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Instead of asking for one of his cars to be brought around, he walked directly to the garage where his fleet lay waiting. He’d spent years collecting the array of cars before him, scouring car magazines for the stats on the best new releases, and making it known among the auction houses that he was looking for older treasures and special finds, and was prepared to spend whatever it took to acquire a vehicle that struck his fancy.

One of his favorites was a classic Aston-Martin that dated back to the 60s, and had been in the hands of a collector until his death four years ago, whereupon one of William’s contacts in England had snapped it up on his behalf for only a couple of million pounds.

He had the keys brought to him and leaped behind the passenger seat, enjoying the sensation of the cool white leather against his skin. It was early spring, so he left the top down, leaned back, and glided down the road. He didn’t bother with any music. The sound of the wind rushing by as he kicked up the speed was enough.

If there was anything to take his mind off his current situation, it was this. And if there was anyone who would chase away the echoes of Naisha, both the past and current versions of her, it would be the woman he was going to visit.

Nicolette lived in the Old Town, one of the more artsy, trendy neighborhoods in Aix. Much of it was paved with cobblestones and dotted with artisan’s markets and trendy bistros. The general vibe was laid back and informal, and William liked it best because, after spending his entire day in stuffy meetings choking with a tie around his neck, he could come here and relax over a coffee. Occasionally, Nicolette joined him, even though she made it clear that her presence in no way constituted a relationship. They met up now and then, had a laugh, had some good sex, and parted company.

He was perfectly content with that.

He rang her bell, and she buzzed him in. As he often did, he made a face while clambering up the six flights of narrow stairs to her small apartment. Many a time he’d offered to pay for a bigger place for her, and every time, she’d laughed in his face, reminding him that she was an artist, and the best place in Aix to create art was the Old Town.

“Fair enough,” he’d said.

She threw open the door and let him in. “Liam! Welcome back!” A friendly kiss on each cheek, and then she dragged on her perpetual cigarette. “How was your trip?”

“Good,” he said. He glanced around. “You’ve been busy.”

The room was littered with painted canvases, propped up on easels leaning against each other, hanging from the walls. Every one of them featured a penis, in various stages of excitement or repose. Some were painted in oil in great detail, some were hasty sketches, some in bizarre and unexpected color palettes, like orange, green and blue.

Nicolette was the best known and probably only known penis artist in the region. She looked around at her handiwork and gave him a proud look. “Very.”

She planted a kiss on his lips. “Did you finally come here to be my model?”

“I certainly did not,” he said, beginning to remove his shirt. It was a standing joke between them; every time they met, she begged him to pose for her, and every time, he pointed out that hell had not yet begun to sprout icicles.

She laughed gaily, because his response always seemed to tickle her. And then she, too, began to undress.

He watched her admiringly: She was more than ten years older than him, but her body was taut and lithe, because when she wasn’t busy painting genitalia, she was on mountain-climbing trips in the Alps. She didn’t bother to allow him to undress her. She was naked in a moment.

Then she tilted her head, looking at him quizzically. “Liam? Why are you still wearing clothes?”

Why was he? He wondered. Two or three times a month, when he turned up on her doorstep, he lost no time in entering the get-naked race with this smart, sexy woman. He lost himself in her, forgetting everything. Forgetting Sofia and the wounds she’d inflicted. His unresolved feelings over his father’s betrayal, his responsibilities, his legacy. She was an eager lover who demanded nothing from him but pleasure and an occasional post-coital conversation and drink.

But instead of erasing those memories, being here with Nicolette brought them flooding back: the years he’d been led to believe that he was a rapist, the kind of man who would steal the woman his brother loved right from under his nose. The kind of man who would cause Alex to leave the home in a haze of pain anragee, and not return for ten years.

There’d been too much guilt, shame, and pain. Tainting his life like a cancer. And since he and Alex had read that cursed letter his father had left behind before his death, his conscience was clear. He wasn’t a rapist. He wasn’t a bad person.

But the mess that had followed, the destruction his father’s actions had wreaked upon all their lives—his, Alex’s, Maman’s and Willa’s—was almost too much to bear. Too much to repair.

Nicolette put her hand on his. “Liam? You’ve gone pale,cher.” She lit another cigarette and stood there, naked, waiting for him to say something.

He looked away. Couldn’t find the words. Discovered that another face had replaced hers, was filling his vision so much that he could focus on nothing else.

And that face was Naisha’s.

Nicolette huffed, her woman’s intuition telling her all she needed to know. She began to dress, while Liam looked on, pained.

“Sorry, Lettie.”

She shrugged elaborately. “C’est bien. It’s fine. We agreed from the start. No commitments,oui?”

They had, he thought. But it wasn’t in him to hurt another woman. He remained silent.

“So, what’s her name?” Nicolette poured out some brandy into two glasses and held one out to him.

He took the glass and stared into it. “Huh?”


Tags: Niomie Roland French Conquests Billionaire Romance