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“She flew out last night. She’s taking a leave of absence for three months while I work with you.”
Of course. His father had arranged to make sure his son had a spy nearby to report his every move and not embarrass him. “I don’t need a babysitter.” Though, if she wanted to tuck him into bed, he certainly wouldn’t oppose.
She stared at him, unamused. “Good, because I’m not one.”
“Then why are you here waking me up in my bedroom?”
“Because you didn’t return my calls last night. And I needed to introduce myself. Then, I wake up and there is a scandal. You slept with America’s Sweetheart and she happens to be married.”
He rubbed his eyes, hoping her words sank in. Ever since he’d cut back on drinking, he’d used sex as a close second way to cope with his losses. The image of the blonde, petite minx he bedded a few days prior formed in his hand. He’d met her at a party. “Julia?”
“Yep.”
“She never told me anything about a husband,” he said honestly. He’d never knowingly get involved with a married woman. How would he know? He didn’t read gossip magazines, and Julia had failed to mention that detail as he pounded hard into her.
“Right. I’m sure you’re the clueless victim here. However, that’s not how the celebrity blogs and newspapers make you look. Your arrival here has been anticipated. You’re a self-made man, who’s also now the only heir to one of the wealthiest Frenchmen, a man who has been investing heavily in this country for decades. A man with a flawless reputation.”
Luc suppressed an ironic laugh. His father’s reputation was pristine only because most people didn’t see through his façade to the truth—and the ones who saw it, didn’t care. “So?”
“You’re the long-lost son. So your arrival here is a bigger deal than when Meghan and Harry moved to Los Angeles.”
He leaned against the windowsill, arms folded. “And what’s your role?” he asked for the sake of asking, because he knew damn well what her role was. As the bastard son of an important man, he wasn’t to be trusted.
If Jake Brink, the ambitious journalist who ran an article on Charles Montague hadn’t dug deep and discovered Luc—and sold the information to the media before Charles could bury it—Luc doubted Charles would even recognize him as his own and give him access to his world.
Of course Charles had told the media he’d heard that Luc had died in the fire along with his brother. A blatant lie.
“Well, I’ll help you adjust to this culture. For instance, had you told me you were dating a famous married actress who has two kids and is loved by the whole country, I would have said no. I’d have said, ‘bad idea’.”
He scratched his chin. “So you’re like a mother.”
She rolled her eyes. “I won’t be your mother.”
“Of course not. My mother was lovely,” he said. She is lovely. Why did he think about her as if she were gone? Because in a way, she is. I just can’t let go. If he let go of his mother without reaching his goal, he’d have nothing left. She might not know, but he would.
He’d not been able to protect his little brother from dying. He’d not been able to keep his mother illness free. But damn if he wouldn’t be able to get even with the man who had brought so much tragedy to his life.
She paced in a circle a few times, hands perched at her waist. It was too bad she was his father’s ears and eyes, because otherwise he’d love to get to know this woman better. During their brief interaction, he’d caught himself smiling at the things she’d said a couple of times.
She came to a halt, and stretched herself to her full height. A fake smile formed on her lips—he could tell it was fake because her lips trembled, like she forced herself to come under a positive light. “Listen, we started off the wrong foot. I’m Kira Jones, and I’m here to work with you. Not against you.” She stretched out her hand.
He glanced at her before he erased the distance between them and shook her hand. The contact sent a hot thrill up his arm, the awareness bolting through his veins in raw fashion.
“I look forward to working with you, Kira Jones,” he said, and should have ended the shake. Instead, he looked deep into her eyes, the golden flecks drawing him close. He dipped his head, without any intention to kiss her yet unable to stop gazing at her. She parted her lips, and for a moment, seemed to revel in their quiet truce, a truce he knew would never exist.
Someone who worked for his father represented his enemy.
Suddenly, she jerked away her hand and withdrew until they had a safe distance between them. “Good,” she said, her voice steady. “Your sleeping with that woman doesn’t help your image. I understand you’ve lived a carefree life until now, in the relationship department. You need to be more discreet. We’ll have a meeting with a PR person today and find the best way to bury this story quickly. But in order for that to happen, we need to be on the same page. Can I count on you?”
“Completely. I wouldn’t be here if the future of the company didn’t mean as much to me as it does to my father,” he said, managing to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
