8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Duncan
I should have known one of my brothers would show up—my life was in more chaos than usual. But I was still surprised when I saw him at a corner table in the opulent Ritz lobby bar, his head buried in a book, ignoring a woman at the next table who was all but shoving her tits in his face. My brother, the quintessential nerd, was always lost in some ancient text or historical conundrum.
This bar was one of my favorite places, or rather, it used to be. Since Elsa had told me my apartment looked like a hotel, I had started to find the Ritz with its crystal chandeliers, dark wood paneling, plush velvet seating, and golden accents on the wrong side of gaudy and cozy.
As I approached, Dean looked up and grinned. Closing his book with a decisive snap, he began to whistle the bridal chorus.
"Fucker!" I gave him a hug.
Once we settled down, I had a drink in my hand. Dean was already on his second, he told me, as he had been waiting for me and had lost track of time (this happened a lot with Dean).
He gave me a quizzical look.
"What?" I asked impatiently.
"Imagine my surprise when Madame Tight Arse told me that you've not been home and are living here at the Ritz while your bride, who I may add is not liked by said Tight Arse, is living at your place alone ."
I glowered at him. "Now, Dean, brother , how on earth do you think my personal life is any of your business?"
" And imagine my surprise," he continued like I hadn't spoken, "that Mom and Dad still don't know that they're going to be welcoming two grandchildren soon."
"Dean. I don’t want to talk to you about this."
Most men would have been afraid, very afraid, when I used my don't fuck with me voice, but Dean was the baby of the family and hence spoiled. He also didn't scare easily, or at all.
"Emilia tells me, and Madame Tight Arse confirmed that you spread rose petals all over your bed and—"
"The fuck is wrong with the world that you know so much about what's happening in my bed?" I thundered.
Several people turned to look at us while Dean merely quirked an eyebrow. " And used up all her good candles. Did you know that she had to get professionals in to clean up the wax from your original hardwood floors?"
I gritted my teeth. "I told her to not tell the parents, but maybe I should've been specific about her talking to fucking no one about my personal business."
Madame Lefèvre was taking liberties she wasn't allowed. I tolerated her, Damian avoided her, and Dean provoked her every chance she got.
"Dude, do you know your wife is close friends with a very beautiful black man?"
I felt something twist inside me. "What?"
"Yeah. She works with him."
"She works with him?" Christ! I hadn't bothered to look through the file the investigator had given me about her because I'd opened it, seen her pictures, and then closed it before I started to jack off to her Polaroid face in my office.
"Yeah. She owns a boulangerie . Makes a mean fucking croissant, but it's her cinnamon snails that are da bomb ."
"I know she has a bakery in the Marais. I didn't think she worked there. I thought it was…a vanity project."
"Nope! She owns the wonderful Délices d'Elsa in the Marais. Her father helped her start it up." My brother showed off how knowledge about my wife. "It's very boho chic. I spent the morning there."
"Damn it, Dean.”
He shook his head as if a thought struck him. "I don't get it. You obviously had her investigated, but you don't know about her one single employee?" Dean was confused. I didn't blame him. I felt the same.
"Her face makes me…I don't fucking know, Dean." I downed the rest of my Scotch and waved at a waiter, pointing to my glass. "You spent the morning with my wife?"
Who the fuck was this guy she worked with? I needed to go through that fucking file about my wife so I could figure out who the hell she was.
"Not her, but in her… bakery ." Dean was enjoying himself. " Mismatched chairs and tables make it feel like you’ve stepped into a French grandma's country house. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look as sexy in an apron as she does. She's got a fine—"
"I get the point." I cut in.
"You do?" Dean's voice hardened. "You married her. You didn't have to."
"She's pregnant."
"And you've left her alone for a week after you fucked her over Madame Lefèvre's rose petals?"
I was a confident man. Anyone in the art and antiquities world would tell you that Duncan Archer was a mean son of a bitch. Women would tell you I fucked like a madman. I was not soft and squishy. And, yet, with Elsa, twice now, in bed, I'd made love. What was even more terrible was the fact that on both nights, I slept with her and woke up to her beautiful face. That first night I was happy to have breakfast with her and make small talk before I left while she took a shower. I'd even said au revoir and left money as a tip because it had been a pleasant night.
The morning after our wedding, I ran before I fucked her again . I'd already taken her three times at night, waking up to an insatiable need for her. Each time had been fucking beautiful and not just fucking.
For a man who, as Mom said, treated women with respect regardless of who they were, I lacked the emotional circuitry for a healthy, intimate relationship with a woman.
The truth was simple. Elsa scared the shit out of me.
"You had amazing sex with your wife, and now you've moved back to your fuck pad here at the Ritz. Is that what you're saying?" Dean asked after I told him about how I pulled a runner.
"It wasn't sex," I tried to explain haplessly. "It was…more."
Dean's eyes softened. "This maybe the first time in my life I've seen you flustered."
My eyes narrowed. "Men don't get flustered." I drank some Scotch. "Why the fuck does this woman have me all wound up?"
"I think you like her," Dean explained.
"Like her?"
"Christ, Duncan, how is it a smart man like you is clueless about how you feel?" he asked exasperated.
"Stunted emotional growth?" I suggested.
Dean laughed. "Do you know how you're going to handle being married?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. I thought if I didn't see her all the time, my head would straighten out, but now I miss her. I've never missed anyone in my life, and I miss her . I barely know her. I mean, she's Jean-Luc Moreau's daughter. She could be a complete whack job. He might've planted her to get into bed with the Archers, which he's been trying to do, unsuccessfully, for years."
Dean nodded gravely. "You think she's involved in her father's business?"
"I don’t think so. The PI found no sign that she’s involved with Moreau’s activities, but even if she was, I’d still marry her. She’s having my baby. The moment I found out she was pregnant, I knew what I had to do."
Dean's eyebrows shot up. He rubbed a hand over his face. " He told you she was pregnant?"
"Yeah."
"Not her?"
"Well, she confirmed it when we talked."
"But you did do a prenatal paternity test, right?" Dean was becoming more agitated by the second.
"And risk the baby with one of those crazy amniocentesis needles? Fuck no."
"Jesus, Duncan! You really believe in this woman? She's Jean-Luc Moreau's daughter."
"Yeah." Which made me a big fucking moron.
"Jesus!"
"Yeah, tell me about it."
"Look, she seems like a nice enough girl, but Délices d'Elsa could be a front. You know how this business works."
"I should maybe read the PI's file?"
Dean sighed. "You using the usual company?"
"Yeah."
Dean picked up his phone and pressed some buttons. "I'll get her file too. I can look at her without getting horny, so between us, one of us will know who the fuck she really is."
I knew what my baby brother was thinking. I wasn’t acting like Duncan Archer anymore—it was like an alien had taken over. And in a way, one had. A thirteen- or fourteen-week-old fetus, the size of a passion fruit, was growing inside her. But it wasn’t just the baby. It was Elsa. She was turning my whole world upside down.
"Duncan, man, this is serious."
"I know."
"You need to tell Mom and Dad."
I sighed. "Let's go to my suite and call them. Where are you staying?"
"I thought at your apartment until I found out your wife is living there without you. So, I booked a suite here."
It was obvious to me that I'd bungled this whole thing. I'd left Elsa alone with Madame Tight Arse, as Dean liked to call Madame Lefèvre. I was ignoring her calls and messages. I lied to her, telling her I was traveling. I was a complete jackass.