to mourn the moment when she’s fully healed, when she finds no reason to depend on me?
I’m being ridiculous, of course. Which, to be honest, is a new thing for me. I’ve gotten my dick sucked and come inside her more than enough times to consider her out of my system, but she’s only gotten more inside, slipped under my skin like some form of silk that bonds to your bones.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her. “I’ll bring you a surprise.”
She laughs, cocking a brow at me. “I don’t even know what that could mean coming from you.”
I leave her and head out of the villa toward the lobby to tell the front desk that I’ll be in Saint-Tropez if anyone calls. I wasn’t supposed to hang around in the area for more than a day, but, as luck has it, one of our investors is at his summer villa here and wants to meet. Saves him a trip up to Paris.
I’m striding through the tiled lobby, guests going to and fro and paying me no attention—probably because most of them are famous and don’t have a moment to think about anyone else—when suddenly I feel the air change.
It sounds fucking crazy. It always sounds fucking crazy, even when I try to explain it to myself, but that’s the truth.
The air becomes sharper, more acidic, as if an electrical storm is coming, the kind you know will ruin your bright and sunny day.
And there he is.
Without thinking I stop walking, pausing in the middle of the lobby, and my head swivels toward the corner near the elevators.
There he stands, in a rust red suit, white shirt unbuttoned, no tie, hair a mess, facial hair that could use a trim, especially above the lip.
My cousin Pascal Dumont.
His bright-blue eyes are fixed on me, like he’d been watching me for a while, maybe even as I left the villa—eyes that tell me they know everything, even the things about myself that I don’t know.
Eyes that aren’t kind.
They seem kind. They’re photogenic in their intensity and lapis color; they crinkle at the corners when he gives an easy smile; they’re often brimming with a million emotions, emotions you can take and make your own, turn into whatever makes you feel better about yourself.
But they aren’t kind.
He’s not kind.
And, of course, he’s not here by accident.
My throat already feels thick, wondering what the hell he could want.
The thing with Pascal is that he could want anything.
And for most of my life, I’ve been willing to give him anything.
To make up for the things that I’ve done.
The terrible things that I’ve done.
He gives me his crooked smile, no teeth, and nods, coming over in such a way that lets me know he’s been waiting a long time for this moment.
I can’t remember the last time I saw him. Maybe at the start of the summer at his mother’s birthday. I stopped by with Seraphine out of courtesy. Had some cake, and then we were gone.
We never stay long in that nest of vipers.
“Cousin,” Pascal says to me, stopping just a foot away. He has a way of making his words sound the way oil looks traveling through water, something snaking and insidious that permeates the good parts of you.
Then again, everyone on that side of the family is like that.
“What are you doing here?” I ask curtly, unable to fake any formalities.
Pascal feigns being shocked. “Why do you think I’m here? You know, Olivier—you’re not the only one who gets to jet off on vacations.”
“I’m not on vacation,” I tell him.
A small, knowing smile tugs at his lips, and he shakes his head. “No. No, of course not. You never take vacations. Still, I can’t help but wonder, since you should have been back in Paris the other day.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You have nothing else to do but keep track of where I am?”
His mouth spreads into his easy, lopsided grin. “Oh, we have other people do those things for me, but sometimes I prefer to watch firsthand. Always more fun that way. Call it a hobby. But listen, now that I’ve seen you in the flesh, I can tell them to back off.”
“What do you want?” I ask tersely.
“Nothing. Well, other than being concerned about your whereabouts.”
“My whereabouts are none of your concern.”
The corner of his lip twitches. “Hmm. Yes, but of course they are. You’ve been pretending for the last ten years, Olivier. Pretending that time isn’t running out