Page 7

SEVEN

Lunch

Vivianne

My stride falters as I near the bank of elevators. I’ve said “No” to the one opportunity I desperately crave.

How foolish.

Funny how arrogant I’ve become once the status of my family came into question—a family I’ve wished to escape from the moment I turned five and my father started picking my friends.

Viv, you may not go to Heather’s house. Her family lives in Gardendale, and we don’t associate with those people. Spend time with Tiffany instead; she lives in Greystone.

Only, I never liked Tiffany Clark.

With dark hair, winding curls, and a heart as black as coal, Tiffany stole my friends. The girl hogged attention throughout grade school, and it only worsened through high school.

Tiffany used me to get closer to the few boys my father approved to date me. Those boys meant wealth and social standing beyond Tiffany’s eager grasp. My complaints about my friend meant nothing to my father—until news of her pregnancy crossed his desk.

He rescinded his permission that day. No more spending time with Tiffany.

The slight against my family aside, that isn’t why I’m walking away from this opportunity.

Away from Paul de Gaulle.

A bauble to drape over his arm?

The nerve.

A chime announces the elevator’s arrival, and the steel doors glide open. I step in quickly, heart pounding in my chest, and turn just as they begin to close. The momentary relief evaporates when I hear it—sharp, purposeful, the unmistakable sound of leather soles slapping against the tiles.

Paul de Gaulle.

He’s coming.

I press the button for the ground floor, but the doors move in slow motion. Too slow.

The clipped rhythm of his footsteps grows louder and faster, and my pulse races to match. Just before the doors slide shut, he appears, moving toward me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His eyes lock on mine, dark and determined, and in that moment, it’s like time stalls.

The look in his eyes—pure, unrelenting focus—sends a surge of adrenaline through me. I feel the weight of his determination as if it has a physical presence, closing the space between us before he even reaches me.

There’s no escaping it, no escaping him .

“Vivianne,” he calls out, voice low but commanding, just as his hand shoots out to stop the elevator doors from closing.

For a split second, I think about running, about escaping under his arm, but his gaze pins me in place, and the heat between us flares like a match catching fire.

He steps into the elevator, and the doors close behind him with a quiet finality, leaving us alone, trapped in the enclosed space.

His chest rises and falls with the effort of the chase, but his eyes never leave mine, burning with a mixture of frustration and something more—something that sends a tremor through me.

The cool steel of the elevator presses against my back, grounding me as Paul steps closer, his presence overwhelming the small space. I can’t escape him—not here, not when every nerve is alight, charged by the proximity of his body, the heat that simmers between us.

“What are you running from?” His voice is low, rough, filled with the tension crackling in the air. He’s so close now that I can smell the faint trace of cedar and spice on his skin, a scent that threatens to unravel me.

I don’t answer. Words fail me, tangled in the whirlwind of emotions swirling between us. His hand lifts, hovering just a fraction away from my arm as if he’s giving me a choice—whether he touches me.

The air between us is thick, alive with unspoken desire, pulling me toward him even when I know I should resist.

I swallow hard, pulse racing, but I meet his gaze head-on, refusing to back down.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” I whisper, my voice barely steady.

“Don’t I?” His eyes flicker with something more profound—something dangerous—something that sends a thrill down my spine. For a heartbeat, I wonder what will happen if I don’t stop him.

I gasp, taking a faltering step back, seeking the handrail at the back of the elevator to brace myself. But there’s no way around him, no exit. He’s everywhere, his presence like a storm, inescapable and consuming.

Without a word, he jabs the button to stop the elevator mid-descent. The car jerks to a halt, the sudden stillness amplifying the tension between us.

“You want a bauble, but I’m not some trophy for you to parade around,” I snap, anger flaring in my chest. “I’m more than a pretty face.”

His eyes darken, frustration flashing across his features. “That’s not what this is about, and you know it.”

“Do I? Because all I heard is you need someone beautiful to hang on your arm while you do the important work. If you needed an expert, you would have asked for Dr. Phillips.”

My words are sharp, but beneath them is the hurt—the sting of being reduced to nothing more than my looks when I know damn well I’m more than that.

“If that’s what you think, you’re not listening.” He steps closer, crowding my space, his body so near that the heat radiating off him threatens to undo me.

“I’m not listening?” I fire back, my breath coming in shallow bursts. His closeness is maddening, the pull between us undeniable. “You said it yourself… You need someone who looks the part.”

“I need someone who can do more than look pretty,” he growls, his voice tight with frustration. “Yes, your beauty will draw attention, but I need your expertise. Do you think I’d risk everything on someone who’s just a pretty face?”

I falter for a second, but my pride refuses to let me relent. “Then why make it sound like that’s all I’m good for?”

“You’re smarter than that.” His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he says nothing. His hand hovers near my face, but he doesn’t touch me. His voice softens, but there’s a fire behind his eyes. “This isn’t about spotting forgeries. This is about the image we have to sell.”

“And what image is that?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why do you care what they think?”

“I don’t care what they think, as long as we do what we need to do.” He leans in, his lips hovering close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin.

I bite back a shiver as his words hit me. The tension between us is palpable, so thick it’s almost suffocating. I hate that he’s right. I hate even more that part of me is drawn to him, that the chemistry between us is as undeniable as the anger simmering beneath it.

“So you expect me to, what? Pretend we’re lovers?” I challenge, my voice shaking despite myself.

“I don’t expect you to pretend.” His eyes burn into mine, filled with frustration and something else—something I don’t want to name.

“You’re unbelievable.” A bitter laugh escapes me, and I push past him, pressing the button to restart the elevator.

He catches my wrist, his grip firm but not forceful, and I freeze. His touch sends a spark through me, one I can’t ignore.

“Vivianne,” he says, his voice softer now, but still edged with that same intensity. “You’re not a decoration. I need you because of what’s in here,” he taps the side of his head, “and what you can do in that room.”

Suddenly, he’s in my space again, his hand coming up to cup my face. His movements slow and deliberate, as if testing the air between us.

His fingers graze my jawline, warm and firm, sending a shiver through me. Then they trace a trail along my jaw, leaving fire in their wake. He leans closer, his lips hovering just a breath away from mine. The air between us crackles with electricity.

He doesn’t say a word, just watches me, his thumb trailing along my skin in a way that makes my breath hitch. He’s so close now—so close I feel the heat radiating off him, his lips hovering just a breath away from mine. The air between us crackles with the kind of tension that makes it impossible to think straight.

My heart skips, hammering in my chest as he cups my face. The elevator feels smaller, the walls pressing in as he closes the space between us, his eyes locked on mine, searching, intense.

I can’t help it—my eyes flutter closed, my breath catching as my body betrays me. The soft scent of cedar and spice wraps around me, intoxicating, and my lips part involuntarily, waiting for something I know shouldn’t happen.

My heart races, anticipation building with every second as I wait for the promise of a kiss I shouldn’t want but desperately crave. The tension between us turns into a living thing, pulsing, demanding. I’m falling into whatever this is between us, helpless against the pull.

I should pull away. I should stop this.

But I don’t.

I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. The tension is too thick, the desire too strong.

But then, just as quickly as he leans in, he pulls back, leaving the kiss unfinished, his hand lingering for a heartbeat longer before falling away. I open my eyes, my pulse racing, confusion and frustration battling in my chest.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t close that final distance. If this was a test, I don’t know if I passed or failed. He steps back, giving me space, though the absence of his touch leaves me cold, craving more.

I hold his gaze, heart pounding. His words hit deeper than I want to admit, but my anger lingers, fueled by the attraction I’m desperate to ignore. Easier said than done.

“That’s the kind of thing that will be expected of us.” Paul’s eyes darken as he looks at me, his voice low and husky. “Based on your reaction—and mine…I don’t think pretending is going to be a problem.”

I swallow hard, trying to steady my racing heart.

A slow, seductive smile spreads across his face. He leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. “I must say, I’m looking forward to working with you on this case. Very much looking forward to it.”

“And I can’t wait to finish what we started here. When the time is right, of course.” He pulls back slightly, his eyes roaming my face, lingering on my lips.

His confidence is palpable, his control absolute. It’s clear he’s used to getting what he wants; right now, what he wants is me.

I lift my chin, meeting his gaze with defiance despite the blush I can feel creeping up my neck.

He stabs the button for the lobby, and we continue our descent.

“Then let’s see if you can keep up,” he says, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine.

His eyes flicker with something dark and promising as he gestures for me to exit first. “After you, ma chère. We have work to do.”

As I step into the lobby, his hand rests against the small of my back, the touch possessive, guiding, and entirely too intimate.

It sends a shiver down my spine, and I curse myself for how easily he affects me.

But the fire burning between us?

That’s a battle I’m not sure I can win.