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By the time we reached my floor, she was out of breath. "If nothing else, I'll lose a lot of weight if we live here."
If?
"We'll live here," I stated in my "there will be no further discussion about this topic" tone.
She looked at me with amusement. "You know I have my own place, don't you?"
I assumed she did, but I'd not bothered to find out much about her. I hadn't had the time.
Jean-Luc had come to my office four days ago, the proverbial shotgun in hand, in his case, aliteralgleaming Glock.
I knew her name was Elsa Sainte-Croix; she hadn't taken her father's name. She was twenty-three years old and didn't have much in the name of education. After high school, she spent six months at Le Cordon bleu and six at the Culinary Institute of America in New York. She had a bakery or some such thing—but I doubted she worked there. She was the daughter of a very rich man, and I doubted she had done much physical labor.
Her mother, Solène Sainte-Croix, was from Martinique and never married Jean-Luc. That explained her light caramel skin. She had deep brown curly hair that cascaded lusciously around her face—at least that night when I knocked her up, she did. Today, her hair was tied back in a stylish bun.
Her features were delicate and striking—her mixed heritage had given her high cheekbones, a slightly upturned nose, full and rosy lips that curved into the most warm and welcoming smile I'd ever seen on a woman.
This was her wedding day, and she had worn a cream-colored dress that could be best described as bohemian. It suited her. Her jewelry was minimal. Small diamond teardrop earrings, antique, handmade, not expensive, but something that was probably given to her. Same with the delicate gold chain wrapped around her slender neck that held a small, intricately designed hibiscus flower. In the center, there was a tiny coral flanked by flower petals with tiny engravings that caught the light in the staircase, making the locket shimmer against Elsa's caramel skin. I suspected it was from the 1920s, French Caribbean origin. The fine engravings suggested it was handcrafted in—knowing her mother's heritage and since Iwasan arts and antiquities expert—Martinique.
I was so mesmerized by her that she had to clear her throat again because we were on the landing of the seventh floor, and the door was locked. I pulled out a key fob and used it to open the door. We walked into the apartment as it took over the entirepenthouse of the building. What can I say? I liked my space, and I had the money to buy what I wanted. As my spoiled mother always said,"It's only expensive if you can't afford it."
The door from the stairs opened into the side of the living room.
I walked to the antique table that held a bowl and dropped my key fob into it.
"The key fobs are here. You can use them to open doors, go to the gym downstairs if you want, or the pool. Though I recommend the gym in my apartment. I don't have a pool, but I have a cold plunge if you're interested."
She looked at me as I talked.
She then set her tote bag on the floor against a wall and strolled into the living room.
The afternoon sunlight streamed through the grand windows, casting a warm glow over the opulent interior. Elaborate chandeliers hung from high, intricately crafted ceilings, while the walls displayed classic French art pieces I’d gathered over the years. Plush, velvet furniture in deep, rich hues filled the spacious living area, and the polished wooden floors gleamed underfoot.
"MonsieurArcher," I heard my housekeeper, Madame Lefèvre, say in that clipped, constipated tone of hers. I'd fire her if I could, but Mom had told me that I needed to keep her, and no one argued with Marcela Archer. I didn't even know the woman's fucking first name because she insisted on being calledMadameLefèvre like we were in a Balzac novel.
To give Madame Lefèvre credit, she maintained my house the way I liked it. Clean, controlled, no mess, no dirt, nothing out of place. I didn't eat much at home, so her job didn't go beyond keeping the kitchen stocked, so I was able to make myself acafé au laitin the mornings and pour myself a Scotch in the evenings. I got breakfast downstairs at a café and lunch at Archer Arts &Antiquities European HQ in Place Vendôme. I ate dinner at a restaurant or at the Ritz if I was staying the night there with paid company or justbecause.
My life was easy. Uncomplicated.
Well, it used to fucking be. Now, I had a pregnant wife, wearing a white dress and ballet flats, looking at me with such amusement that I didn't quite know what to do.
"Madame Lefèvre." I gave her a curt nod.
Her keen gaze swept over Elsa with a flicker of curiosity before she turned to address me.
Ah fuck!If I told her about Elsa, my mother would know in few hours when California woke up.
"Madame Lefèvre," I replied, "this is Elsa. She'll be staying with us from now on. Elsa, this is my…ourhousekeeper, Madame Lefèvre."
Madame Lefèvre arched an eyebrow and looked at Elsa's dress. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
"Elsa is my wife. We were married this morning."
Madame Lefèvre gasped.
"And I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Mom anything until I do. Do I make myself clear?"
She nodded grimly. "D'accord." Of course; and added in a formal tone, "Enchantée,Madame."
