Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,25

Concorde to our left. “Remember Paolo?”

“We met him yesterday, so yes, I remember him.”

“I don’t want to sound like him,” Rhys says, “but I’m afraid I might.”

“Oh?”

“I’m having dinner with my cousin tonight. Care to join?”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “What part of that sounded like Paolo?”

“I could try it in an Italian accent.” But Rhys’s lips are curved.

“I’d pay good money to hear that, actually.”

“My cousin is insufferable sometimes, but harmless. Join us.”

We’re not friends. And yet...

“Are you sure? I won’t be able to speak French. And perhaps you want to talk about family business.” Why am I talking him out of this?

He snorts. “He speaks English, and if you’re there it’ll save me from the latter.”

“Ah.” I push off from the railing and walk backwards, away from him. “So I’m supposed to be your buffer.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“Yes. You could have just come out and said it.”

“But then I’d appear weak,” Rhys says, but there’s nothing weak about him at all as he follows me, tall and dark and with a sly look in his eyes. “We should head back to the hotel to get the shot of you on the balcony.”

“Right.” And I tell myself it’s only Paris that’s responsible for the sudden intrusion of butterflies in my stomach, but it sounds like a lie, even to my own ears.

“Will you give me some hint as to what I’m walking into?”

“You’ll do great as you are.”

“But what am I acting as a buffer against?”

“Annoying questions,” Rhys drawls, reaching up to run a hand through his still-damp hair. He had showered at the hotel, and now he smells like soap and fresh linen and man, dressed in a pair of slacks and a button-down. I’d seen the thick, branded watch on his wrist, too. It’s the only casual display of wealth I’d seen on him so far.

So modest, Rhys Marchand.

“How descriptive,” I say. “Please try to rein in your flowery language.”

His lips twitch. “I think I like you best when you’re being sarcastic.”

“Because that’s your native tongue?”

A full-fledged smile now, the crooked, glorious thing that it is. “Yes. Thank you for recognizing that.”

I smooth a hand down my dress. It’s one of my own, and couldn’t I have packed nicer things? The black, scalloped dress is certainly nice, but it’s a far cry from the red silk I’d worn on the streets of St. Barts. I’d just assumed I’d be in the agency clothes most of the time.

Rhys stops outside an innocuous-looking facade, and swears under his breath. “Of course he wanted to meet here.”

“What’s wrong with this place?” It looks nice. Inviting. I glance down at the menu, but I don’t understand a single thing listed apart from the prices.

And I nearly have a heart-attack. 120 euros for… whatever magret de canard is?

I can’t afford that. I mean, I can, but I shouldn’t. I save everything I can and it’s not to spend it on this. But then Rhys’s hand settles on my lower back and he whispers in my ear that he’ll translate the menu for me and I focus on smiling.

Buffer. Dinner. Cousin. Focus on money later.

And for 120 euros for dinner, you bet your ass I’m going to photograph the hell out of that meal.

“What was wrong with this place?” I whisper as Rhys leads me through a darkened corridor. A hostess dressed in, well, wow, that was revealing, leads us down a pair of stairs and out onto a secluded courtyard. Lanterns hang from the branches of a giant olive tree and the chairs are filled with throw pillows.

“It’s very trendy,” Rhys murmurs back, distaste dripping from the last word. Something’s working in his jaw. Damn, but he really does need me here as a buffer.

“The horror,” I whisper back. Smile for me.

He doesn’t, but the glance he shoots me is approving. Note to self—keep deploying sarcasm against Rhys Marchand.

A young man rises from a nearby table, curly brown hair and intelligent eyes looking us over. I get the impression that he sees far more than simply our forms. “Rhys!

His voice rolls over the r and drags out the middle ees.

Rhys clasps his cousin on the shoulder. “Baptiste.”

A flurry of French, too quick for me to follow, ensues. And then I’m introduced. “This is my co-worker, Ivy.”

Co-worker. I almost want to elbow Rhys for that one, but I don’t, extending my hand to Baptiste. He ignores it and leans in to kiss me on both cheeks, smelling faintly of rosewater. “It’s a