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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Two days later, Jack calls from France. Rav still gets butterflies every time he sees that name pop up on his phone, but he’s at work, so he tries to look nonchalant as he jams his earbuds in. “How’s Paris?”

“Pretty great. I love this town.”

“Me, too.” He pivots his chair toward the wall, grasping for what little privacy the squad room affords. “I had my first kiss there, actually.”

“Oh yeah? How old were you?”

“Fourteen. It was a school trip. I met an Italian boy at the Louvre, and we agreed to sneak out after curfew and meet on the Pont des Arts. It all seemed terribly romantic.”

“And?”

“He stuck his tongue down my throat and his hand down my trousers. Neither was especially revelatory.”

Jack laughs. “Sounds like a great coming-of-age movie. So listen, what are you doing for the Fourth of July weekend?”

“The usual, I guess. Hit the gym, join some friends for drinks. Gently pine for you. Why?”

“It’s a bit last minute, but can you get away? We have a few days off, and I’ve booked a beach house near Cannes. I’d love it if you could come.”

“Cannes?” Rav swoons over the back of his chair.

“Down the coast a bit, where it’s a little quieter. I’m not much into the celebrity/megayacht scene.”

“Shocking. Whereas I think I could get into it.”

“Does that mean you’ll come?”

“I’ll start looking into flights as soon as I’m off work.”

“Eloise will take care of that. Just email her a PDF of your passport.”

Rav’s heart thrums. He knows this is probably just a thank-you after what he did with Miller, but it still feels pretty damned great.

He departs early on Thursday. He’ll be flying via Paris—first class, bless the boy’s heart, and private from there—and though he can’t quite avoid the tug of guilt he feels about the carbon footprint, he rationalizes that it’s a special occasion and he doesn’t plan on making a habit of it. In the meantime, he orders a glass of Moet, just to get into the spirit of things.

It’s late when they touch down at the private airport in Cannes. He’s expecting to get into an Uber or something, and is a little bemused when they leave him standing on the tarmac outside the terminal building. Then he spies a slight figure in a hooded windbreaker, and his stomach does a little flip.

“Hi,” Jack says, pulling his hood back. Even in the dark, those eyes are stunning. Literally: for a second, Rav freezes like a deer in the headlights. They haven’t seen each other in weeks, and it feels a little like starting over again.

“I didn’t expect you to come yourself,” Rav says. “It’s late.”

“Of course I came.” They embrace, and Rav feels something drain away, a tension he’s been carrying for what seems like forever. “I’m so glad you’re here,” Jack murmurs into his neck. Then he takes Rav’s hand. “Come on. You’re going to love the car.”

He leads Rav to a vintage convertible, sleek, sexy, and silver. “Is this an Aston Martin?”

“DB5. You know cars?”

“No, but I know James Bond.”

“I bought her a couple of weeks ago. I’m not much for stuff , but I do have a bit of a weakness for classic cars.”

If this is what he means by classic cars , maybe Rav has a weakness for them, too. He’s certainly feeling a little weak in the knees looking at this one. He hops in, and they pull out into the night.

The drive is magnificent. There’s very little light pollution out here, so the stars are spectacular, and the breeze is scented with pine and the subtle tang of the sea. The road hugs the shoreline, winding dramatically along the rocky Mediterranean coast. To their right are towering ochre bluffs; to their left, the endless expanse of the sea, glittering silver-black under the moon. Jack rests a hand on Rav’s thigh when it’s not on the gear stick, and the smiles he flashes Rav’s way are relaxed and beautiful. Rav is floating, drunk on this moment, and as impatient as he is to get his hands on the body next to him, he wishes this drive could go on forever. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, feeling the warmth of Jack’s hand and the wind in his hair, and it’s perfect.

They pass through a series of villages on the way, cruising along manicured boulevards lined with palm trees and oleander and towering, cloud-shaped pines. The road rises and falls and rises again until Jack pulls up outside a wrought-iron gate. He brings up an app on his phone, and the gates part to reveal a long drive flanked with cypress, at the end of which sprawls an exquisite villa. Part of it looks to be at least a hundred years old, the rest glisteningly modern, stone and terra-cotta blending seamlessly into glass and hardwood. Jack is only too happy to defer the grand tour until after the welcoming festivities, and he leads Rav to a king-size bed looking out over the sea.

For a moment back there on the tarmac, it felt a bit like starting over, but it doesn’t feel that way now. They might not have had much time together in New York, but they put it to good use, and already they’re learning each other’s bodies, how they respond and what they crave. Like the way Jack’s skin tightens into tiny goose bumps in the heartbeat before Rav’s lips brush it. Or how Rav melts when Jack kisses the soft hollow beneath his ear. Rav is obsessed with Jack’s fingers, graceful and yet rough, callused from playing guitar. The feel of those calluses on his sensitive places—a nipple, his lower lip, the inside of his thigh—makes him thrum like a guitar string, and Jack knows it.

After, as Rav reclines contentedly against the overstuffed pillows, Jack picks up a remote from the bedside table. “Check this out.” He presses a button, and the floor-to-ceiling windows glide apart, retracting until there’s nothing between them and the sea but the cool night air.

“Stunning. Although…” Rav watches a mosquito drift in, drawn to their sweat-laced bodies. “I could do without mozzie bites on my tender bits.”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees, hitting the button again. “Beautiful, but maybe not that practical.”

“Which, incidentally, is the working title of my obituary.”

Jack laughs and tosses the remote away. “Wanna see the pool?”

“You know I do.”

It’s an infinity pool that seems to plunge into the glittering bay beyond. The sea laps gently against the rocks below, lifting salty breezes mingled with the spice of jasmine from the gardens. The temperature is divine, and they float contentedly with their elbows propped against the pool skirt, gazing out to sea. “ Beach house ,” Rav snorts.

“Is it too much?” Jack looks adorably self-conscious. “I don’t usually go for this kind of thing, but I thought it looked pretty romantic.”

“ C’est pas mal ,” Rav says, gathering him close and kissing salty pool water off his lips.

The ensuing forty-eight hours are quite simply paradise.

They get up late on Friday, but there’s still plenty of day ahead. Rav would be content to lounge around the villa, but Jack has other ideas. Great ideas, as it turns out, involving more seaside drives, this time under the warm Mediterranean sun. He feels like he’s in an episode of Emily in Paris , and it kills him— kills him —that he can’t post a single picture of how amazing the two of them look in this car, with their sunglasses and wind-whipped hair. He settles for texting a few selfies to Ana and Mags. On Saturday, they go for a hike, which Rav quietly resents until they reach a summit overlooking the sea, and wow . More selfies. They spend the afternoon on the water, in a beautifully restored sailboat captained by a Greek woman with a delightfully bawdy sense of humor. Jack strums a ukulele he found at a flea market while Rav sips rosé and works on his tan. Later, they head belowdecks to escape the scorching sun and “have a nap.”

It’s so idyllic that Rav catches himself feeling a little melancholy while Jack dozes beside him. Because this can’t last. This life… celebrities and villas and yachts… it’s not his. The man sleeping next to him is not his, not really. He feels like he’s rented a Ferrari, and sooner or later he’s going to have to return it and get back in his turd-brown Golf.

“Hey.” Jack is awake, watching him. “You okay? You look a little down all of a sudden.”

“Already ruing the hangover I’m going to have.” It’s a version of the truth, anyway.

Jack props himself on his elbow. “What do you think about heading into town tonight? And before you answer, you should know that we might bump into Ryan.”

They do bump into Ryan—along with every other celebrity in town, at a three-Michelin-star restaurant with a fabulous terrace overlooking the sea. The place positively oozes French elegance: crisp white linens, beautifully pruned boxwoods, sheer curtains that billow playfully through the open windows. Erika Strauss sits at the bar, wearing a slinky black dress and murderous heels, blond hair spilling down a plunging backline. She looks perfectly at ease, menu in hand, Cartier ring flashing as she toys with a glass of champagne. Tough gig , Rav thinks wryly. “Does Ryan always bring his bodyguard to fancy restaurants?”

“I don’t think she gives him much of a choice.”

“Mo gave you a choice, obviously.” Rav glances around, but there’s no sign of Jack’s bodyguard.

“He’s been great about giving me space over here, and he trusts me not to do anything stupid that’ll put me in a tight spot. Ryan, though… I don’t think Erika fully trusts his judgment, and I can’t say I blame her. He can be a hothead.”

“She’s only been with him a couple of months. How much trouble can he have got into already?”

“She’s been on tour with us before, though. And trust me, he put her through her paces.”

“I’d say she’s doing all right out of it. She fits right in on the Riviera. That dress is fantastic on her.” He’s not the only one who thinks so: there’s a guy making eyes at her from down the bar. Good luck to you, sir , Rav thinks.

There’s another familiar face here too, and Jack sighs as he spots Eloise making her way over. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says, flashing Rav an awkward smile. “Ms. Reid said she needed your signature by close of business?” She hands over a document for Jack to sign and then scans it with her phone. “Great, thanks. I’m off.”

“Why don’t you stay and grab dinner?” Jack suggests. “There’s room at the bar, and the food here is supposed to be amazing.”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“My treat,” Jack says. “Come on, El, you deserve it.”

“Thanks.” She gives Rav another tight smile and retreats.

“Does Eloise have a hang-up about cops?” Rav asks in an undertone. “She’s always so nervous around me.”

Jack shrugs. “She’ll be fine once she gets to know you.”

They chat briefly with Ryan and his date before making their way to their own table, Jack greeting his fellow glitterati as they pass. The Riviera is stuffed with celebs at this time of year, A-listers even Rav knows on sight. Bono is here, and Dame Helen, and… Is that Charlize? God, she’s fabulous. Rav tries not to gawk, but it’s hard, and even Jack gets a little fanboy when Bono raises a glass in greeting.

The server offers them some champagne to get started, followed by an amuse-bouche of dorado tartare with cucumber petals and delicately tweezed dill fronds. The whole thing looks like it’s made of stained glass, but Rav resists the urge to take a photo. There are some things you just don’t do, even for the ’gram.

A peal of feminine laughter sounds from a nearby table; Rav glances over to find Nash and his dinner companion practically sitting in each other’s laps. Instinctively, he twists around to look at the bar and… yes, Eloise is watching.

Jack notices, too. “Maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged her to stay.”

So it’s not Rav’s imagination. “She’s got a crush on Ryan?”

“Ever since she came over from Flashpoint. It’s pretty awkward, honestly.”

Rav’s eyebrows go up. “Eloise used to work at Flashpoint?”

“For a couple of months, yeah. She was Vanderford’s PA, but she quit after he started getting creepy with her.”

“It wasn’t listed on her employment history.”

“I think she was afraid it would look flaky on her résumé, being there for such a short stint.”

“Makes sense,” Rav says, watching Eloise watching Ryan. “Wish you’d mentioned it before, though.”

Jack looks startled. “You don’t think… Rav, she couldn’t . She can barely even look you in the eye.”

“You’d be surprised what people are capable of. But no, I don’t think your assistant killed Dick Vanderford. I do think I’ve just solved the mystery of how Ryan got the code to Vanderford’s elevator.” In all the fuss after the hoodie came to light, it hadn’t seemed important. “Eloise probably had it saved in her phone, and he wheedled it out of her. Which means she probably knew about Ryan being there that night, or at least guessed, and she withheld it.”

Jack sighs. “Does this mean she’s in trouble?”

“That’s up to the FBI, but if Ryan got off with misdemeanor obstruction, I doubt she has much to worry about.”

Their soup arrives, the first of seven courses on tonight’s tasting menu. Rav breathes in the heady aroma of truffles, but his brain is still snagged on something, a detail his subconscious isn’t quite ready to surface.

Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait. He’s had too much wine and sunshine to think clearly; better to come back to it with fresh eyes tomorrow. For now, truffles.

Taking another deep draft of steam, Rav tucks into his soup.