Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nicolette
We get ready for the wedding in record time. My phone, an older model I inherited from Gwen when she upgraded, doesn’t hold a charge very well, so I put it to charge while I get changed.
Fabien, of course, decides not only do we have enough time to get ready, we also have enough time for him to bend me over the side of the bed and fuck me, hard, mercilessly, and so perfectly I have not one but three orgasms in rapid succession.
I swear I’ll be hoarse by the time we finally get to the wedding.
I slump over the bed, panting.
“I’m gonna need another shower if you keep this up,” I say in between gasps of breath.
“Hmm, the shower,” he says, as if he’s considering taking me there, too.
“Fabien, we don’t have time! Your mother will kill you.”
Both hands clamp on my hips. “Who decides whether or not we have time?”
Shockingly, arousal skates through me again. “You, of course,” I say with a toss of my head.
His hand smacks down, hard, and brands my ass. “Try that again.”
“You, sir,” I say, my voice like a purr.
“Who bought you for the weekend?” He bites my shoulder and grazes my skin with his teeth.
“You did.”
“Good girl. Now go get ready like I told you to.”
“You’re the one who’s got his full gorilla body weight on me.”
“Gorilla weight? Are you calling me a gorilla?”
“Well, no… I mean, I do have some sense of self-preservation,” I say. Still, he does indeed shift his weight off me. I race to the bathroom and quickly freshen up. Washcloth, face wash, deodorant, dry shampoo.
I slither into an absolutely stunning dress he ordered for me. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I put my shoes on and breathe out a sigh. “And you do have excellent taste in clothing.”
“Glad you think so.”
I wish our time together wasn’t coming to a close. I could sit and just watch him fastening those cuff links, tying his tie—
“I wish we weren’t almost done together,” Fabien says.
I don’t want to tell him I was just thinking the very same thing. It feels like sucking up.
“Oh? Well, I mean, we could get caught at the carnival and end up in jail together.”
He chuckles. “As if being in a jail cell with you would be at all punitive.”
I sigh. “Likewise.”
I stand in front of the full-length mirror and brush off imaginary lint. The gesture doesn’t remove my doubts like I somehow thought it would, as if I could just whisk them away.
He walks up behind me and braces my hips with his large, strong hands. Now that I’ve lost the six-inch heels, he’s a full head taller than I am, and he has to bend to kiss the top of my head.
Fabien has shown me in detail how good he is at masquerading. Playacting. He knows exactly how to behave and what to say.
What makes me think that anything he says or does to me is authentic?
I can’t let myself doubt anything now. He’s paying me amply for a weekend together and for the job we’ll do. We’ll secure the talisman and make history, avoid capture, then go our separate ways.
“You look stunning. The bride herself will be jealous.”
I hold his gaze in the mirror. “Why, thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. So let’s go over the plan again.”
“You manage to either bribe or coerce your cousin into complying,” I begin.
“We find out what he has to tell us. Find every entrance and exit, the code to gain entry, and whatever other details we can get from him.” I draw in a breath and release it.
“You’ll get the replica of the talisman.
Tonight, we’ll decide what our disguises are, and practice.
After we’re back in Corsica and have successfully replaced the real talisman with the replica at The Underground, we’ll bring the real one to your delivery guy and ship it straight here. ”
“You’re fucking good at this, aren’t you?”
I shrug though I don’t mind the way he praises me at all. “I guess we’ll see.”
He could’ve gotten anyone for the kind of money he’s paying. Why did he choose me?
Because you’re easy to fuck.
“Nicolette?”
“Yes?”
A look of concern flashes in his eyes, or at least I think that’s what it is. Would he really be concerned about a girl like me? Or is he afraid I’ll fuck up our plans?
He holds my gaze in the mirror for long seconds before he shakes his head. “Nothing.” I sigh as he places one more kiss on my temple. “Let’s get this done.”
I love weddings. Love them. There’s something about the promise of an eternity of love and the celebration of something so wholesome and pure that fills me with joy. And though American weddings run the gamut from unconventional to traditional, a French wedding is an entirely different affair.
The gorgeous wedding procession and ceremony, the reception with decadent food and the traditional croquembouche in place of cake, dancing and partying until late into the night.
I once went to a wedding in college where the groom opened a bottle of champagne with a saber, supposedly something that’s not out of the norm here.
Sometimes couples even fashion a pyramid of champagne glasses filled by a waterfall of the bubbly liquid.
Young girls, reminiscent of American flower girls, will welcome the bride with scattered petals, and the couple will often sit on velvet chairs to exchange vows, like a true king and queen.
We’ll party well after midnight and come home bearing traditional little bags of dragée, sugar-coated almonds.
“Your cheeks are all pink with excitement,” he says. “Are you that excited?”
“I am.”
It isn’t just the wedding. It’s attending the wedding on his arm.
Stealing that much more of his undivided attention delivered in a way that only Fabien can, that makes me feel like I’m special and important and worthy.
Though I may have told myself that working at La Maison was easy enough to do for the money I made, it’s been a long time since I felt special and important and worthy.
In some ways, maybe that’s worth more than the money I’ll earn.
I go to the ceremony in a sort of daze, preoccupied with the job we’re planning to do.
We witness the vows, my mind a million miles away.
Thayer watches me coolly from the side. Fabien speaks in a low voice to his cousin Chance, but it isn’t until we get back to the house, where we can speak more freely, that the real job begins.
Hand in hand, we walk into the house where the reception will be held. Hired staff walks about in black and white uniforms, pressed and polished and tending to every guest that enters. Someone takes coats and raincoats while another takes umbrellas and hats. The rain has not let up even a little.
“They say it’s good luck to be married on a rainy day,” I tell Fabien as we enter the ballroom.
“Luck is a child’s hope,” he says. “You either become who you set your mind to become, or you don’t.” He shrugs. “You either grow together as husband and wife or you grow apart. There is no rolling of a die.”
I don’t reply but think this over as I scan the room for his cousin.
“If a couple is committed to one another, there is no reason for a relationship not to work out,” Fabien continues. “You don’t simply stop loving someone.”
“You don’t think?” My parents stayed married and never left one another, but I don’t know how into each other they were.
They seemed to live such different lives, under the same roof but joined only by the mutual goal of raising their children together.
They were as different as two people could be.
“I don’t. I think falling out of love has more to do with a series of choices than a feeling that dissipates.”
“Interesting.”
“Is it?”
It is, but I don’t know if I want to get into the why of it with him.
My heart beats a little faster. He has opinions on this, it seems, opinions that excite me and give me hope.
“It’s just that… well…” How do I put into words what’s on my mind?
Why would he be looking for a woman at a brothel if he has such feelings on love and marriage? Is it because he knows the chances of finding love there are so slim that he’s safer? That he could find a woman like me, use me for his purposes, then discard me when he’s done?
He’s waiting for an answer, and I don’t know how to give it to him.
“Mademoiselle?” a waiter asks to my left. I turn to see a tray of wine flutes brimming with champagne.
I start to take one as Fabien’s phone rings.
“Yes?”
His hand clenches into a fist while he listens to the caller. Beside me, I can feel his body go rigid.
“What is it?” I mouth.
“Cosette,” he whispers back.
No. My heart beats faster. I reach for my phone to check my messages when I realize with a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach that I left my phone in his room to charge.
I make the phone signal with my thumb to my ear and pinky to my mouth and point out the door.
Fabien looks to where the bride and groom are coming.
We can hear them approach by the sound of the cheering that precedes them.
The grand home quickly fills with guests and staff.
The rich aromas of coffee and baked goods and the traditional soupe l’oignon, often served at French weddings, permeate the air.
“Nicolette.” A woman’s voice comes from behind me. Avril’s dressed in an elegant soft gray gown that nearly sweeps the floor. “Those pearls are exquisite. May I?”
I nod when she reaches a tentative finger out to touch them.
“Thank you. And yes, of course.”
Thayer’s merciless gaze swings over to us and narrows.
Uh oh.
“They were a gift from your son,” I say, not looking at Thayer. “He has excellent taste, doesn’t he?”
“In some things.” Fabien’s grandmother stands behind Avril. I feel the sting of her insinuation and bite back a sharp retort.
Avril colors and gives me a sheepish smile. “In all things,” she whispers.
Fabien’s still on the call and misses the exchange. It feels warm in here suddenly, and I need to get to my phone. If my friend is hurt…
“Thank you. I need to step out briefly, but I’ll be back soon.”
I point to the exit at the back of the room and mouth the word, “phone.”
He nods and starts walking with me.