Maman sighs. “But there’s more to it.”
“Is there?” I continue to eat my dinner, but I’m already mentally on my way to Corsica tonight.
She goes on about her sister’s bragging about her sons’ engagements and marriages and the insidious implication that the three of us will never marry.
“Why do you care what Marguerite thinks about us?” Thayer replies. Of the three of us, Thayer most resembles my mother. They share the same dark blue eyes, olive complexion, and thick, wavy black hair. But as alike as they are physically, they couldn’t be more different personality-wise. Thayer’s known as Le Sauvage, The Savage, a nickname he’s earned by being one of the most ruthless in our number. My mother, on the other hand, was never cut out for our lifestyle. She’s far too tender.
“You shouldn’t give it another thought. We don’t.”
“I know,” she continues, barely hiding a grimace. “And that’s part of the problem, isn’t it?” Shaking her head, she looks heavenward. “Why? Why couldn’t you have given me one daughter? Just one?”
“Touché, Maman,” Thayer says.
“I ask so little of you,” she continues. “All I want is for you to bring dates. That’s it.”
“When’s the wedding?” I ask. I don’t give a shit about details like that.
Maman looks pained. “This weekend.”
“Ahhh,” Thayer says with a smile. “You don’t want them talking about our business in Corsica. Admit it, that’s what you’re worried about.”
Maman flushes, the color adorning her high cheekbones as if she just came in from a winter storm.
“Ah ah,” Thayer chides. “You just completely gave yourself away.”
“And what if I do? Is it a crime to ask your sons to attend a family wedding with dates to keep the loose lips from yammering on and on?”
We do love to tease her.
“It’s not a problem, Maman,” I finally say, when I really do fear she’s taking us too seriously. “I’ll make sure Lyam and Thayer get dates. I’ll get one of my own.”
Thayer’s eyes narrow on me, but the quirk of his lips warns me ahead of time. “Planning a trip to Corsica, then?”
I look at him sharply.
“Thayer!” Maman’s eyes widen comically. “He wouldn’t!”
Of course I’m going to Corsica.
“Fabien,” Maman says reproachfully. “You wouldn’t… couldn’t… hire one of them to accompany you? Would you?”
“Not hire an escort for the evening? Why the hell not?”
Someone who doesn’t expect anything more than a paycheck? Done. Of course I’m going to Corsica.
My phone rings.
I look at the unknown number on my phone, and stare. Nobody but my family has this number. I answer on the second ring.
"Monsieur Gerard. Just who I was hoping to talk to.”
I turn away from my mother and face Thayer. "Who is this?” I jerk my chin at him, and he leaps from his chair and runs to the office. From there he can easily track a phone call.
"We know about your group in Corsica. We know who you're working with. And we know where your brother is."
Ice pulses through my veins.
Fuck.
Behind me I can hear Maman’s worried questions. "Who is it? Fabian, who is it? Where is Lyam?"
"I asked who this is," I say in a deadly whisper.
Nobody threatens my family. Nobody comes after us without serious consequences.
“In two nights, the talisman of Napoleon will arrive in Corsica. The Lyon family will take it into their possession. If you want your brother back, you will take it from them. It will be brought to The Underground. Your cousin Milo is head of security. Get what you can from him. You will come in disguise. You will obtain this talisman. And you will bring it to Les Bains de Caldane by sunrise the next morning.”
The call disconnects.
Maman is on her feet wringing her hands. "Was it about your brother? Where is Lyam?” She’s been through enough with us to suspect something’s awry.
"I don't know, "I tell her honestly. “But I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Fabien—”
“I’m going to Corsica. Don’t try to stop me.”
Thayer comes into the room and shakes his head. “The call was too expertly blocked.”
“Of course.” I blow out a breath. The girl with the velvet eyes will be my ticket into The Underground. “I’m going to Corsica.”
CHAPTER TWO
Nicolette
“Alright, handsome.” I pat the bed beside my latest guest. When he doesn’t stir, I smack the side of his arm. “Yoohoo, Prince Charming, time to get up and go back to work or your wife or whoever else you’ve got waiting for you.”
He rolls over and props himself up on an elbow. Dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers, he seems to think he’s God’s gift to women as he flexes his biceps. While he’s not repulsive—fairly fit and well-dressed in an anonymous, dime-a-dozen accountant sort of way—he’s hardly got my panties on fire.
“I have a little time for round two,” he says suggestively in French. Somehow, even the beautiful language fails to entice me. I much prefer it when the tourists come and speak plainly.