Page 179 of The Stranger

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Really?” Her head rears back, confusion giving way to something sultrier. “Do I need to pack my jammies?”

My answering chuckle sounds a little dark, though I shake my head. “The flight is only an hour.”

“An hour to where, I wonder.”

“I told you,” I murmur, allowing a lock of her hair to fall over my knuckles. She’s not the only one afraid to look. “It’s a surprise. And we’re late.” I should regret the playful tap to her ass. The familiarity. Maybe I will later. “So get a move on.”

“You should’ve chosen a dress that didn’t require such dramatic makeup.”

“I chose very well.” And not just the dress. I lower my mouth to hers before she can speak again. I kiss her as a coward kisses the woman he loves. That’s to say deeply enough to say everything he can’t. And briefly enough to deny it to himself.

PRIMROSE

The villa reveals itself slowly, appearing then disappearing behind a wall of trees as the car climbs. First, its tiled roof, then a row of illuminated arches, until finally, it appears, its magnificence spreading across the hillside above Nice.

The South of France.

A billionaire’s playground.

I swallow, my mouth dry from the glass of champagne I drank on the jet.

Not much longer, I silently soothe. Not that I’m eager exactly to discover what tonight is about. More like concerned. I’ve asked, of course, but Luc has been enigmatic in the extreme. He’s been distant since yesterday afternoon. Every glance my way seems different, and every conversation we’ve had feels like we’re skirting around things.

It's little wonder I have this nervous swirl in my stomach.

I know that’s my fault he’s in his feelings. I let him believe I didn’t speak French, and a lie by omission isn’t any less of a lie. He probably feels disappointed. Maybe even tricked. The bottom line is, I invaded his privacy. It’s not that he regrets loving me, I tell myself, but that I stole his opportunity to tell me in his own time.

It’s a persuasive theory. And I tell myself I believe it.

The villa’s gates, high and ornate, open to a gleaming procession of cars. Low purring engines and blacked-out windows, their expensively logoed keys handed over to valets in dress pants and white shirts.

As the car in front of us pulls to a stop, one red-soled heel emerges through the slit of a gown that appears to be made from fishing net. The man who appears by the woman’s side looks more like her grandpa than her date. He could quite easily be one of my patients. Different strokes for different folks, I suppose. Some women just like older men. And others like men with one foot in the grave.

Our car pulls to a stop next. An attendant opens the door and offers me his hand. As I take it, I glance up at the house where figures move like ghosts behind gauzy drapes. Luc rounds the car, and the man passes my hand over in a motion that makes me feel uncomfortably like a chattel.

“Shall we?” Luc suggests.

I nod, my mouth still dry and my mind a mess as we climb the shallow steps to the entrance. The night air smells of jasmine and expensive perfume, with just a hint of sea brine, the ocean dark in the distance.

Inside, the vaulted hall is washed in candlelight, and in the place of a reception desk stands a beautiful woman in a black silk suit.

“Bienvenue, Monsieur du Beaumont.” She indicates a velvet-lined box on an Art Deco-era table. “Please, your phones,” she adds as her eyes move over me, swift and assessing.

Luc surrenders his phone without hesitation. Meanwhile, mine remains firmly in my tiny clutch.

A secluded villa.

Discreet cars.

Guests dressed to be admired. And for ease of undressing, I suspect.

This isn’t the club in Paris, but it is the same vibe. The same scene.

We’re back where we began.

I glance Luc’s way, waiting for the explanation that must surely be coming. Some words that will explain something that feels like an ill fit right now. He poured his love into me, for gosh sakes! In a language I wasn’t meant to understand.