Primrose #2
My overwhelming instinct is to turn and flee. To move quickly and silently until I reach the landing. Cowardice would be so much easier. I could slip into my room, close door and pretend… what?
That I don’t care?
That I don’t matter?
That I would let another man treat me badly—again?
That’s not happening.
Because primroses are brave. Even if he didn’t mean it when he said it. They’re also a little ridiculous, I decide, as I lift my chin and continue down the staircase.
Luc glances my way—not because I’m stomping like a troll or anything—and does a double take. Maybe he forgot I was here. However temporarily.
But then, for one unguarded second, something moves across his face—a flicker of the man who whispered such beautiful words against my skin. The woman’s gaze follows, and she makes a noise that sounds a little like astonishment. But whatever that was, it rapidly wipes his face clean.
“Primrose.” He turns to face me, his tone cool but courteous. “I didn’t realize you were there.”
No shit, Sherlock.
But I guess that the woman remains tucked tightly against his side says it all.
Up close, she looks sort of ageless, like she could be aged anywhere between thirty-five and fifty.
My money is on forty-plus with access to an excellent dermatologist. She’s tall and elegantly trim and has the kind of effortless elegance that makes me feel like I’ve dressed myself from the charity bin.
Her gaze flicks over me with a gleaming sort of interest as I stand in front of the pair.
“This is Primrose,” Luc offers eventually. “The children’s nanny.”
Ouch. And I don’t say that for funsies because that really fucking hurt. Arsehole. What a douche. It’s not that I expected him to offer up the truth—to say that I’m the woman he whispers sweet filthy French nothings to. The woman he’s been chasing for weeks.
Just the nanny.
I throw out my hand and bend forward, rather than step closer. I don’t want to risk being anywhere near his throat. He might accidentally-on-purpose find my fist in it. “It’s Dr Whittington, actually.”
Luc’s eyes sharpen. He looks unimpressed.
I smile the most pleasant smile I rustle up from my arsenal. “I’m the nanny, but only temporarily.” Cue sliding him a stinking look. If you think I’m staying here any longer, you’re mistaken, friend.
“How intriguing.” The woman’s gaze travels over me again, slower this time. “I don’t remember you telling me you had a new nanny,” she adds, glancing his way.
“Because we haven’t spoken in a few weeks.”
“Terrible rogue,” she says, puckering her lips as she squeezes his cheek.
“We’ve exchanged dozens of texts. You might’ve mentioned you had a new nanny.
Especially someone as interesting as Dr Whittington here.
” She releases Luc only to come closer, her hand lingering on his arm until the last possible moment.
“Rose, this is Amélie,” he says begrudgingly. I wait to hear him add, “my oldest friend” or “my sister”or “my bestie”. Something! But nope. Maybe it’s just as well because the way she’s looking at him isn’t exactly sisterly. There’s something avaricious about those brown eyes.
She offers me her hand. “Enchantée, Docteur Whittington.”
Her fingers close warmly around mine and there they remain a fraction longer than convention dictates. Some kind of challenge?
“Likewise,” I answer, meaning and sounding the opposite. I do have things I’d rather be doing right now. Like cleaning my toenails. Reviewing Felix’s taste in porn. Or stabbing this asshole with a butter knife.
“What kind of docteur?”
“Sorry?”
“What kind of docteur are you?” The second times she asks, her question is accompanied by a tinkling laugh.
“Medical.” I don’t add my specialty.
“Pretty, clever, and useful.” She glances back at Luc as the information means something.
“Yeah, I suppose I have been useful.” I slide him a loathsome look. “For an old codger like him.”
Even her laughter sounds expensive. “This is so… interesting.”
“I’m not sure Monsieur du Beaumont thinks so.” I clock the way her eyes dart between us and begin to worry he might’ve invited one of his freaky friends to join us. Upping the ante, so to speak.
“That’s the thing, cheri. You never can quite tell what’s going on behind that handsome facade of his.”
“So I’m beginning to find,” I mutter. “If you’ll excuse me.” I begin to turn but don’t get far.
“Luc, this is excellent!”
If you say so.
“Why didn’t you say something!” she all but exclaims.
His answer is cool by contrast. “What is there to tell?”
I slide him another drop-dead look.
“Because friends share.” Her attentions glide my way, and I instantly bristle.
“I don’t bloody well think so!”
“Oh my God!” She claps her hands together, clearly delighted. “This just gets better and better.”
Luc’s expression hardens. “Amélie, behave yourself.”
“I’m being myself. I remember when you used to like that girl.
” For some reason, her retort sounds like a cat slinking about the ankles.
She slips beneath his arm again, laughing as she settles herself there.
Luc doesn’t exactly return the embrace, but he also doesn’t set her aside.
I’m not sure there’s a difference, not given the way I feel.
Which is spiky and sad and confused. Regretful and wretched and probably another dozen things.
“If you’re staying for dinner, I hope you can cook,” I say as I turn away for realsies this time. “The chef is out on the town tonight. And I think I’ll join her.”
“I might just stay longer than that,” she taunts, tipping her face up to Luc’s. Her hand smooths over the flat of his stomach before he catches it in his. “You know,” she says, not sparing me a glance, “he does enjoy keeping his women apart.”
Despite my bravado, my heart drops inside my ribcage, hitting every bone on the way down.
But still, I don’t relinquish her gaze as I embody the spirit of my sister.
“Does he have so many?” I ask, like the thought has never occurred to me.
I pull a face that might suggest he has a face like a melted flip-flop.
“Who can tell?” Her smile widens. “The man is a vault.”
“Amélie,” Luc says again, lower this time, the warning clear. Not that she pays attention to him either.
“Perhaps you can show me around later, Primrose. I would like us to become better acquainted.”
Not happening, I think as my mouth replies, “I’m sure Luc would be a much better guide.”
“But not nearly so pretty.”
For the first time, Luc looks directly at me. His face is unreadable, his eyes winter dark.
“Primrose has responsibilities,” he says.
Which is not quite the same as Primrose and I have plans.
She has responsibilities. Like I’m a fucking servant.
“How could I ever forget?” I smile feeling scraped raw. “However, tonight I’ve set my mop cap and apron aside.” I pivot before I say anything else.
“What did she say?” she asks as I leave the room with as much dignity as I can muster. I want to storm—to whip things of the shelves as I pass—I want to frisbee a picture frame at his handsome fucking head. But I have too much dignity.
“Oh, Luc. She is wonderful!” She laughs as I reach the stairs.
His reply is too low for me to catch, but her laughter follows me all the way up.
It’s obvious what’s happened, I think to myself. I gave him everything, and now there’s nothing left for him to want. He’s just done.
Well, so am I.