Page 17

SEVENTEEN

Pretenses

Paul

While waiting on our food, conversation drifts to our visit to the museum. I ask Vivianne what she thinks about the theft. Like me, she doesn’t believe the air ducts were used, but she’s at a loss about the marks inside the ductwork.

The guard’s death hit her hard. Vivianne’s voice softens, barely a whisper above the clatter of plates and silverware, as she asks,

“Does he have a family?”

I pause, realizing I don’t know. The question never crossed my mind. In my world, details like that don’t matter—they get lost in the shuffle. But for her, it does matter.

The more I’m around Vivianne Faulks, the more intrigued I become with the stunning beauty. The thought stirs something in me, something I can’t quite pin down.

We keep our voices low, aware that the wrong words overheard could draw the kind of attention we can’t afford. In this crowded café that means Vivianne leans across the table to speak, bringing her face close to mine. Close enough that I glimpse the hollow of her throat, the delicate line of her collarbone, and the soft swell of her decolletage that dips just beneath the edge of her blouse.

The sight of her so near and unguarded sends a jolt of heat through my veins. Her perfume—a subtle, intoxicating blend of something floral and spicy—fills the air between us, wrapping around me and pulling me in.

It’s distracting, in the most dangerous way, and I find myself leaning in, just a fraction, drawn by that subtle warmth and the soft glow of her skin in the muted café light.

Her lips move as she speaks, but for a moment, I’m lost, focused not on her words but on the way her eyes flicker with a raw, quiet intensity as if this is more than just a question about a dead man. As if she feels the weight of it all, the gravity that I’ve long since learned to push aside.

She has no idea what she’s doing to me.

Or maybe she does.

Every so often, her gaze meets mine, lingering just a second too long before darting away as if she’s afraid of what I might see.

There’s a tension in the air, a spark that refuses to fade, and I wonder if she can feel it too, this pull that draws us closer, inch by inch. Her fingers brush the edge of her cup, and I catch myself wishing it were my hand she was reaching for, my touch that might still the trembling in her fingers, ease the weight she’s carrying.

I lean back, trying to shake off the spell she’s unwittingly cast. But it’s useless—the space between us feels charged and alive, like it’s begging to be closed.

When she looks at me with her raw vulnerability, I can’t help but feel that familiar surge of desire, a force that pulls me back into her orbit, no matter how much I should resist.

But here we are, in a crowded café, the world bustling around us, oblivious to the attraction simmering in the space between us. I’m left wondering if she notices how I look at her, how my pulse races with every accidental brush of her hand, and my breath stills with every flash of her eyes.

I want to close the distance between us and see if the fire in her gaze burns as hot as I imagine it will.

Slowly, I shift the conversation toward what needs to be discussed. Our waitress serves the wine and soon follows with soup. I sigh as Vivianne leans back.

With a flick of her napkin, she places the white linen across her lap. She peeks at me as she lowers to blow over the top of the melted cheese.

“It smells really good,” she says.

I mirror her actions, except for blowing on my bowl. Her pursed lips bring decadent desires to my mind. With a clearing of my throat, I bring up the topic I’ve been waiting to broach.

“Ma chère, we’ll be leaving in a few days for Lac Léman. There is something we need to discuss.”

She cuts into the melted cheese layer, inhaling the rich scent. Her lids close, and her long lashes flutter over her cheeks. Her pert, upturned nose flares with each of her breaths.

“What’s there to discuss?” The blue of her eyes sparkles in the flickering lamplight.

I tip my spoon beneath the cheesy layer and pool some of the rich broth in the utensil. I cool the steamy surface with a gentle breath and lift the soup to my mouth.

Her eyes follow my every movement and widen ever so slightly when she realizes I’m watching her with equal intensity.

“Hmm,” I say but don’t elaborate on her statement.

She shifts her gaze back to her soup, cutting out a bit of the cheese and scooping some onion onto her spoon. I allow her to take a bite while gauging her reaction.

“We need to discuss our interaction while at the event.”

“Mmm.” Her eyes close once again. This time, it’s to savor the soup’s richness as she tastes it for the first time. “This is amazing. I hope the rest of dinner is equally as good.”

“I assure you; you’ll enjoy it.”

“What was that name again?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said we would leave for Loch Lomond in a few days?”

A smile crests my lips. “Not Loch, but Lac. Lochs are in Scotland.” I scoop up another spoonful and let the bold flavors coat my tongue.

“So, where are we headed?” Her brows draw together. “I’m guessing it’s not in Scotland.” Her perky smile brings a grin to my face.

“It is not. Lac Léman is a lake shared between France and Switzerland. You’ll love it, and it’s the perfect time of year to visit.”

“It is?”

“Yes, the lake is overlooked by the Alps. Ski season is nearly done, but you won’t want to miss a drive through the mountains. There is still plenty of snow in the passes. Geneva sits at the southern tip of the lake, which is why so many call it Lake Geneva, but Lac Léman is its true name.”

“It sounds wonderful.” She taps her spoon against the side of her bowl. “Not nearly as wonderful as this though.” She leans forward again, her cleavage once more on display. “I expected something posh and over the top, to be honest. But this couldn’t be more perfect.”

“I’m delighted you’re enjoying it.”

“I’m pleasantly surprised,” she says. “From the outside, this place looks ordinary, but this is really good.”

I shift in my seat and attack my soup with more vigor.

“We’ll be leaving in the next few days. The event is on Saturday, and we’ll be driving down early in the morning to arrive in time for the evening meet and greet. Larson will have some prep work for you, such as a list of attendees. Something to get you up to speed.”

“I’m a bit nervous to be honest,” she admits.

The poor thing speaks about our task as if we’re spies engaged in an undercover heist. I don’t think Larson divulged all of what we hope to accomplish.

“Worry not, ma chère . You’ll be perfectly safe with me by your side. Remember, we’re capitalizing on your recent splash onto the international art scene.”

“International? I don’t think The Lovers put me on the international radar.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Our waitress presents the rabbit we’ll be sharing. She exchanges the empty soup bowls with small plates and places the platter with the rabbit in the middle of the table. After she leaves, Vivianne’s face is filled with confusion.

“Is it not to your liking?”

“I thought you ordered a salad.”

“I did, but it is served at the end of the meal.” I pick up the serving fork resting on the side of the dish and scoop up a tiny bit of the rabbit. “Would you like some?”

Vivianne lifts her small plate, moving it to the edge of the platter.

“I’ve trusted your gustatory guidance so far. Lay it on me.”

Her smile infects me with a potent energy, filling my heart with warmth.

“Gustatory guidance?” I serve her a small portion, uncertain if she’ll like the bold flavors, and then place a larger portion on my plate.

It’s time.

I take a slow, deliberate breath, choosing my words carefully.

“Since we’re discussing trust and our case, it’s time to get more specific.”

Vivianne raises a brow, her lips curving into a soft smirk.

“Seems pretty cut and dry to me. I’m to hang on your arm, look pretty, and be your art expert while you do—whatever it is Larson needs you to do.”

She cuts into her dish, savoring a bite. A drop of sauce clings to her lip, and I can’t help but let my gaze linger there, resisting the urge to reach out and brush it off.

“There’s an exclusive, illegal auction tomorrow night. Larson and I think it’s a good chance to test our cover and see how we handle the pressure.”

Vivianne sets down her fork, her posture stiffening slightly. She licks her lips quickly, making my heart skip a beat. I watch her closely, waiting for her reaction.

“A test drive, huh?” She raises an eyebrow. “I think I can manage.”

“I don’t doubt you can,” I reply, holding her gaze. “But we need to be sure. One wrong move in that room, and we’re exposed. We need to look natural and intimate. No second chances.”

She takes a deep breath, a flicker of nerves crossing her face before she masks it with defiance.

“Vivianne, what others say or think might reach your father. It would help if you were ready for that. We have to be—close.”

Her brows furrow, and she presses her lips together, considering.

“I can handle whatever rumors come my way, but…” She pauses, hesitation clear in her voice. “There can be nothing more between us.”

“Why not?” I ask, leaning in slightly. “You can’t deny the chemistry we share.”

“Chemistry aside…” She hesitates, then says, “I’m engaged.”

Before I can stop myself, I reach across the table, cupping her face. Her eyes widen, lips parting in a soft gasp.

“There’s something here, Vivianne,” I murmur, tracing her cheek with my thumb. My fingers drift across her lips, and she leans into my touch, eyes fluttering closed briefly. “Tell me you don’t feel it,” I whisper.

She nods slightly, breath hitching.

“People will be watching, and one wrong move could expose us.”

She swallows, her pulse quickening. “I get it, but…”

“I’m not sure you do,” I reply softly, brushing her bottom lip with my thumb. “It’s not about holding hands or small talk. We have to be convincing.”

I lean closer, voice low. “We have to move like we’re drawn to each other. Like every touch, every glance is instinct.”

She looks away briefly, then back at me, desire and hesitation warring in her eyes.

“It’s not about what we are. It’s about what they think we are.”

She takes a deep breath, resolve flickering in her gaze.

“Every touch should be a promise.” I lean in, cupping her face, tracing her jawline with my thumb. “Every glance should be a silent vow.”

Her breath hitches, and she leans into my touch, eyes darkening with desire. I feel the heat radiating from her, and the subtle tremors in her body.

“This is what we need them to see. This is what we need to be.”

Our breaths mingle, hearts pounding in sync. We can pull this off because what’s between us is real, raw, and undeniable.

She pulls back slightly, her voice steady. “I don’t think we’ll have a problem being convincing, but I have a life—a fiancé to return to. I can’t…”

“I would never ask you to jeopardize that,” I say, holding her gaze. “I’m asking for the pretense. For the sake of this investigation…”

She nods, looking relieved. “Thank you. I just…I don’t know what this is between us, except there is no future. I want to be clear upfront.”

“Clear as crystal.” I nod, understanding her perspective. I lean in slightly, my voice low. “But for now, let’s focus on making them believe.”

I reach across the table, taking her hand in mine. Her fingers are delicate and warm, with a slight tremor in her touch. I trace my thumb across her knuckles, a gentle, slow caress that makes her breath hitch.

“You’re tense,” I murmur, my eyes never leaving hers. “Relax. It’s just you and me.”

She takes a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly. I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a soft kiss to her fingers, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my touch.

“That’s better,” I say, my voice low and husky. I lean closer, my other hand reaching up to cup her cheek. Her skin is soft and warm, and a flush spreads across her cheeks.

“Paul…” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the hum of the restaurant. Her eyes are wide, her lips slightly parted, and desire heats her gaze.

“Shh,” I murmur, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw, cheek, and bottom lip. Her lids flutter as she leans into my touch.

I glance around the restaurant, making sure no one is paying too much attention to us. Then, I lean in, my voice barely a whisper.

“Remember, every touch should be a conversation between lovers.”

Her eyes open, meeting mine. She nods slightly, her hand reaching up to grasp my wrist, her fingers softly trace the pulse point there.

“And every kiss,” I murmur, my lips hovering over hers, “should be a vow.”

Her eyes flutter closed as I press my lips to hers, a soft, gentle kiss that quickly deepens. Her lips are soft and responsive, and I devour the sweet remnants of wine on her tongue. She melts into the kiss, her hand tightening around my wrist, holding me in place.

The kiss is passionate, a sealed promise of the charade we’re about to play, but it’s also restrained, aware of the public setting. It’s a delicate balance, a sensual dance that speaks volumes without crossing the line.

As we pull apart, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes dark with desire. My thumb traces her bottom lip, a soft, sensual caress that stutters her breath again.

“That,” I murmur, “is how we make them believe.”

She nods, her gaze locked onto mine, a mix of excitement and apprehension swirling in her eyes.

“I don’t think that will be a problem.” A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “And thank you,” she says softly, “for understanding about my obligations.”

I nod, forcing a smile. “Of course. This is just business, after all.”

But as our eyes meet over the table, we both know it’s a lie. Whatever this is between us, it’s far more than just business. And for now, that will have to be enough.

We’re ready to play our parts.

Ready to make them believe.

Ready to explore the undeniable chemistry that crackles between us.

As we separate, the loss of her warmth is almost physical.The air between us charged with unspoken desires and unfulfilled promises.