Page 8

EIGHT

If I Do This

Vivianne

“We should discuss the case over lunch. Get to know each other better.”

“Lunch sounds delightful.”

“Great. My car?—”

I wave my hand. “No need for your driver to battle traffic, Monsieur de Gaulle . I spied a wonderful deli on the way over, and it’s nice enough outside for a short walk.”

I need a walk in the fresh air, and I will not lock myself inside a car with de Gaulle after escaping the confines of the elevator. Besides, I want to be the one to pick the restaurant.

Fortunately, the chill air from the previous day has lifted. While not warm, turbulent spring temperatures settle over the city. Several delicatessens lie along the route the car service took.

“A deli?” His brows lift in surprise.

“Of course.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you enjoyed deli food?”

Is he serious?

Wealth opens many doors and closes precious few, but I refuse to lower myself to snobbery. The best food in New York isn’t in five-star restaurants, but at the small mom-and-pop shops.

Despite being too early for the lunch crowd, the sidewalks swarm with pedestrian traffic. De Gaulle angles us into the stream of humanity, his firm hand steering me through the crowd.

I exhale, but the simple act of breathing is difficult. An incessant thrum buzzes through my body with the constant press of his hand upon my back. And I can’t ignore a growing curiosity.

I need lunch to dig for details. If I accept de Gaulle’s proposition, who knows what doors might open for me, my father, and even my fiancé?

Faulks’ interests spread across the globe, but my father’s reach has to have limits. Making myself useful to him and Prescott will decide how much freedom I retain after providing an heir to carry on the Faulks name.

We stop at a corner and wait for the light to change. I twist, a subtle but effective gesture, forcing de Gaulle’s hand to fall away.

The light changes and the press of people pushes us into the crosswalk.

“I’m curious how you knew both pieces are Starling forgeries. So far, you’re the only one who seems capable of spotting the difference. I find that fascinating all by itself. Radcliffe intends to spread word of your accomplishments throughout the community.” His heated expression does strange things to my belly, and his low, thick voice turns his words into promises of something more. “I want you, Miss Faulks, for your brains and beauty. I’ve decided I need you, and I will have you.”

We’re not talking about illegal art auctions anymore.

I spy a deli across the street. “Over there. That one looks good.”

I hope the fluttering in my belly calms down by the time we order food. We’ve gone from arguing to having lunch together. The shift in mood is almost too fast to process.

A line snakes outside the deli’s front door, and it’s barely past eleven. I hope that means the food is spectacular.

De Gaulle glances down and inspects my heels with a lingering perusal of my calves. “Looks like a long wait. You sure?”

My stomach rumbles. “Yes.”

“Doesn’t look like there’s seating.” Again, his gaze lowers to rest on my footwear.

I was practically born wearing heels, but I’m not wearing my Louboutins today. I have on much more comfortable shoes, but I appreciate his concern.

A man who pays attention to the distress of his female companions is a rare breed.

He steers me across the crosswalk and to the back of the line. I crane my neck to see if a menu is affixed to the shop’s window. Not that it matters.

I’ll get what I always eat—tuna on sourdough with a vinaigrette dressing splashed on top. No frills. No lettuce, tomato, or pickles. But it’s fun to see what other options might be available.

Despite the long line, the wait is short. I soak in the New York accents of those in line with us. The scent of fresh bread has my mouth watering, and I can’t wait to get inside.

When we reach the counter, de Gaulle quirks one eyebrow, his voice rich with double meaning. “How adventurous do you feel, ma chère? ”

I stiffen my spine. Adventurous? When it comes to food?

“Not very.”

While I ponder his question, de Gaulle orders. “Two roast beefs, heavy on the juice.” He pulls out two twenties and places them on the counter. “Keep the change.”

I grip the sleeve of his suit, my fingers brushing his wrist. “I’d prefer?—”

“Trust me.” His long fingers grasp at my elbow, and he pulls me out of the line to settle me into a recently vacated seat at a table in the far back of the deli. “You’ll love it.”

How can he be so certain? But his tone brokers no argument.

Walking over to a couple seated at a nearby table, he points to an empty chair. After a short exchange, he returns with the chair. Before he can join me, the counter girl calls our number.

Every female in the place tracks his movement, eyes eager and alight for the slightest nod of acknowledgment. He ignores every heated stare and returns with two baguettes overflowing with roast beef, steam rising from the two cups of au jus.

The most delicious aroma tickles my nose. “Smells great.”

He takes his seat. “I’m certain it tastes even better.”

“I rarely eat this much red meat,” I say.

“Oh, vegetarian? Je suis désolé. ”

“No, not vegetarian. Only that I prefer tuna fish.”

Relaxing back into his seat, he picks up his sandwich. “ Ah, bon, then this will be something different.”

His accent infuses his every word with a hint of seduction. Not fair for a voice to have so much power.

With his first bite, his eyes close. The strong muscles of his jaw bunch as he chews.

I shamelessly admire the hard angles of his face, the stubble of his chin, and the sweep of his dark hair.

He’s a masterpiece of masculinity, flawed only by a scar angling from the corner of his left eye halfway across his temple. Self-assured, confident, and used to taking charge, he dominates the room with an unspoken solidity of presence.

I cough and lean forward, hiding the flush rising in my cheeks. Roast beef. Not my favorite.

I pick up the sandwich. His eyes lock on my lips when I open my mouth for a tentative taste.

Mouthwatering juices hit my tongue, and the bite of horseradish has me closing my eyes with the decadent pleasure of a deli sandwich.

Damn. It is good.

He pushes a napkin across the table, and I swipe at the juices running down my chin.

“Do you like?” He waits for my reaction.

With my mouth still full, I nod. “Mmhmm.”

Better than good. A savory mess of perfection. My lids close with the wash of sensations flooding my mouth. Who cares about tuna when I can have this?

He hands over another napkin and bites into his sandwich. The act of sharing a simple meal erases our previous tension, and we talk about easy topics, inconsequential things like Broadway and the Met.

Vibrant and very real, an unmistakable pull draws me to him. He sweeps an errant strand of hair out of my face. The heat of his fingertips skates across my cheek, sending a rippling chill down my back. I force myself to meet the intensity of his stare.

“You were explaining why you need me and not Dr. Phillips,” I blurt out the words into the potent emptiness hanging between us.

“Have I not already?”

With a shake of my head, I roll my eyes.

He chuckles and takes my hand in his. “ Ma chère, I would never attend such an event without an attractive woman on my arm.”

I pull my hand from his powerful grip. He releases me, and there’s that sultry grin again.

“Those gathered will assume our relationship extends beyond the professional. This is why Dr. Phillips cannot accompany me and fulfill the role.”

“Because you sleep with your business associates?”

The muscles of his jaw bunch, and he leans forward. His hands whip out and grab both of mine in a shackled grip. A potent emotion dances in his eyes, a dangerous intensity, even as his voice holds a level and low tone.

“You have the two things I require to infiltrate this market. Knowledge and beauty are a rare combination. I tell you this only so you might make an informed decision because everyone at this event will assume an intimate relationship exists between us. You’ll need to play the part, and I need the distraction you’ll bring.”

Play the part or assume the part?

His words leave that piece up to interpretation. His grip tightens around my wrists. “I’m not against using a beautiful woman to achieve my goals.”

I hold my arms relaxed, no longer struggling against his grip. He eases the pressure, even as his gaze hardens.

“You want me to pretend to be your lover?”

With a nod, he releases my hands and leans back in the chair. “ Mais, oui. It will be assumed you’re sharing my bed.”

“Why does that matter? Who cares if our relationship is more than business?”

“Accept Agent Radcliffe’s offer to consult on the case, and you’ll discover many secrets. You might even uncover some you’ve been hiding from yourself.”

Whatever does that mean? His words impact me on a gut level, terrifying because of their alluring promise.

I clear my throat. “Monsieur de Gaulle, you must know I’m engaged.”

“I know your relationship status. That’s what makes this perfect. The rumors will fly. The more attention focused on our relationship, the more freedom we’ll have to operate.”

“You place a lot of weight on the power of rumors, but I can’t risk my reputation for you or jeopardize my family name.”

Without warning, he stands, extending his hand. I glance at it, terrified to take it but more than willing to feel the heat of his skin against mine again.

What would be the harm in one last affair?

Even if it is pretend.

How much loyalty do I hold to a fiancé I hate?

“If I do this…” My breath flutters in my lungs, tentative yet excited. “If I do this, that’s all it would be—an act.” I must establish boundaries. “We maintain a professional relationship, regardless of what others believe.”

I want my words to sound confident, but they come out more like a question.

The corners of his full lips bow into a smile when I allow him to take my hand. He flips my wrist over and leans down to sweep his lips across the back of my hand.

“But of course.”

A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. “Strictly professional.”

“Mais, oui.”

I hate when men lie.