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A vibration in the breast pocket of his exquisitely cut Brioni suit drew his attention, and Alex cursed under his breath.“Encore? Ah, merde.”He withdrew it and looked at it briefly. For the third time this evening, it was his mother’s housekeeper, Yvette, calling from his ancestral home just outside of Aix-en-Provence. Given that France was about six hours ahead of the east coast of the US, and it was almost midnight here, Yvette would have been up all night, calling and texting. The message was the same, over and over:Monsieur Alexandre, votre mère est très malade. Merci de rentrer à la maison.

Go back home, to France? To that massive, vacant mausoleum of a château his family called home? Like hell. He made a face and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He’d call and check on his mother in the morning. But, after having stayed away from that toxic environment, and the pain it would hold for him even after ten years, there was no way he was returning. After all, he hadn’t even been back for his father’s funeral. He’d let his brother Liam handle that one on his own. He’d always been the one to run the family affairs, anyway.

Chloë/Zoë or whatever her name was getting desperate. Sensing that she was losing his attention, she began to press herself against him—quite unsubtly, he thought—like a cat rubbing on its master, hoping for head scratches. Suddenly, he felt repulsed by the idea of taking home another strange woman with high hopes, just so he could immerse himself in her for a moment, and forget.

As graciously as he could, Alexandre disentangled himself, kissed her hand with all the debonair flair he could muster, and slipped out of the party without even stopping to tell Nathanael goodbye. Which was fine; his friend was used to his disappearing acts. He needed to think.

***

Alex had been driving around Serenity Cove for hours, circling aimlessly in his brand new, cherry-red Ferrari. Not even the comfort of the custom interior and the way the car hugged the road’s curves could soothe his restless spirit.

It had begun to rain, a slow, miserable drizzle that caused visibility to drop. This was no fun. Cursing again, he pulled at random into the parking lot of what appeared to be a nightclub. It was quite late by now, and there were only a smattering of cars left. He could still hear the dull thudding of the bass coming from the dance floor upstairs.

He shut the car off, leaned back in the seat, and closed his eyes. His phone kept buzzing until he shoved it into the glove box in frustration.

Come home,Yvette had demanded. His mother was ill. And though that idea made him concerned, as it would any son, he had the niggling sense that his mom was very good at being sick when it suited her. Still, she was over sixty. Hardly one foot in the grave, but maybe sheshouldstart trying to take better care of herself.

Should he go home?

Non. Sûrement pas.

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine what it would be like to return to that place after ten years. To face his brother, William. And to see hissister-in-law, Sofia again. The new countess of d’Ambly Des Ayvelles. There in his brother’s arms.

His heart booted him in the ribs. Always a traitor.

And what of the child? His niece or nephew. It was probably a nephew since for the last hundred years, the first-born child of every Count had been male. He didn’t care to know if William’s child had broken the century long pattern. This child had come between them and caused him so much grief. The catalyst for his hasty departure from the land of his birth.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make those images, those memories, go away. But his conscience wasn’t as easily dismissed.

“You need to go home,” the voice in his ear whispered. “You are a son. Your mother is ill. It’s your duty.”

But the idea of going back alone made him cringe. Sure, he’d amassed a fortune in the past decade: his businesses were worth a billion, easy. And almost none of it, except for the cost of his education and the seed money he’d used to start it up, had come from the family coffers. He was a success; nobody could dispute that.

He felt a warning prickle at the back of his neck—the short hairs snapping to attention—even before he felt the gentle rock of the car as one side slowly sank. And then the other. He jolted upright, wondering at first if he’d nodded off and was dreaming or if something was happening. And then the passenger’s side began to sink.

He was out of the car like a shot, a wolf on the defense, and charged around to the other side. There, in the gray drizzle, was a crouching figure, with something in his hand, sawing away at the tire of the car. The miscreant was a bit on the small side: a kid, surely. A teen out on his own at night, looking to get his jollies by slashing car tires. For a moment, he was too stunned to react—and then he pounced.

CHAPTER 3

THE ENDLESS GRAY RAIN was getting on Jacyn’s nerves, but then again, her nerves were frayed anyway. She still couldn’t believe that Gregg and Delia had had the audacity to send her a wedding invitation. When it had arrived, she’d stared at the thick, creamy, gold-embossed paper in her hand and thought:This could have been my life. I could have been the one marrying —

“That bastard!” Sienna had interrupted, and snatched the invitation and the whole mish-mash of bits and pieces of paper that had come with it, out of her hand. Save the dates and RSVPS and gift registry information, etc. “That wench even registered her gifts at your favorite store! Talk about no goddamn class!”

To forestall her best friend’s inevitable descent into an evening of morose recriminations, and possibly even tears, Sienna had demanded that they get gussied-up and go clubbing. Which Jacyn dutifully had. It had been fun, to be honest. And maybe they’d had a few too many wine coolers, and maybe she’d cussed out an imaginary Gregg a few times. But by the time they’d both decided they were all partied out, Jacyn had discovered that she was no less upset than she’d been when she’d arrived at the club. She still wanted to strangle both Gregg and Delia, preferably with the stupid matching his ‘n hers bath towels they’d noted in their gift registry.

But she’d plastered on a smile and swore to Sienna that she was fine. They’d taken Ubers to the club out of a sense of responsibility, because they knew they’d be drinking a bit. Sienna had wanted to wait until Jacyn’s lift arrived, but Jacyn had kissed her on the cheek and shooed her away.

Then, as she’d waited morosely in the parking lot, the imaginary conversation she’d been having in her head all evening with Gregg the Snake struck up again. And then, like a message from God, she spotted a car. Redder than Delia’s slutty lipstick, parked just a few spots over to her left. It was shrouded in gray, slashing rain, but the logo of the horse was easy to see. Gregg’s Mustang.

The nightclub was in the same strip mall as his gym; she even wondered if she’d subliminally chosen that spot because of that. It was well after midnight, so she guessed he was staying on after closing to crunch some numbers and handle paperwork.

Or maybe Delia was up there too, and they were having nasty, banging sex on one of the yoga mats.

“Oh, hell, no!” Before she could even fully understand what she was doing, she’d withdrawn her house keys, from which a small Swiss Army knife dangled. She always carried the tiny weapon around with her, because you never knew; maybe she’d have an orange that needed peeling.

Her anger overwhelmed her so suddenly that it was almost as though she were outside of her own body, looking upon herself as she attacked the car like a madwoman; slashing first the back tires, and then one on the passenger side. All she could see was red, the color of the car filling her up with her rage. When the third tire proved hard to puncture, she began scraping the door and fender, enjoying the satisfying grating sound as the paint gave under her —

Something hit her with the force of a train, sending her flying forward. She bounced off the fender of the car and was on her back in a puddle of water, feeling the cold wetness soak into her back and legs.


Tags: Niomie Roland French Conquests Billionaire Romance