Honeymoon in Paris (9 page)

“Luc
is
a good man,” I said. “I wonder though, do you think he’s trying to protect me from something—something
dangerous
?”

Nicolas gazed back at me, perplexed. “Why would you think that?”

“Just something I overheard him saying on the phone today got me thinking that this could be more complicated than I thought.”

“Luc has been through a lot with his family, and now with Brigitte. He hasn’t had it easy at all, Charlotte. Maybe, like you said, he’s been keeping this information from you to protect you, to protect your relationship. Maybe he just doesn’t want his past to ruin your future together.”

“Maybe, but he should’ve learned by now that our pasts will always catch up to us. The fact that I’m sitting in a limo with his former best friend and ex-step-brother, and that I had drinks with the lovely Brigitte and his ex-step-father—on what was supposed to be the last night of our honeymoon—is clear proof of that.”

“True,” Nicolas conceded. “What is important now, though, is that Luc knows the truth.”

“So what
is
the truth? If Luc’s dad didn’t embezzle the money, then who did?”

Nicolas tapped his fingers nervously on the edge of the seat. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Charlotte. I need to speak with Luc first.”

I pulled out my cell phone, brought Luc’s number up on the screen, then handed it to Nicolas.

“Here’s your chance.”

Nicolas’ dark gaze intensified as he took the phone. “Charlotte, after I make this call, you need to be aware that things might get complicated for a while.”

I reached for the door handle. “And you don’t call this complicated?”

Nicolas placed his hand on my arm. “No, Charlotte, I mean it. This is serious. Your name will be in the papers, you’ll have reporters calling the house. This was a high-profile case back in the day, and opening it back up again isn’t going to be easy—especially after the truth comes out. Just remember that no matter what happens, Luc is a good man. And judging from the little bit of time I’ve spent with you, I understand why he married you. You’re smart and beautiful and… well, I don’t want what I’m about to do to ruin what you have together. Promise me you won’t let that happen.”

“Nicolas, what you need to understand about me is that no matter what happens, I’m with Luc for the long haul. I love him unconditionally, and nothing you could say or do will ever change that.”

As soon as I left Nicolas alone in the limo and stepped outside, a wall of flashing cameras descended upon me. I shielded my eyes and pushed my way past the intrusive photographers, but suddenly their attention shifted.

Marcel Boucher strutted out of the club like the superstar that he was with Lexi and Fiona pinned to his sides. Cameras flashed furiously as the paparazzi couldn’t get enough—and apparently Marcel and the girls couldn’t either. They all stopped to pose for the cameras, Lexi of course being the one to work it the most, before they finally made their way over to the limo.

Marcel reached for the door, but I placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Nicolas is making an important call. We should give him a minute.”

Marcel tilted his head at me, a cocky grin passing over his lips. “Is that what you call it in English,
making a call
?” Then he shrugged my hand off of him and reached for the door once more. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Luc,” he whispered in my ear before slipping inside.

“That’s not what’s going on here,” I said. But my protests were drowned out by my two giggling girlfriends climbing into the limo behind Marcel.

Peeking inside, I noticed Nicolas hanging up my phone, a disappointed look on his face. “No answer,” he mouthed.

It had been well over two hours since Luc had left Paris, so he was definitely in Lyon by now. The fact that he wasn’t answering his phone didn’t bode well with me. Even if he was busy taking care of Adeline, he would’ve picked up his phone. He never ignored my calls.

The paparazzi vultures lined up at my back, the clicking sound of their cameras making me flinch. I could understand why celebrities lashed out at them—they were relentless.

Marcel was already passing around glasses filled to the brim with champagne when Lexi reached for me. “Come on, Char. We could all stand to blow off a little steam right now, don’t you think? After everything that happened today, what’s a limo ride around Paris and a little champagne going to hurt?”

Lexi was right. The damage of the day had already been done. Luc wasn’t answering his phone, and the longer I stood out on that sidewalk, the higher chance I had of making it into every French tabloid first thing tomorrow morning.

I took Lexi’s outstretched hand and climbed into the Boucher brothers’ limo, where champagne flowed heavier than the River Seine, washing all of our troubles into a bubbly abyss.

NINE

“
Mmm… Nicolas, je t’aime
.” The breathy whisper came low and soft in my ear. An arm draped over my chest, pulling me in tightly. I tried to open my eyes, but the beating of drums against my temples forced my eyelids back to their natural state of closed.

“
Nicolas… Nicolas… Nicolas
.” It was that airy female voice again, whispering in her perfect French accent. Why was she calling me Nicolas? And why was she squeezing me so close I could hardly breathe?

I gritted my teeth as a wave of nausea swept through my core, and this time I forced my eyes open. Lexi lay sprawled across me, her eyelashes fluttering as she continued to whisper that name—
Nicolas, Nicolas
—over and over. I rolled out from under her tight grasp and peered down at my feet to find a set of silky black sheets bunched at my feet.

Black sheets?

I didn’t have black sheets. And neither did Luc.

I peered around the sleek bedroom, my mouth unhinging when the most perfect view of
la Tour Eiffel
caught my eye through a stunning floor-to-ceiling window.

“
Nicolas, Nicolas, Nicolas,
” Lexi hummed.

Oh, God, it was all coming back to me.

Nicolas
Boucher
. The Boucher brothers.

Those gorgeous, sexy Boucher brothers.

The paparazzi… the limo.

And the
champagne.

But what had happened after that first glass of bubbly bliss in the limo? I distinctly remembered saying to the girls right after we’d climbed in that we were only having one glass, and then we had to return back to my hotel room so my husband of five days wouldn’t want to divorce me when all of this was through—
and
so we could get a little bit of shut-eye before my train back to Lyon in the morning.

My train!

“Lexi!” I hissed, shooting up from the bed, the threat of my gag reflex immediately making me wish I hadn’t moved so quickly.

“
Oui, Nicolas, oui, je t’aime
.” With her eyes still closed, Lexi reached for me once more.

This time I grabbed her hand and squeezed it as hard as I could. “Lexi, get up!” I screeched. “I’m not Nicolas. We have to go,
now.
”

But Lexi didn’t show any signs of life, except for her incessant murmuring of
I love you’s
in French to the famous actor and my new friend, Nicolas Boucher, whose apartment I could only assume we were currently sleeping in.

At least the two of us still had all of our clothes on. But where was Fiona?

I gave up on Lexi and tossed the black sheets off the bed, kicking her butt in the process.

“Mmmm,” she mumbled, curling into a tight ball and refusing to budge.

Feeling a mixture of cocktails and stale champagne tentatively sloshing around in my stomach, I scrambled to my feet and dashed out of the sleek bedroom. But just as I skidded around the corner in my bare feet, a catchy cell phone tone emanated from a room across the hall. A muffled male voice took the call, and when I crept up to the closed door, I recognized the voice as Marcel’s.

Short, harsh responses shot from his lips.

“
Oui, je comprends… Non… Oui… Je sais… D’accord, je m’en occupe.
”

Okay, I’ll take care of it?

What was this guy up to?

As soon as I realized Marcel’s heated phone conversation had ended, I scurried away from the door. The slippery hardwood floors made that task a bit tougher than I’d anticipated, and my not-quite-sober butt plunged straight to the floor.

Merde.

A shirtless Marcel appeared in the doorway right at that moment, the disapproving look on his dark, handsome features tearing up any last shred of dignity I may have had left in me.

I needed to find Fiona, wake these girls up, and get the hell out of here.

Marcel lent me a hand without saying a word, the look in his brown eyes tinted with anger. “I need to speak with you, Charlotte. Please follow me.”

Oh, God. Did he know that I’d been eavesdropping?

Marcel led me through a large living room decorated with two square black couches, a smooth black-and-white rug, and four rather scary modern art paintings splashed in red and black paint. The sleek, impersonal décor didn’t fit with what I’d seen of Nicolas’ personality the day before. And with no sign of Nicolas anywhere, that meant we’d spent the night in Marcel Boucher’s Parisian bachelor pad.

Dear God.

Empty champagne and wineglasses littered the black coffee table, proof of our wild night—the details of which I could not remember for the life of me. Suddenly a splash of something pink and sparkly lying on the floor caught my eye. I lowered my gaze to find a lacy black thong lined with tiny pink jewels thrown carelessly next to the couch.

Please don’t let that thong belong to any of my friends,
I begged silently.

The freaky blood-red paintings in the living room were quickly redeemed when Marcel led me out to a beautiful balcony overlooking the River Seine. The early morning sun bathed the bustling city in a soft, orange glow, momentarily making me forget about all of the drama that had transpired since the day—and the night—before.

Somehow Paris always had that effect on me.

I scanned the rows of gorgeous Parisian apartment buildings across the river, watching as the green-and-white Six Train crossed the Seine on its way to Passy, one of my favorite shopping neighborhoods, and the quaint little
rue
where Luc had bought me the world’s best
pain au chocolat
the day before.

Marcel lit a cigarette, then cleared his throat, snapping me out of my Paris haze and back to the present.

“What did Nicolas tell you last night in the limo?” Marcel’s normally sexy jawline tightened as he blew a puff of smoke directly into my face. The charming, heartthrob actor who’d sauntered through the club last night had disappeared. Instead, standing before me was a jaded, pushy rich boy.

“He just wanted to talk to me about Luc. He was hoping to reconnect with him, that’s all. Why do you want to know? What’s this all about?”

Marcel took a step closer to me, the stench of alcohol and smoke on his breath making my stomach curl. “After you leave my apartment, I don’t want you to talk to my brother ever again. There’s more to our past with your husband than you will ever know, and if you want to keep your marriage intact, I suggest you stop digging and leave it alone. This is for your protection, Charlotte.
Tu comprends?
”

A chill slithered through my body as I took a step back from Marcel. The resemblance to his sleazy father Vincent was suddenly overwhelming. “Yes, I understand. Just show me where Fiona is and we’ll get out of here.”

“She is sleeping in my bedroom. I tried, but I could not wake her this morning. It was quite a night, you know.” With a lift of his brow and another puff of his cigarette, the shirtless Marcel left me alone on the balcony, wondering exactly
what
had happened last night—and what or
whom
I needed protection from.

“Dude, I’m dying,” Lexi said as she pushed her gargantuan black sunglasses up her nose and plopped her forehead on my shoulder in despair. “I haven’t drunk that much since… since I can’t remember when. What even happened last night?”

The mood on the Metro was somber as we all tried to keep our breakfasts down and wished we were about eight years younger. Passing the twenty-six mark really did reduce alcohol tolerance.