,” I say finally, cold as stone. “Thank you for your efforts.”
I turn, leave her standing there, and slip back into the glow of the crowd, ensconced by silk gowns and champagne flutes.
My heart is still pounding when my name is called out, arresting my escape.
“Gustave.”
My ex-wife’s manicured hand lands on my arm like a jeweled claw. “Where have you been? Ambassador Perez is looking for you. They’re interested in the de Valois investment in AI.”
For one wild moment, I want to shake her off and stride back to Tara—ask her to come with me, to vanish into the night and forget this circus.
But even if she were willing—which she won’t be after the debacle of a conversation we just had—I can’t afford it.
Men like me don’t indulge—not openly. They hide their affairs, tucking their mistresses behind the velvet curtain.
Discretion is survival. And sleeping with a woman employed on a de Valois commission is neither wise nor discreet.
“Of course.” I paste on a smile.
No one looking at us would ever suspect Simone once hurled two Ming vases against the wall the night I told her I wanted a divorce.
No one would imagine the months of lawyers, and the venom whispered through clenched teeth.
They see only a polished tableau: the Count and his ex, arm-in-arm, moving smoothly through Parisian society.
We are the outward definition of an amicable divorce—despite the rumors and the times that Simone let her public mask slip.
They don’t see that I dislike her intensely, that all I ever was to her was something expensive and good-looking to drape on her arm, like an Hermes bag.
“Aubert mentioned you’re taking him with you to Chamonix?” she asks, her smile bright, her head inclining graciously to the people watching. I breathe deeply, steadying myself, and allow her to steer me toward the Spanish ambassador.
“Aubert is eighteen, Simone. He decides where he goes.”
Her lips barely twitch, but I know her well enough to read it: displeasure hidden under layers of lipstick and gloss. “So, you didn’t influence him at all?”
Thankfully, we’ve reached her quarry, so I don’t have to dignify her accusation with a response or be chastised for not having one.
Ambassador Perez is all warmth and diplomacy, but his eyes sharpen when he mentions artificial intelligence and the de Valois portfolio. Simone closes the space between us as if we’re still cohorts in every sense—as if she’s still my wife.
And with a single breath, I slip back into my role—Gustave de Valois: heir, investor, figurehead.
The man who cannot afford to want Tara Gayarre.
* Miss (French)