Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
Nicolette
“We’ll have two espressos, please,” Fabien orders in perfect English. It goes so well with his American-tourist disguise, I’m actually a little turned on.
“Of course, Monsieur,” the barista replies, also in perfect English.
Fabien takes out some cash and hands it to the barista with a confused look. “Tip?”
When the barista gives Fabien a look that borders on condescension, Fabien gives me a little smile, like it’s an inside joke. What he doesn’t know is that it is exactly that. He knows you don’t tip a barista here, but when the barista declines, Fabien pretends to go right along with it.
Fabien is no more American than I’m a blonde – my current truly fabulous disguise—but we have our fun.
I’m wearing tight-fitting ripped jeans and a white T-shirt painted with an American flag stretched across my miraculously ample breasts.
The boob inserts really are more fun than the wigs.
I’ve got a mop of curly blonde hair that nearly hits my ass.
Lash extensions and hot pink lipstick complete my ensemble.
I wink at him, hot as hell in a hoodie, faded tee, and ripped jeans.
I wanna jump casual-tourist Fabien right here, right now.
It’s almost as sexy as the professor get-up which I did, in fact, christen in a hallway closet.
But for now, he’s leaning pretty heavily into the part of American tourist stereotype: his phone is set on camera mode, he speaks loudly, tries to tip everyone, and smiles a lot.
Now that I think about it, though—the smile, isn’t part of his act.
He smiles when we walk hand in hand.
He smiles when he wakes up next to me.
He smiles when there’s no one else to watch him, because Fabien Gerard is happy.
And so am I.
So happy.
I wake up every day next to the man of my dreams. Sure, ours isn’t a relationship like any other. His… work…is unconventional. He flouts the law like it’s child’s play, and there are times he comes home to me weary and troubled.
I don’t ask questions. I don’t want the answers, not really. I’ve found a kinship in his mother’s gentle spirit, and she’s taught me: don’t ask the question if you don’t want the answer.
So I don’t. I crawl into his lap and kiss him. I undress him and lead him to bed. We make sweet love until the troubles of the day fall away like our clothing, discarded and unnecessary in the quiet certainty of our love.
Oscar Wilde once said, “When good Americans die, they go to Paris.”
I like that thought.
Fabien and I frequent his home in Paris, and I truly never tire of it.
It does feel like a little slice of heaven.
Paris is beautiful and cultured, historical and vibrant.
And I love his family. Whereas Lyam’s unpredictable and wild and keeps things exciting, Fabien is bossy and responsible and loyal to the core, while Thayer is sort of a grumpy asshole.
I’m not quite sure how I feel about the fact that he runs a club for masters and slaves…
I mean, past me would’ve been horrified, but…
Well. Let’s just say I’m seeing there are many facets to life I may never have seen before, had it not been for Fabien.
So Thayer is starting to grow on me.
Sort of.
I’m not sure I like the way he looks at my sister, so I do what I can to keep her the hell away from him.
Savannah and I looked into buying a home in Paris for her, but we’ve realized we like the flexibility of renting a flat. For now, anyway. We splurged with some of the money I earned, but I’ve done my best to be smart about it, with investments and savings and all that.
Savannah spends most of her time in Paris, and as of last week, began grad school.
I’ve never seen my sister so happy. She has no idea what I did to earn this money and never will.
As far as she’s concerned, the Gerard family has something to do with the French mafia, but I don’t need her knowing any more than that.
“Let’s sit over here,” Fabien says with a twinkle in his eye. Holding two plates, each with a croissant and a small, rich cup of espresso with an aroma that makes my mouth water, he jerks his head toward a familiar corner of the café.
It’s the table where we first sat. Where we talked about our families and our pasts, about philosophy and literature. Where I first witnessed the sophisticated gentleman with impeccable manners and a voice that would melt panties.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Oh, nothing.”
With expert skill, he slides the plates onto the table and reaches over to pinch my ass.
“Fabien!” I hiss.
“I asked what was so funny,” he says, eyebrows raised to underscore his point.
I slide into my seat so he can’t reach my ass again and reach for my espresso.
“I was just thinking,” I say, giggling into my cup. I speak in a low voice, so we don’t blow our cover. We have a job to do today. “That the last time we sat here, I thought you were such a perfect gentleman.”
“A lot’s changed in a year,” he says as he sits across from me.
So much.
We’ve sold La Maison. Some of the women – most notably, Cosette and Gwen – have relocated to work with Thayer.
I keep in regular contact, but we haven’t visited that often.
This is really the longest we’ve spent in Corsica in the past year.
We’ve only come back to visit, to make sure the girls are well established with Thayer, and because at one point we heard the rumor that the Lyon family had gotten an anonymous tip about a rendezvous involving the talisman.
Apparently, no one’s yet discovered where the real talisman is.
They won’t.
The real talisman belongs to my husband.
My husband.
I smile down at my wedding band, the only piece of jewelry I wear that isn’t part of my disguise.
Fabien reaches for my hand. Tracing the wedding band with his thumb, he says in a low voice meant only for my ears, “Mine.”
I sit across from Gwen in the lounge. Thayer, the master of ceremonies, paces behind us.
I’ve never seen a place like this. Le Luxe masquerades as a luxury hotel.
Nestled discreetly off the Ajaccio Coast, no one but members and curated guests are allowed through the gate half a kilometer from the main entrance.
When we step inside, at first it seems as though we’re in a luxury hotel unlike any other – gleaming, silver mirrors, sparkling chandeliers, shining marble floors.
I turn to the rhythmic sound of flowing water to find an actual waterfall, bordered with stones of silver and white, along one wall.
The lobby’s outfitted in elegant chairs in white matte leather.
But this is no ordinary hotel.
For starters, there are no single rooms, only twelve well-appointed and decadent suites. Gwen and Cosette are living in the lap of luxury, sharing a suite on the second floor.
On the main floor there’s a concierge and bellhop station, leading to a wide hallway with elevators that nearly purr when they open.
“Room service,” Cosette whispers. “Nicolette, the towels are so thick and plush, it feels like you’re wrapped in clouds.”
It isn’t just the accommodations, though. I’ve never seen clients like this. The air is pungent with the scent of luxury and opulence, prestige and power.
Sex.
I lean in to speak to Gwen. “How do you like it here?” I whisper.
“Oh, it’s fine,” she says with a casual flick of her wrist. “If you like this sort of thing.”
Fabien has taught me that I do, indeed, like this sort of thing.
When I’m with him, that is.
“There are like these complimentary services,” she continues to whisper.
“The suites are bigger than some houses I’ve seen.
And there’s like this gorgeous pool with these huge windows that overlook the sea.
A spa that’s open twenty-four hours a day, a salon, a fully equipped gym.
These adorable little mini fridges in the rooms, with small bottles of wine and sparkling water and snacks. ”
Her eyes are as wide as a child’s.
“But there’s a cost for all this, Cosette,” Gwen reminds her.
“Oh, I know…” Cosette bites her lip. But I can see the wheels spinning in her head.
What would it take to be a slave to a master? Would it make being an escort look easy?
While Joelle left for a job with her cousin in Amsterdam, Gwen and Cosette have both taken jobs here that were meant to be temporary, but it’s been a while…
Thayer and Fabien are speaking in hushed voices.
I don’t know, and honestly, don’t much care, what kind of business they’re dealing with now.
Thayer’s phone rings as Lyam walks in and gives Cosette an obvious wink.
He walks away, his shoes clicking on the marble floor, then presses a button for the elevator.
“I saw that,” Gwen says warningly. Cosette bites her lip and shakes her head.
“Drop it, Gwen.”
“Not on your life.”
I look from one to the other while Fabien and Thayer continue to talk.
“Something you want to tell me?” I murmur to Cosette.
When her cheeks flush pink, I know I’ve struck a nerve.
“Nicolette,” she whispers, leaning closer so only I can hear her.
“Yes?”
“He likes…he told me he likes…he likes pets,” she stammers.
I feel my lips threaten to turn upward, but I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her.
“Who, honey?” I whisper back.
“Ly-Lyam,” she stammers again, shaking her head.
“I know, he has snakes and things like that,” I begin with a grimace, when she shakes her head vehemently.
“Nicolette,” she moans. “No. Not that kind of a pet.”
“Oh. Oh.” I blink. “Well…” I wonder if I’m in way over my head here.
If we all are.
I wonder if I should suggest to Fabien that we go back to Paris. The very idea of Savannah, my little sister, ever even knowing this is here—
“Nicolette.”
I look up to see Fabien staring at me with that look that makes my heart flutter. That look that tells me I mean the absolute world to him. That I belong to him.
“Yes?” I ask, my voice a little wobbly. It takes me a minute to remember why. I’d bet those two pink lines I saw on the test this morning, that I’m fully planning on telling him about tonight over dinner, have something to do with it.
“Did you hear anything Thayer said?”
I look over to see Thayer’s stern glare.
Grumpy, grumpy.
“I didn’t.”
Fabien smiles. My heart turns over in my chest.
“We’re needed on another job,” he says.
I stand and stifle a squeal. There’s something about being in the central lobby of Le Luxe that makes me want to appear refined and sophisticated and…okay, disgustingly rich.
“Is that so?” I ask with an attempt at amused-meets-haughty.
He grins. “It is so. Now get your ass over here so we can pick out our evening attire.”
That’s code for disguises.
I walk over to him and let him take me by the hand. We walk together toward the exit.
Toward our destination.
Toward the rest of our lives.
From the author: I hope you’ve enjoyed reading the first book in the Masters of Corsica series! Not ready to let go of Fabien and Nicolette quite yet? Read a bonus epilogue HERE!