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Madame Lefèvre huffed and went in the direction of what I assumed were her quarters, though those rooms had not been part of the tour I'd been given.
I eyed Dean speculatively. "Did you just fire her?"
"Yeah," he grinned widely, "Man, I've been wanting to get rid of Madame Tight Arse for years." He held up a hand and began to text furiously. He finished and then smiled at me. "Needed to let my mother know the 411." He then looked at my bags. "What's going on?"
My phone rang just then, and I took the call because it was Thierry. "I'll come down. No, I can bring it all down. Just wait for me."
"You're leaving."
"Good guess," I muttered sarcastically and then stopped, "You came to theboulangerieyesterday."
"Yeah, I loved the cinnamon snails and the slice of Opéra cake I had was…" He made a chef's kiss gesture.
"I baked the cake because I lost a bet," I grumbled. Food had not gotten me into Duncan's heart. And since I didn't give him a blow job, we'd never know if that would have worked.
"What kind of a bet?" he asked curiously.
My phone beeped. "I have to go. A friend of mine is waiting downstairs."
Dean came to me and picked up one of my bags. "I'll help you."
As we took the elevator downstairs, he asked me, "Does my brother know you're leaving?"
"Your brother hasn't been home in a week. He's been at his suite at the Ritz, probably nailing every hooker he can hire. He doesn't deserve to know."
"He is at the Ritz. He is, however,notnailing hookers." Dean leaned against a wall of the elevator. "Duncan is an asshole, no doubt about it. But he won't cheat on his wedding vows."
"It's not arealmarriage."
"I think it is. More importantly,hethinks it is."
"My father made him marry me," I blurted out.
Thierry was waiting in the lobby when I stepped out. He looked at Dean suspiciously. I introduced them, and they shook hands but seemed wary of one another.
"Thierry Lisange," Dean mused as we walked to Thierry's blue Peugeot 3008.
I stopped. "How do you know Thierry's last name?"
Thierry started to stuff my things in the trunk of his car.
"I read it in a file a private investigator put together. You have a criminal record." His tone was casual, as if he was commenting on something trivial like the color of Thierry's eyes.
"Stop." I raised my hand before Thierry could speak. "You don't get to throw that in his face, not in front of me. You know nothing about my friend."
"I know that your father hired him to keep an eye on you," Dean challenged.
Thierry's jaw tightened, and I saw the panic in his eyes. I smiled. "Yeah, I know."
My friend stared at me.
"Of course I know." I waved a hand in dismissal. "But he stopped paying you years ago. You stayed because we're friends."
"How do you know this?" Thierry opened the passenger side door.
"Papa told me. He didn't like it that we became friends. Mentioned you killed someone."
Dean looked at me in confusion.
