Page 109 of The Stranger

My focus should be on Barcelona and the meeting with a family of Andalusian leather makers I plan to bring under the group’s branding. But instead, my mind seeks to torment me by remembering the shape of her breast before I can consciously defend. I close my eyes as I recall her soft sigh in response to the path of my tongue. The heat and tenor of her pulse under the pull of my lips.

That fucking bite mark. In a dozen silent conversations, I’ve reasoned with myself that I just got carried away—that it was a heat-of-the-moment thing, and not a mark of possession or ownership. But the sight of it this morning felt more significant. More rousing. Stirring. Fuck it, the truth is that I was turned on by the sight of it. I’d marked her, and it felt right.

My jaw tautens, my molars moving a step closer to becoming dust. The nanny. I am the worst kind of cliché. A wealthy widower lusting after the younger, less experienced woman. The press would have a field day, I think darkly. Insinuate that I’m just another old fool who believes youth is a luxury he can afford to acquire.

The headlines would be damaging to say the least. I know better than to take these kinds of risks. Yet, when she walks into the room, all sensible thoughts become unavailable to me.

The object of my (near) obsession was at the pool with my children when I left. I wouldn’t let myself go there. In body or in mind.

I thought we were on the same page this morning, that the only reason she was coy in the kitchen was because of our audience. That’s why I’d asked her to follow me into the office. Commanded, perhaps. Some habits are hard to break. I hadn’t planned what happened, though I will admit that I longed to kiss her again.

The fact that she denied what we’d shared last night, that she refused to admit the memory of it had embedded itself in her skin… well, it was like a challenge she’d thrown. I’d felt vindicated when I’d touched her and she’d melted, the room seeming to dissolve for both of us.

“We’ve had another call from Marchand’s legal team again.”

I come back to the present with my fingers at my mouth. Despite having washed, it’s as though I can still enjoy the aroma of her. Like I’ve somehow absorbed her.

“They’re still threatening breach of contract.”

“Let them.” I force my hand to rest on my knee. “The cost of litigation will wipe them out.”

“Not if they win,” he mutters under his breath.

“Unlikely,” I retort. “But you may convey a message to him.” I turn my head and watch my land pass by the window. “Tell him he showed me how he treats people when he believes they have no power, so I decided to curtail his.”

“Cryptic as fuck,” he says, entering it into his tablet word for word.

“I won’t get into bed, so to speak, with a man like him.”

“I’ll… call him.”

“It’s better you go to Paris and deliver the message yourself.”

“Okay.”

The car falls quiet again, but for the hum of quiet the engine and sound of the tires.

“I’ve booked your usual suite for tonight.”

“Cancel it,” I reply impulsively.

Beside me, Jacques stills. “I’ll make arrangements for an early flight back.” His gaze dips to the phone in his hand as though stalling for time. Or arranging his thoughts. “Is everything okay? The kids, they’re not ill, are they?”

I should be relieved he wasn’t in the main house this morning. One look at Primrose and he wouldn’t need to ask.

“They’re fine.”

“Is there another reason?”

“Not that you need to be aware of.”

“Noted,” he says in that way of his that suggests he already knows. “Do you wanna go over the agenda?”

I dismiss the offer with a slight shake of my head. There’s little point when I can’t concentrate.

He taps at his screen, glances at me, then drops his voice as though unconvinced. “Okay.”

He isn’t easily fooled. I don’t pay him to be as he rubs his chin in an action that seems oddly out of place for him. “How about I brief you on the guests?”