28 - Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
Logan
A few weeks after the funeral, I arranged to meet with Mr Rousseau.
Scar had been constantly on my back about proposing to Cordelia.
Don’t get me wrong, I get it. He’s trying to protect us.
Thinks it’s the only way it’ll stop her from squealing, despite having seen the footage of her taking her oath.
I trust my little vixen not to rat us out.
Maybe I’m naive. Or perhaps I’m just blindsided by addiction.
Because that’s what she is to me—a fucking addiction.
A goddamn drug I can’t quit, an itch I need to scratch, an insatiable hunger demanding to feed.
Either way, if I’m going to make her the future Mrs Cox—and you’ve got to admit that has a damn good ring to it—I am going to do it the right way.
Cordelia may think I’m a monster, incapable of true feelings and emotions.
She has no idea that what I feel for her is so much more than just love.
It delves thousands of miles deeper. You’d need to descend to the earth’s fucking core, and that’s where you’ll find me—scorching, fearless and all-fucking-consuming.
Which, in a nutshell, means manning up and facing her daddy.
Asking for his daughter’s hand in marriage.
I couldn’t care less about her mother; she can piss off.
She’s nothing but a pain in my arse, that never gives her daughter the time of day she deserves.
Monumentally self-absorbed. So ridiculously obsessed with achieving her own dreams that she can’t even see what’s going on right under her massive nose.
Cordelia certainly hasn’t inherited that trait from her mother.
I have no doubt this isn’t going to be a straightforward conversation.
I’ve only met Cordelia’s father on one occasion, and he didn’t exactly warm to me; mainly because I was staring at his daughter’s tits all evening, I’d say.
He seemed suspicious of me from the off.
Well, my dad did some digging and turns out Louis Rousseau is a rather high-profile senior diplomat, specialising in security and defence.
So no wonder he was watching me like he wanted to scoop out my eyes and serve them to me on a silver platter.
It explained why Uncle Scar was so eager for me to marry into her family, too. Not just to protect us. The more people he could blackmail, the better, especially ones in high places.
We are meeting at Maison Marseille, a plush Michelin-starred restaurant in central Belgravia.
French, of course. I’d suggested Maccy D’s, and he’d told me to fuck off.
In French. The guy clearly doesn’t take sarcasm well, which could make things difficult; it’s my native language.
I was honestly hoping it was going to be a get in, get out kind of mission.
Wasn’t planning on fine dining and escargots.
Delicacy, my ass. Someone once told me they taste like chicken; they fucking don’t.
I’m wearing my best Stuart Hughes suit. Diamond Edition.
Crafted from cashmere wool and fine silk, and as the name suggests, it’s spattered with genuine diamonds along the seams. Cost me a pretty penny, around ￡600k give or take.
I was saving it for a special occasion. This seems pretty special, though; besides, nothing says ‘I can take care of your daughter’ like a ridiculously expensive outfit.
Paired with my Tom Ford loafers, I’m taking the ‘look a million dollars’ phrase to the extreme.
My driver drops me off directly outside the poncy restaurant.
Normally, I’d drive myself, but there’s no way I’m walking through the streets of London dripping in this much cash.
Sure, I always carry a gun on me when out and about, but there’s no reason to tempt fate.
Plus, I don’t fancy explaining to Scar or the feds that I shot a guy through the skull for trying to strip the clothes from my body.
Could make for an entertaining court case, though.
The minute I reach for the door handle, it flies open. The doorman: a tall, cleanly shaven gentleman in a top hat and tails, stands on the other side, arm outstretched to usher me in. I rub absently at the rough stubble lining my chin, probably should have shaved.
“Good afternoon, Sir,” he greets me with a professional smile. “Mr Rousseau is waiting for you in the private dining room. If you’d like to follow my colleague, Juliette, she will show you to the table.”
Juliette smiles at me. “If you’d like to follow me, sir.”
We pass through the main hall, where diners sip fine wine from gleaming crystal and indulge in specialty cuisine from ludicrously shaped serving bowls.
My shoes echo against the tiles below, perfect hexagons slotting together like a giant jigsaw puzzle.
Matching the colour of the walnut dining chairs on which patrons sit, and the wood frames bordering the polished glass windows at the front.
The ambiance is set with soft shades of creams and golds, lit by rustic candle chandeliers and regal sconces, casting a golden glow over the entire space.
Large mirrors decorate the walls, as well as ornate gold-framed paintings of kings, queens, and monarchs of the past.
This place is pretentious.
Juliette leads the way through a tall archway to a secluded area, away from the buzz of the main room.
Mr Rousseau rises to his feet as I approach the long table.
It’s set for two even though it’s large enough to accommodate about twenty people.
Striding forward confidently, I lean across the table to shake his hand.
He holds mine in a grip that screams authority and power. Hopefully, mine has the same effect.
“Mr Cox,” he mutters, voice gruff, like I’m already wasting his time.
“Mr Rousseau, that’s a fine silk tie,” I offer him a small, restrained smile, which he doesn’t return.
He glances down at his very plain, very standard tie. “Please be seated,” he says, gesturing to the seat in front of me, completely ignoring my peculiar compliment. One of his dark eyebrows shoots upwards, waiting for my response, testing my resolve already.
I sink onto the chair, suddenly feeling intimidated by the large man across the table and the lack of arses on the other seats.
“Wine?” he quips, thumbing through the narrow drink’s menu.
Caught off guard, I blink and recompose myself. “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I reply. A hint of a smug smile tugs at his lips. He likes to be in control then unsettle people. We have something in common.
Louis summons our server and orders a bottle of expensive red wine. I hate wine. It tastes like piss water, but he needs to think I’m a sophisticated motherfucker so needs must. Good job I didn’t drive, I’ll be drunk as a skunk after a few glasses.
I keep my eyes glued to the leather-bound menu, trying not to snort at the extortionate prices.
Hope he doesn’t expect me to pay. The waitress returns with a bottle and an ice bucket.
She pours the sanguine liquid evenly into the two awaiting wine glasses.
Then she takes our food order and scurries off again.
“So, petit garcon. What do I owe this pleasure?”
I don’t speak French, but I do remember that petit means little from the few lessons I had at school. So, he’s calling me a little boy. What a prick.
Also, inaccurate.
“Straight to the good stuff, eh?” I raise my brows, lifting the wine glass to my lips, and trying hard not to grimace as the liquid slips down my throat.
“Bien sur,” he says, smirking at my obvious discomfort. “No point ‘beating around the bush as you British would say.”
“Right,” I drawl, shifting my arse in the seat, because despite being expensive furniture, it’s uncomfortable. “How much have you heard about me and your daughter?” I ask.
“You and my daughter?”
I swallow at the rigidity in his tone. “Yes, “I say, willing myself to hold eye contact when I speak. “Your daughter, Cordelia. Is pregnant…with my children.”
The words spew from my lips with much less composure than I’d hoped. Louis’s hand that’s resting on the tablecloth curls into an angry fist. His jaw set, Adam’s apple bobbing as he contemplates his next words carefully.
“You got my eighteen-year-old daughter pregnant,” he spits, rage brewing behind his eyes. I’m unsure whether that’s a question or not, but I’ll answer it.
My balls crawl up my backside as I finally look away. “Yeah,” I say. “I mean, it wasn’t planned.” I’m not sure why I say that. It sure as hell doesn’t make it any better. “But it happened, and we’re keeping them.”
Just as I finish my sentence, our food arrives.
And I’ve never been so grateful for the interruption.
The waitress, all sunny smiles, places our plates on the table mats.
I stare at the food as my stomach does nervous flips.
I’d ordered duck confit, and honestly, I wasn’t sure whether to eat it or start snapping pictures of it to display in the Tate Modern.
Because whoever had prepared this must have an art degree.
Cordelia’s father continues his glowering, knife and fork in hand. I’m half expecting him to stab the metal utensil into my hand, so I grab my own cutlery and begin cutting into the meat. Not that it really works, it falls apart just seeing the knife. But it’s good for a distraction.
Finally, Louis drops his gaze and starts tucking into his deep bowl of coq au vin. The room is too quiet. So, I stupidly try to make light conversation.
“This is incredible,” I say, glancing across at him. “How’s yours?”
“Wonderful. Stop deflecting, boy.”
I nearly choke on the potato I just shoved in my mouth.
“You wanted to meet with me to tell me I’m going to be a grand-pere?” He rumbles sarcastically. Oh, he does understand sarcasm then.
“Well, sort of,” I say sheepishly. “I also wanted to ask for your daughter’s hand. I plan to propose to her soon.”
It’s his turn to nearly choke. His eyes turn cold. “And why do you think I’d agree to that?”
I heave a sigh, placing my fork down on the table. Because I love her? Is that enough? Not that I’ve told her yet. I can’t exactly say it’s being enforced by my uncle.
“Is this a marriage of convenience?” He asks outright, reading my mind. I should be straight with him. Would that earn me more respect? I mean, I’ll welcome anything over contempt right now.
“I’d say it’s convenient for both of us,” I reply, watching his eyes narrow in disdain.
“Hear me out before you get pissy. Your daughter’s in danger.
She witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to, and that puts a target on her head.
Her mother isn’t exactly invested in her life, and you’re out of the country more than not. ”
“Are you trying to negotiate with me, garcon?” he mutters, but his self-assured tone speaks volumes.
His interest is piqued. “Because I negotiate with terrorists and traitors all day long. Don’t think I won’t shoot you down.
” His fingers wrap around the neck of his glass.
He downs the remaining liquid before pouring another.
“Do you think I’ve not done my research? ”
“Erm, I’m not sure what you mean, sir?” I say, attempting to sound innocent. I prop my elbows on the table, nestling my chin between my hands.
“Imbecile! Don’t play dumb with me. I know exactly who you are! Just as I see through your uncle’s true intentions for his investment in the gallery. I’m involved in this world too.”
Oh shit. That I was not expecting. I wonder if Scar knows. If his daughter knows?
Louis sighs heavily, and it sounds conflicted, strained. “Can you promise my daughter will be safe, protected and loved Mr Cox?”
Finally, a simple question with an easy answer.
“Absolutely,” I reply with certainty.
Safe? Debatable. Protected? To the best of my ability. Loved? 1000%
“Then you have my blessing.” I’m suitably stunned. That was way too easy. “But heed my words, son. If you do anything to hurt my little girl, I will hunt you down myself and slaughter you in cold blood. And I’ll make sure your death is slow and painful. Do we understand each other?”
I nod, blinking quickly.
“Fantastique. Now stop pretending you like wine and order a beer. It’s wasted on your inferior palate”
“Yes, sir.”