Page 18 of The Stranger

“Where are the children?” My insides contract again but not with appetite this time.

“With the new nanny. In the garden, I think.”

“Alone?” I growl, pivoting away. “Outside, with the nanny we know nothing about?” I demand of Jacques.

“Within the property boundaries with the nanny whose background check⁠—”

“Is still in the preliminary stages,” I snap because not even Jacques is that good. “Get out of my way.” I brush by him, making for the garden.

“Madeline’s daughter had an accident.” His voice follows me out onto the terrace. “She left under an hour ago to look after her granddaughter.”

“You should’ve said,” I snap, not bothering to turn.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“You’re fired.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Pack your bags,” I snarl, stepping into the blinding sunlight. I automatically shade my eyes, scanning the grounds as I try to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. It’s a large garden by Paris standards, which is to say it’s not much bigger than a couple of tennis courts.

“Before you make a complete ass of yourself, remember that you trust Emmy implicitly. And she trusts her friend with her livelihood. Hell, probably with her life. Plus, the woman is a fucking a doctor, Luc.”

“Doctors are susceptible to the same temptations,” I mutter. “Money is⁠—”

My words halt as Sylvie ’s muffled scream cuts through the air. My heart seizes, my next reaction purely instinctive, as pivot I break into a run.

“Merde.” Following the sounds of her anguish, I race across the terrace, swinging around the balustrade of the outdoor staircase. The soles of my shoes almost slip against the marble steps as I sprint in the direction of her distress. The basement.

She shrieks again, the sound quickly followed by an angry bellow. Felix.

I call my son’s name in a blind panic. He shouts out again, but I can’t process as my quads work like pistons and my lungs like bellows.

Mon dieu. Please keep them safe.

“I’m coming!” I shout, yanking on the doors and…

I halt at the sight of Felix and almost skid on the wet tile. He’s wearing his swimming shorts, and his hair is wet.

“Watch and weep, losers!” he crows from the far end of the pool. At the other end, Sylvie begins up an angry chant.

“Cheater, cheater, nev-a, nev-a beat-er!” Her bare arms pump angrily, her displeasure drowned out by her brother’s bellow as he cannonballs into the azure pool.

The pool. They’re at the fucking pool.

“Tu triches!” With a squeal of frustration, Sylvie swings around. “He is cheating! Primrose, it was not his turn. Tell him, please!”

My gaze moves to the figure behind my daughter. Medium height and curvy, her honey blond waves haphazardly escaping a hair clip as she bends over the padded lounger to rummage in a large cloth bag.

“Cheaters never win,” the woman answers distractedly.

I give my head a shake because her ass is entirely too distracting clad—barely contained—in a pair of tiny red bikini bottoms. Fear relinquishes its hold on my gut, the sensation morphing and stirring to an inappropriate one. It’s a base reaction, an animal one. A reaction that’s hardly surprising thanks to the woman’s outfit, which is more appropriate for the beaches of

San-Tropez than swimming with small children.

Small children under her charge.

“But he is winning.” Sylvie scrunches her hands into tiny fists. “And he is cheating!”