I was afraid to make eye contact with Gautier before, but now that Pascal is effectively between us and he’s not backing down, I look him dead in the eye. Lift my chin, raise my brow, daring him. If he wants to take me, he’s going to have to do it physically and with my mother and his wife home. That won’t go over very well.
I don’t even know if Pascal is being protective of me, or if he’s just trying to rebel against his father, like he forgot to do it in his teenage years, but either way, I’m grateful.
“Fine,” Gautier says, breaking away from my stare. “It’s not important anyway. It would probably go over her head.”
He gives me one last sharp look, a look that makes my blood pressure rise, and then he heads back to the house, shaking his head.
Pascal watches him until he disappears and then turns to face me.
“I think you and I definitely need to talk,” he says carefully.
I just press my lips together and nod, my heart rate slowing.
I get in the passenger side as he gets in the driver’s seat, and I’m barely buckled in before he’s peeling out of the driveway and screaming past the trees down to the main road.
“Jesus,” I swear as he whips the car around onto the country road, causing me to brace myself on the dashboard before he guns it from zero to sixty in about a second.
He’s laughing as he does this, gleeful, his tongue sticking out like a crazy person. The glasses are slipping back down over his eyes, and he’s rolling down the windows so the wind is blowing in and messing up both our hair.
“I take it that driving is your stress relief,” I say, transferring my grip to the handle above the door.
“I’m probably the only person who enjoys their commute,” he says. “Everyone wants to live in Paris and take the métro, but why would I want to cram my body among countless others and breathe in the stink and sweat when I could be doing this?”
He guns it again for emphasis, and I let out a little squeal, followed by laughter. I can’t remember the last time I felt a thrill like this. Maybe never.
“You have a driver too,” I remind him.
“Exactly. But I only use him when I’m drinking. It’s not worth getting caught over, not for me.”
“Hmm,” I say, gazing at him. “I thought you’d flourish on all scandals.”
“No, not all of them,” he says, and at that his voice drops, and his expression becomes grim. “Especially a scandal that implicated my family in anything they couldn’t run from.” He licks his lips and shoots me a quick glance. “Or at least a scandal that implicated me in something I couldn’t run from. Especially if it’s something that I didn’t do.”
“You’re talking about Ludovic’s murder,” I say. “I know you didn’t do it.”
His smile disappears as quickly as it appeared. “But someone out there might think that.” He palms the steering wheel, switching his focus back to the narrow two-lane road that skirts along farms and clusters of oak trees. “Did you mean it when you said you wanted to talk business, or did you just want to get away from my father?”
“The first thing.”
His brows knit together, and I know his eyes under his glasses are picking me apart for the truth. “You promise me?”
“Promise you what?” My throat feels parched at the way the conversation is going. I need it to go in the opposite direction, far away.
“My father seems to think he owns you.”
I manage to swallow, but it’s still like my mouth is packed with sawdust. “What makes you say that?”
“Nothing,” he says. He bites his lip for a moment, then admits, “He said so.”
“What? When?”
“After you left the room yesterday. He thought we were . . . a little too close for his comfort.”
“Why should that matter to him?”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you say that, because it shouldn’t matter to anyone.”
I stare at him to go on. That was not at all what I meant.
“But it got him started,” he continues. “He seems to think he owns you because what’s mine is actually his.”
Your father is a fucking monster. The words dance on my lips, and I have to bite down to keep them back.
“I’m not surprised, considering how you all operate.”