Luc
Five minutes late, Doctor Primrose Elizabeth Whittington steps onto the terrace, almost stumbling as she registers my presence.
“I thought… I thought I was eating with the children.”
“Sit down.” I give no confirmation nor correction. No please. No thanks. Just a whole lot of poker face.
She straightens her shirt, quickly regaining her equilibrium.
Pulling out the heavy chair at the far end of the table, she sits, though not without some attitude.
Sunlight and shadow dapple her golden hair thanks to grapevines twining the arbor overhead.
She looks… different. No sinfully red bikini.
No siren red lipstick. No short dress. No heels.
Instead, her hair is pulled into an untidy bun. I find myself wondering if she’s ever able to tame those locks. She’s dressed like the quintessential girl next door; pale jeans, a striped blue shirt, and navy espadrilles. Fresh-faced and innocent, she also looks young—far too young.
And strikingly lovely.
She adjusts herself in her chair, and I watch her take in the table, which is perhaps a little too well-dressed for a casual alfresco dinner.
A snowy-white tablecloth, silverware, wine glasses, a small but elegant flower arrangement in the center.
Then I notice she’s looking anywhere but at me, which could be related to her parting words.
Haven’t had sex in a year.
I’m not often caught off guard, though I’ll admit, that took me by surprise. What I won’t admit, even to myself, is the places my mind went with that information.
I’ve had a chance to reconsider my position since we last spoke, and the opportunity to examine her background check, and to think over the things she said. Some of them, at least.
And I’ve reached a conclusion. A plan. One she should reject outright. I know I would, but then my only loyalties are to my children and my business. Primrose, however, seems made of different stuff.
She tries not to fidget and mostly achieves her aims. Just the slight adjustment of a fork on the table and the righting of a flyaway hair.
“Okay, you win,” she says quite suddenly.
I press my elbow to the tabletop and rub my forefinger across my lip, mainly to mask my amusement. “I didn’t realize we were competing.”
“Something tells me a man like you is always competing. I’ve taken part in enough meetings to know the code. First to speak loses. In this instance, I’m happy to do so if it means we can get on with this.” She motions a finger back and forth between us. “Whatever this is.”
“I imagine it’s a rare day when you capitulate.” Because she has the tenacity of a terrier as I’ve already found. “I received an update from Emmy.”
“I just spoke with her too.” Bet she rang me before she rang you, the challenge in her gaze says.
“I understand you’ve known each other since you were children.”
“That’s right.” She lifts her hands to her lap, her gaze following the motion of my index finger as I tap the manila folder I’d carried from my office.
I feel the weight of her gaze as I flip it open and study the page.
Or make a show of doing so as her floral perfume reaches my nose, courtesy of the warm breeze that blows my way. I resist the urge to deeply inhale.
“What’s in the folder? My life in a nutshell?”
“I’m sure your brother vets his employees with the same kind of diligence.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she says lightly, though I sense a thread of tension there.
Twenty-eight years old. A degree in psychology, then a medical degree. Must’ve changed her mind. “You don’t get along with your brother?” I lift my gaze but not my head and try not to get sucked in by the sight of her again. She looks younger than her age. And that makes me feel exceedingly old.
“Isn’t that in the folder?” she asks pertly. I temper my smile as glance down again. “We get along just fine,” she adds after a beat. “I get on well with all my brothers. I’m just not used to being scrutinized. Or doubted, for that matter.”
That I can well believe, now at least, after having had the benefit of time to read the report. Top of her class, commendations for clinical competence, charitable works, the list of her achievements go on and on. It would seem Primrose Whittington is as well regarded as she is accomplished.
“And you came to Paris to spend time with Emmy prior to a starting a new job.”
“Yes. We were going on holiday—a European vacation. It was to start yesterday.” This she adds a little pointedly.
“Unfortunately, there was an issue with the agency nanny.”
“That seems to be a recurring theme,” she murmurs, removing the napkin from her plate. I wonder if it’s anger or embarrassment that has caused the patch of red at the base of her throat.
“She was thoroughly vetted before arriving at the beginning of the week to facilitate a handover.”
“So Emmy said.”
“Which gave her ample time to settle in. And then for her to be caught rifling through my office.”
“Oh.”
“And then last night, I found her naked in my bed.” She blinks, and the color on her neck travels higher. “So you see how I might’ve jumped to conclusions.”
She squints across the table at me. “Is that supposed to be an apology?”
“It’s an explanation.”
“It’s part of one, maybe. Though an actual apology would be nice.”
“Nice is not a word often associated with me.”
“Shocker.” Her brows rise on her smooth forehead. “Let me put that another way,” she adds, leaning back in her seat. “An apology is required.”
“For what purpose?”
“Unbelievable,” she mutters under her breath. “I deserve an apology for the way you treated me earlier. At the pool and in your office.”
But no mention of last night.
“I was a little overzealous.” I bring my hand to my chin. “But I seem to recall you gave as well as you took.” The double entendre was unintended, but the look I send her? I’m not sure.
She snorts. “You jumped to some pretty wild conclusions, and your behavior was wholly unacceptable.”
“Don’t let our surroundings fool you, Primrose. I’m not the gentlemanly type.”
“And to make matters worse,” she continues regardless, “you deprived Emmy of statutory vacation time so you could go to a sex club.”
It’s not quite the coup de grace she imagined, judging by the way her cheeks now match her neck. My impressions of her last night were correct. She can’t even say sex club without turning red.
“I wasn’t aware I need to explain myself to you.”
She folds her arms under her lovely chest. “Is that because you can’t?”
“What do you want me to say—that I regret being there? Because I don’t. Do you?”
“We’re not talking about me,” she replies icily.
“You’re right, we’re getting off track. I brought you here to say that, after some consideration, I’ve decided to let you stay.”
She gives a tiny snort. “That’s generous of you.”
“It suits us both, no? You would like Emmy to keep her job, and I’m now sufficiently convinced both you and Emmy are innocent.”
“Still doesn’t sound like an apology,” she mutters
“And by staying here with us is how you’ll help Emmy achieve this.”
Her brow flickers. “By staying for the weekend.”
I say nothing. Primrose is ideal, really.
Loyal to her friend. Reliable and obviously experienced with children.
She’s made a good impression with Sylvie and is tolerated by Felix.
She’s educated far beyond the remits of the role and is from a perplexingly good background.
She doesn’t need money, she seeks no relationship, nor notoriety, and will be with us only temporarily.
The fact that I’m attracted to her is the one glitch. Because she is lovely, all angry-eyed and prickly. Rosy, tender lips, and soft curves.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispers furiously. “Just because last night we—”
A cold clarity falls over me. “Last night meant nothing.” It can mean nothing.
“I should’ve trusted my first impression of you. You’re nothing but a thoroughly unpleasant man. I can’t believe I let you kiss me,” she mutters angrily.
“I think you’ll find you kissed me first. I trust it won’t happen again.” There’s nothing to be gained from bringing mentioning any other form of kissing. It’s best we both try to forget it. Forger her sweet pussy.
She’s suddenly on her feet, her palms pressed flat to the table. “You are despicable, and I find you nothing but repugnant, and—
“I’m not sure anyone has ever been murdered by a butterknife.” My eyes drop to where her fingers are curled tight around that particular piece of silverware.
“Don’t tempt me.” She drops back to her seat, perhaps coming back to her senses. “You’re not worth going to prison for.”
“Not to mention how that would look on your résumé.” She is fiery, and I like that. Not that I have any intention of doing anything about it. “I’m glad to learn you’re no longer attracted to me.”
In answer, she glowers.
“I find it preferable for our working relationship.”
“Thirty-six hours hardly constitutes any kind of relationship.”
In thirty-six hours, I could rock her whole world. What is with these intrusive thoughts?
From the kitchen, there comes the sound of running and squabbling before my children practically tumble out onto the terrace. Well, Sylvie tumbles. Felix is far too sophisticated these days to be seen having fun.
“Primrose!” Sylvie announces, throwing her arms around the woman’s neck. “Do you like to play Nomopoly? Emmy, she plays Nomopoly with us.”
“Monopoly,” her brother condescends.
“We play the English one.” Sylvie carries on as though he hasn’t spoken. “With the Pall Mall and the Marie-le-bon,” she says butchering Marylebone, “and one day she says she will take us to all the places in London.”
“We have been to London many times, idiot,” Felix retorts.
“Fais gaffe à toi,” I say in a warning tone. Watch yourself.
“I just meant that Emmy says some of the places will be boring to visit,” he mutters as he pulls out a chair.
“You could go to Monopoly Lifesize,” Primrose suggests. “That’s in London.”
“What is that?” Sylvie cants her head with the question, and Primrose’s mouth gives a thoughtful little twist.
“It’s an immersive game of Monopoly, I suppose.”
Sylvie frowns. “Im-er-seive,” she says, sounding the word out.
“You become a part of the game.”
“How?”
“The board is people-sized and, instead of the little silver hat or the car or whatever, you move around the game in their place.”
“You are the hat?” My daughter’s eyes widen as her attention swings my way. I shrug in answer.
“But how do you buy property? With cash?” The minute the words are out, Felix seems to regret showing interest. Perhaps board games aren’t cool.
“No, you complete challenges for the chance instead.”
“Sounds stupid,” he grumbles, but I can see his interest is piqued.
“I want to do people-sized Monopoly!” Sylvie says, clapping her hands together. “Can we go, Papa?” She swings around, her cornflower blue eyes wide and pleading. “Please? Please?”
“Perhaps another time.”
Her chair scrapes, and I suddenly find my face in her hands. “But there is no school and you promised we could do fun things in the summer.”
“And we will, mon chou,” I say, moving her hands and kissing the backs of each.
“But—”
“We’re going to Casa Alegría, remember?”
My daughter’s mouth gives a thoughtful pull. Lifesize Monopoly might sound fun but our finca, our estate in Mallorca is her favorite place in the world.
“Can we play Monopoly next time we’re in London?”
“Of course, but for now, the house awaits.”
“Yes! And sailing and fishing and picking fruit from the trees. Oh, and Bouton will be there!”
“That dog has fleas,” Felix mutters.
“Lies!” Sylvie spins around to face her brother. “I wouldn’t care if he did have fleas because I love him, and Primrose will love him too.”
“Oh, sweetie, I can’t—”
Before my daughter’s expression crumbles, I cut in. “Wait—Primrose can’t wait for you to show her around the estate.”
“Yes!” My daughter throws her hands up in the air.
The nanny glares. “I think you might be laboring under a misapprehension,” she mutters through gritted teeth.
“Are you suggesting I might be disappointed?” I purr dangerously.
“I know you will.”
“Impossible,” I retort. “I already know you’ve packed your bikini.”