Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nicolette
Everything’s moving so quickly, I can hardly keep up. But I don’t want it to stop. We’re on a merry-go-round, and I want it to keep spinning forever.
It seems as if there’s no pretense in his words, no hidden agenda in what he says. Maybe Fabien enjoys being with me and doesn’t bother to hide the truth. And if I’m honest with myself? I love that, even if a part of me feels a bit uneasy.
Men don’t fall for women like me. He doesn’t even really know me.
But I want more of this. More of him. When he touches me, I come alive. He kindles something in me that’s lain dormant so long, I’ve nearly forgotten what it’s like to be cherished, appreciated, wanted. I’d convinced myself that kind of affection was only in novels.
If this is what it’s like to be the object of someone’s obsession, sign me up.
“This way.” Fabien leads me off the plane. I don’t know what to expect, but it definitely isn’t a line of men waiting for us in coal black uniforms, like soldiers standing at attention.
“There’s a small chance our plane was intentionally tampered with,” Fabien explains in a low voice. “There will be an investigation.”
Tampered with? What? Why would anyone tamper with his plane?
“What makes you think that?”
No response but a casual shrug. “You can’t be too careful.”
But I’m unsettled by all of this. Who is he, that someone would ever consider such a thing? I’m definitely not worthy of attention like that.
Does wealth alone bring such exposure? Such risks?
“Just a minute, please. Stay here while I make arrangements.”
I stand beside one of the flight attendants as he walks toward the pilot and one of the uniformed men.
I want to ask her everything, but I don’t know how much time we have. I’m not sure he’ll appreciate me prying.
Still, I need to know.
I clear my throat.
“Excusez-moi,” I whisper.
“Mmm?”
I continue in French to save time. “Do you happen to know what Monsieur Gerard does for work?”
“But of course,” she replies tightly. “Monsieur owns several reputable establishments in various locales in Corsica. In Paris, he’s a consultant and investor and one of the most well-respected men of his rank.”
That’s not the answer I’m looking for, but it’s clear she isn’t the one to give it to me.
Fabien turns our way.
“Thanks,” I whisper, even though she was literally zero help to me.
“Anytime.”
Fabien walks over. “Our plane will be ready in ten minutes, but is a good distance away, so you get your walk outside after all. Ready to go?”
“Of course.” I force a smile and take his outstretched hand.
The flight to Paris takes hardly any time at all.
Soon, we’re landing. I adore the Charles de Gaulle airport, with its duty-free shops and excellent restaurants.
There’s even an arcade with vintage games that take me back to my childhood, which is a bit more my speed than the luxury massage options.
We don’t stay long, though, of course. Shortly after disembarking, as his staff grabs our luggage, we head to the waiting car.
“Welcome back to Paris,” Fabien says.
I look around me as wide-eyed as a girl. I try to take it all in, but it’s too much. The sights, the sounds, the gorgeous language and culture. The air smells heavily of warmed bread and daffodils. I want to close my eyes and simply breathe.
“It’s been a while,” I whisper. “Paris, how I’ve missed you.”
Fabien’s arm snakes around my waist. “Paris missed you, too.”
I smile.
“We’re only a few blocks from Maman’s, so we can walk if you’d like. You said you enjoy walking on nice, sunny days.”
“I definitely do. And it would be a gorgeous walk, but I have a question for you first.” My heart rate speeds. I swallow hard and don’t meet his eyes. I need to know this if I’m going to make any progress in my pursuit. I need to know more if I’m going to survive.
“Yes?”
“Can you tell me exactly what it is you do for work? I’m curious, because I’m not sure why anyone would ever want to intentionally sabotage your plane.”
“I own multiple establishments in Corsica. In Paris, I’m a consultant and investor.”
The party line, then. It matches what the flight attendant told me almost word for word.
Fair enough.
There’s more to it, and I know that, but do I really care?
We met at a brothel. This is a job. It might feel like a relationship, and I may enjoy certain parts of it.
I haven’t forgotten what he did on that plane.
Okay, I’ll enjoy lots of parts of it. But this is still a job—no more, no less.
I’ll do what I have to, just like I do at La Maison. I’ll earn my money and move on.
We stroll along the street. Late afternoon in spring in Paris is absolutely stunning.
Parisians love a leisurely meal, a good cup of coffee, delicious food, and a stroll along the Seine.
Couples walk hand in hand, push strollers, and ride bikes.
If anyone were to look at us, they’d mistake us for one of them, a happy couple taking a leisurely walk together.
If I cared about such things, it would feel like a lie.
A part of me wants to tell him what the girls warned me about.
I want him to refute it. I want him to tell me it isn't true, he isn't some psychotic maniac that's going to become so enamored with me that he can't let me go.
But I feel as if I am betraying my friends if I tell him anything they said.
And also, maybe a small part of me doesn't want to know the truth.
I tell myself they don't know him. I tell myself they are afraid because of who they are, because they have had to protect themselves from becoming vulnerable for so long that they no longer trust anyone. Maybe he's too intense for them.
"Tonight, my cousins will have a dinner to practice the wedding."
"Oh. We call this a rehearsal dinner in America. Is that not the tradition here?"
"Not usually, that's a very American thing to do. But the bride is American, so that would explain it. "
The bride’s American. Will I know her? I don't know why I think such a thing. Given the hundreds of millions of people who live in America, the chances that I know her are slim.
But I don't want his family to know who I really am. I don't want anyone to know where we met.
We come to a stop in front of a gate that leads to a stunning garden. I know before he tells me that we’re here, we've arrived at his family home.
I would give anything for Savannah to see me now. This home is the stuff of dreams.
Densely populated, Paris boasts many apartment dwellers and small homes. That doesn’t mean that palaces and private mansions haven’t lasted through the centuries.
Vibrant greenery lines the paved walkway that meanders past blooming flowers, neatly trimmed hedges, and a stunning brick home that looks like a princess should be hidden somewhere in its depths.
“Oh, Fabien. This is amazing. Why did you ever leave?"
It's a rhetorical question, and I don't expect him to answer. But when a shadow crosses his face, I know I touched a nerve.
"I haven't, really. I love coming home. But sometimes I need distance from my family."
“They that crazy?"
"Doesn't everybody have a crazy uncle?" he says with a laugh. "No, it isn't just that. Yeah, we have our quirks. I just find it easier to do my job when I'm not constantly involved in every detail that happens here." He smirks. "And I like not taking women home to my mother’s house."
A foreign feeling stabs me. What the hell is that?
Am I jealous?
Oh, no. Nope. No way. I need to guard my heart against this. I shouldn't hate the thought of him with another woman. We're not even dating; I've been hired by him to make his life easier this weekend. Who cares if he's been with another woman or dozens or hundreds?
I try to brush it off. I force myself to sound blasé. “Well that makes sense. I wouldn't want to bring home a date to my mother’s home either, especially if we were spending the night together."
I wonder if I imagine that flash of jealousy I see in his eyes.
Wishful thinking?
My heart begins to beat a little faster.
He loves his family, but will they love me? It doesn't matter. I'm only here for a weekend. But I also don't want to spend the weekend in misery, no matter how much money I’m making.
We walk hand in hand toward the front entrance. I can see why this stunning home has been featured in magazines. The lush gardens and strategically placed wrought iron benches beckon one to sit and take a little breather. Whereas other homes may seem imposing, this one is warm and welcoming.
Before we make it to the front door, it opens and a beautiful woman who looks just like him, the same piercing eyes and strong chin somehow softened with a feminine gentleness, waves at us, as excited as a child.
"Fabien! This must be Nicolette. Welcome, welcome! We are so happy to have you."
He already told her my name?
Leaning toward me, he whispers in my ear, "Don't be so nervous. She'll love you."
What if I don't want her to? Can't we all just be polite for a few days?
"Maman, this is Nicolette. Nicolette, Avril. My mother."
She gives me such a warm embrace it almost brings tears to my eyes. God, I miss my mother.
"Your home is spectacular,” I tell her. "I could get lost in that garden."
"Fabien did when he was a little boy," she says with a smile. “And thank you."
Fabien winces. "We're still on the front step and we're already regaling her with tales of my childhood. This is not going to end well."
"Who is telling stories?"
Avril ushers us in, and I'm not surprised to see that the inside of the home is as stunning as the outside. Maybe we can stay here more than a weekend, I think to myself. Wouldn't that be nice. I made a home in Corsica, but I like having some distance.
Focus, focus.
I turn toward approaching footsteps. "Nicolette, this is my brother Thayer.”