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He nodded. "You sure?"
"Yes," I murmured.
He smiled then. "Okay. I've initiated a virgin or two. But I've only been with escorts for the past many years. There are some rules."
I raised both my eyebrows. Was he going to talk about anal? Blow jobs? What?
He spoke earnestly. "You tell me if I hurt you, if you're uncomfortable, if you want me to stop."
This guy was something else. "But you paid for me."
"The rules don't change just because you're a paid date." He drank some champagne. "There is no pressure on you,ma chérie. That's now how it works."
I was already half in love with him, and he hadn't even kissed me.Merdé! I needed my head examined. So much for heeding Angelique's warnings!
After, he left me a tip of a thousand euros. Okay, so maybe I shouldn't be thrilled about that last part—but for some reason, I felt validated that this gorgeous and sexy man thought I was worth a tip. I gave the money to Angelique, who rolled her eyes. She knew I didn't need the money. I knew she did.
That was three months ago. Since then and in between seeing that home pregnancy test turn pink, a lot had happened. I'd told Papa I was not going to marry that guy from Corsica he thought would be parfait. I said, non. And then I told him I'd already had sex. He'd yelled and screamed. Papa liked to yell and scream. I'd walked out of his house, waving at his security guard, Guillaume, who shook his head disapprovingly at me.
When Papa said his guy in Marseille (the guy in Corsica apparently had his heart set on a virgin) didn't mind, I had to tell him I was knocked up. He yelled and screamed. We did a rinse and repeat.
Two weeks later, he asked me to come to his place, where he told me I was marrying Duncan Archer, who looked ready to throttle me.
I couldn't blame him. What man, outside the criminal world, would want to marry the daughter of Jean-Luc Moreau, the man who ruled all organized crime in France?
If he was resentful (which I couldn’t imagine he was not), he didn’t say anything. In fact, when I asked him after our wedding, where his home was, his driver, who had introduced himself as Guillaume when he congratulated me, told me. Duncan pretended I didn’t exist.
Merdé!This was not good. This was what Americans called aclusterfuck of epic proportions.
Chapter 2
Duncan
Merdé! I was fucking married.
Me? Duncan Fucking Archer, who had spent his life perfecting the art of avoiding complications by buying sex, was married. And to Jean-Luc Moreau's daughter. Jean-Luc Moreau!
I knew him, of course. As head of Europe for Archer Arts & Antiquities, I’d dealt with the son of a bitch plenty of times. He knew me, too. For years, he’d been trying to do business with me, and I’d managed to hold him off. Not because I had a problem working with the mob—I didn’t. I just couldn’t stand Moreau. The guy was an asshole.
I surreptitiously watched my wife—Jesus, I had a wife—as we drove through Paris traffic.
She was in a wedding dress, technically. But it was simple and she could probably wear it to a party or a dinner at a fine restaurant. It was a cream-colored dress. It had a slit a mile long, and one shapely leg was visible as she sat next to me in the sedan. The dress showed her slightly swollen belly. I remembered she had a flat stomach when I'd seen her naked.
Some flowery perfume wafted from her, something vanilla. I kid you not.Fucking vanilla? That would probably describe my future sex life. After all, I married a woman who had very recently lost her virginity to me, but I didn't know who else she fucked since then. When her father told me she was pregnant and that I had to marry her, I didn’t bother asking if the baby was mine—especially with a Glock pointed at me. Discretion, I figured, was the better part of valor.
The truth was, we were both bad men. I kept my corruption more on the legal side, while he operated the other way around. Neither of us were choir boys.
I had thought about asking him to fuck himself, Glock, and all. But Elsawaspregnant, and no matter how much I wanted to believe she'd fucked around since me, I knew in my gut she hadn't. This was my baby.
Fucking hell!I had thought, my heart ready to spring out of my chest.I was going to have a baby?Shoot me the fuck now, with the bloody Glock.
I had to tell my family, and that would be a nightmare. No, they wouldn't disapprove. My mother and father would be thrilled about having another grandchild on the way. My youngest brother, Dean, would be shocked. My middle brother, Damian, who was the CEO of Archer Arts & Antiquities, would be smug, as would his wife Emilia, who was, by some twist of fate, my friend and herself fifteen weeks pregnant.
I didn’t have female friends—I fuck women. But now, my sister-in-law had become a close friend. Hell, I was even friendswith Emilia’s friend, Moana, who used to be an escort (which is how I had carnal knowledge of her, albeit, just on one occasion) and was now a lawyer.
My wife shifted in her seat, and my dick went hard. She'd been a virgin that night, and, fuck me but it had been special.
So fucking special that I hadn't fucked anyone since her. Sure, I could say I was busy, but I wasn't. I'd resisted calling the escort agency to ask for her again because I wasn't stupid. No good would come out of me giving a call girl preferential treatment—that would lead to something akin to a relationship, and I didn't need that. I kept it fast and loose. I didn't have favorites. I spread the bounty.
