8. Primrose
PRIMROSE
What in the fairy-tale fuck—why did I have to mention my knickers?
My heart hammers in my chest as I keep my hand on the doorhandle, as though afraid he might follow me.
The hallway is blessedly cool, dark, and best of all, empty as I try to fit the puzzle pieces together. Out of all the men in Paris… I just don’t understand.
And how come he sounds as English as pinstripes and bowler hats?
At least he’s a widower. I mean, I’m sorry for his loss, but I’m happy to learn for my own peace of mind that he isn’t married. Even if he is a low-down dirty liar. Who gives the most amazing head. He’s also mean and kind of sadistic. I think I hate him.
Releasing the handle, I hurry through the house, hoping I’m heading in the right direction for the staircase.
I need to find the room I was assigned earlier.
My footsteps echo against the marble floors as I pass vast salons with soaring ceilings, and a grand piano gleaming beneath a heavy chandelier.
He’s not the only liar, I suppose. I do have a pretty good understanding of French.
Not that he deserves to know. Not the way he’s behaved.
That man has given me a galloping pulse and jelly legs twice in less than twenty-four hours.
In very different circumstances, yes. But I’d be a big fat fibber if I said I didn’t think about last night as he’d loomed over me in his office while toying with my bikini strap.
He was trying to intimidate me, for sure.
Too bad for him I liked it—I mean, too bad for him I’m not easily scared.
Were the stairs to the left or to the right here?
I take a punt and find of the hallway as I slip through the door (which doesn’t look like a door at all) which leads to the servant’s staircase.
Of course someone as egotistical as him would have a staircase for the help, I think as I hurry upward.
He’s probably the type who never wants to set his eyes on the domestic helpers, that ice-cold, egotistical, arrogant, heavenly smelling, pussy-dominating, good for nothing… urgh!
Did I really use the word sexpert?
My bare feet angrily slap the steps as I climb the ugly staircase in a house that’s otherwise picture-book perfect in the Parisienne style.
Cream colored stone and tall windows with wrought iron balconies.
Ornate crown molding and ceiling roses, marble floors and turkey carpets. This family is old money, and it shows.
Upstairs, I glance over my shoulder, then right the wedgie that’s been annoying me since the pool. Bloody Lavender. She must’ve swapped out my one-piece for this stupid bikini. Not only is it so high-cut its wedgie inducing, but the puny triangles on string barely contain my boobs.
Sadly, I didn’t notice the swap until Sylvie pulled the stretchy red fabric out of my bag after insisting on showing me to my room and then helping me to unpack.
It’s how we’d ended up at the pool.
Cut to an hour later when her father’s eyes sliced hotly my way. I felt flames lick at my skin, and the pull of lust deep in my core. I mean, obviously, I’m an idiot, because he was quick to remind me that first impressions do indeed count.
By the time he’d practically frog-marched me to his office, that fiery feeling had turned from a bush fire (if you get what I mean) to a red-hot poker-prodding rage.
I felt as un-Primrose-like as I’ve ever felt. I usually swallow my anger, even when it feels so huge I think it might choke, but not today. Today I chose violence! Verbal violence, at least, because I don’t believe in causing actual hurt. Even if some people deserve it.
Honestly, he’s lucky he’s not wearing the Basquiat as a collar.
I press my hand to my mouth, laughter threatening to burst out of me like gunfire.
God, it felt like an out-of-body-experience.
I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. The higher handed he got, the more incensed I became, and the more I wanted to goad him—and I did!
But he deserved it for a dozen reasons. For last night.
For the things he assumed about my bestie.
For treating me like a pleb. And for marching me into his office like he’d caught me smuggling out the family silver in my bra!
But most of all, he deserved it for pushing me out of that door.
I mean, why? I don’t get it. He seemed so into me. The way he’d kissed me, the way he touched me. The noises he made as he buried his tongue in my—
No, brain. Cease and desist! We’re not thinking about any of that. The man is now my enemy, and he shall pay!
I growl—no, really, clenched fists and everything—because there is no way I’ll allow him to drag Em into this.
She doesn’t deserve to be fired just because…
because what? Because he’s embarrassed about last night?
Because he doesn’t want anyone to know he was there.
Because I said the wrong thing, because I’m inexperienced.
Because he wanted a woman, just not me.
I push out a deep breath. What the hell gives him the right to decide I’m not unworthy of an explanation? Oh, that’s right. He’s just another rich arsehole who thinks his piles of cash put him closer to God.
My brother is rich—he started his own bank. I mean, he doesn’t have a Picasso hanging in his home office, but he is extremely wealthy. And he’s still human. Sort of.
I could get Em a job with a way nicer employer, but I’m aware that needs to be her choice. Meanwhile, she entrusted me with her livelihood, and I’m not going to let anything ruin it.
I mean, I’m not going to do anything else to ruin it.
Screw him for giving me the best orgasm of my life. Screw him for pushing me into the alley like yesterday’s trash. And screw him for continuing to treat me in the same vein!
Also, let’s not actually screw him.
Even he did make my skin feel alive when he loomed over me.
What’s wrong with me? I think with a frown. He called me a wallflower. He’s not wrong, but he didn’t mean it as a compliment!
“I hope he gets a crick in his dick,” I mutter as I stomp along the hallway. I turn the corner and—“Oh!” Startled, I almost drop my towel.
“Whoa, there.”
I nod and press my cotton-filled fist over my hammering heart as the ogre’s assistant, Jacques, steadies me by my upper arms.
“Sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” I give a quick smile, hoping he didn’t hear the curse aimed at his esteemed employer. Or my stomping feet. Lavender says when I’m in a strop, my troll-style steps that can be heard streets away.
“You okay?”
Just a bit flustered and still a little prickly. “I’m fine,” I say, forcing my shoulders to lower. “Though I might be a teeny bit lost.”
I wish I had the cover of a cardigan right now, which is weird considering I didn’t feel the need to cover up in the ogre’s office. I’d even thought about dropping my towel. Sort of like you could’ve had all this, but you blew it. Door, smelly back alley, blah, blah, blah.
“Where were you looking to go?” His carefully neutral face makes me want to laugh.
“Well, I haven’t been fired, if that’s what you’re asking.” I also haven’t not been fired. Just because I say I’m not leaving doesn’t mean he won’t actually make me. Mr. Arrogant DickHead might yet sic his security team on me. My pulse doesn’t exactly like that thought.
“That’s good. He’s already fired me at least twice today.”
“Really?”
The man shrugs. “It happens. Usually only a couple of times a month, but today I am overachieving.” He grins.
“I haven’t had sex in over a year.” Did I really tell him that? I might as well have said, Hey, if I was going to blackmail you, I’d do it for your body, not your wallet. You know, because I’m desperate.
Shoot me now. Or push me down the stairs—over the edge of a cliff. Something.
“You wanna let me in on what happened between the two of you?”
I scrunch my nose as I assume a confused expression. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve known Luc for a lot of years, and I thought I’d seen him angry before. But…” He gives his head a slow shake.
No way. He so doesn’t look like a Luke. Luke’s are Labrador retrievers in human form, not one of the devil’s hell hounds.
“Sorry, I really haven’t the foggiest.” Oh, Lord. Who from this century even uses that phrase? Could I be anymore weird? Honestly? Probably.
“I’m not buyin’ that,” the man says.
“I suppose he did seem a bit cheesed off. Not that I took offense.” I totally took offense.
“Cheesed off?” The man looks confused.
I shrug. “You know, unhappy. Irritated.”
“I’d go with wrathful, and he was looking at you.”
I assume a thoughtful expression. “Maybe a case of mistaken identity?”
“You think he confused you for someone else?” he asks doubtfully.
“Maybe I look like an ex,” I suggest with a shrug. Laughter bursts out of the man and I find myself frowning. “It wasn’t that funny.”
“Oh, it was,” he says, putting his hand across his chin in a crappy attempt to hide his amusement. The man probably only dates supermodels. All legs, and hair, and flawless skin.
“Thanks for implying I’ve got a face like a melted flip-flop.”
“That’s not it.” But he’s still amused. “It’s more like… well, he hasn’t dated in a while.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I retort flatly. “He’s hardly Mr. Congeniality.”
“Rich men don’t generally have to be agreeable. Not that I need to tell you anything about rich men.”
“Why would you say…” My words trail off as the penny drops. I hate it when people bring up my brother. I mean, I love him—he’s great. Generous and level-headed, if not a little overprotective. But he’s my brother, not my keeper. And though we both live in London, we hardly exist on the same plain.
“Your brother is said to be fair-minded but formidable.”
“He’s really decent.” Desperately in love with his wife and his life. It’s all a bit sickening, really. Or seriously sweet. “Not all rich men are so far up their own arses they can tickle their own tonsils, you know.”
“Well,” he says with a quirk of his lips. “That was quite the visual.”
“Apt, if you ask me”
“Don’t let first impressions fool you. Lucien is a pretty decent guy.”
“I’m sure.” I’m sure that’s a load of old codswallop because my first, second, and third impressions all point to the opposite.
But I paint on a smile that I hope is more convincing than it feels.
Lucien. That’s a little more like it. Definitely more hell-hound fancy.
And by that, I mean fucking rabid. “Where are the children, by the way?” There’s no need to give Lucien any more excuses to get rid of me. Or Em.
“Sylvie’s making cupcakes with Zoe, and Felix is currently killing things.”
“And… are his entry-level serial killer behaviors usually encouraged?”
“Virtually. He’s playing CoD in the games room.”
“Right.” Must be a fishing game or something. “I should go and find them.”
“Maybe you want to put some clothes on first.”
“Oh, right. Good plan! Er, which way again?”
“Keep going,” he says, making a gesture behind him with his head. “Then hang a right. End of the hallway.”
“Thanks,” I say, brushing by him. “This place is like a maze.”
What are the chances he’s overcompensating for something? None, unless he had a large, underripe banana in his pocket last night.
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Won’t be here long enough!” I call over my shoulder.
“Dinner is in an hour.”
“Thanks!” I expect it’ll be a Victorian affair with the kids and me eating bland food in the villa’s equivalent of the draughty nursery.
I recognize the Sylvie’s room thanks to her name plaque and the girly decorations hanging from it, and slide quietly into the room two down from hers. The door is cool against my back, and my heartbeat seems to finally regulate in the silence.
Lucien, the brooding, rude, hot arsehole.
The brooding, rude hot-hole. Yes, the epitaph suits him, I think.
And then I wonder which room he knuckle-drags himself to when he needs to sleep.
Before I have the chance to consider his nightly proximity, my phone begins to dance against the ebony nightstand, and Emmy’s name flashes up on screen.