Forbidden French

I wake in the morning well before the sun has risen over Lake Como. Jet lag should work against me, but I travel so often my body has learned to trudge through. Victor has given me a room on the third floor of the villa overlooking the lake and mountains. I sit at a desk in front of the picture window for two hours, chipping away at emails, correspondence, and a to-do list best tackled in the peace and quiet of the early hours, before the rest of the houseguests wake up.

Legal sent me a revised document for the Leclerc & Co. contract they’d like me to review by the end of the day. My father has already given his input. I read through it in my room, watching the sunrise, before I change and head down for a swim. Though the lake beckons, I choose the lap pool. As expected, I’m the only one crazy enough to be out here so early, and the water is ice cold as I slip in. After a slow warm-up, I swim laps until my arms ache and my chest screams for reprieve.

I feel more myself as I head back upstairs so I can shower and catch the tail end of breakfast.

It’s already a full house when I arrive in the breakfast room, and I’ve barely taken my seat after visiting the buffet before I’m surrounded by guests I’m barely acquainted with. In fact, I’m lifting a fork laden with zucchini frittata to my mouth when a hand shoots in front of my face.

“Will Johansson. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

I lift my annoyed gaze to him and let his hand dangle there between us.

His confidence wanes. “We met last year at the Notre Dame fundraiser, though you might not remember me…”

I don’t.

There’s already someone speaking over him, introducing themselves too. “Archer Glines. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance. Our fathers attended École Polytechnique together. I’ve heard some of the stories. The way I hear it, the two of them were extremely close.”

They weren’t.

“Florence Carmichael. Lady Florence Carmichael, actually. My father is Viscount Carmichael. I think you might know him?”

Oh for God’s sake.

It continues on like this so that by the time I’ve endured over a dozen introductions, my food has gone cold. I settle for a French pâtisserie and a cup of coffee and take my unread Le Figaro with me on my way out.

I loop around the entire villa before I find Lainey resting on a cushioned lounge chair down near the water’s edge. She’s wearing a black two-piece set composed of a long-sleeved cropped blouse and high-waisted trousers with a sliver of her waist peeking through intentionally. Light tan sandals twist and tie around her slender ankles. Toss a bag at her hip and she could be a model for one of our brands, especially with Lake Como in the background. Our customers would bankrupt themselves trying to emulate the same effortless elegance.

I claim ownership of the lounger beside her by tossing down my newspaper.

She doesn’t bat an eye. Her attention stays rigidly set on her book.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

She was in the breakfast room when I arrived, eating beside Victor and her grandmother.

“I haven’t.”

“The moment I walked in for breakfast, you stood up with your half-eaten plate and left.”

She doesn’t look up. “Pure coincidence. I wouldn’t read into it.”

“Last night after dinner, you hurried out of the dining room before I could catch you.”

“My grandmother was waiting for me.”

She flips a page in her book as if it’s even remotely possible that she’s still reading while we talk. I know later she’ll have to turn back, wondering where the hell she actually left off.

“You won’t look me in the eye, even now.”

“Because I’m trying to read,” she says, exasperated as she lifts her hardback to wave it at me.

“Lainey.”

She sighs and sets it down, looking up at me with an unamused expression.

“I narrowly escaped disaster last night, and I’ve learned my lesson. We should just stay away from each other.”

Indignation burns in my chest. “Oh really? You think I’m a bad influence?”

“Clearly.”

“Why is it you can say that so confidently to me, but last night at dinner, you were quiet as a mouse?”

“We’ve gone over this before—I’m shy.”

“I can’t believe that. When it’s just you and me, you’re the exact opposite.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “So take it as a compliment and move on. Don’t you have someone else you can go bother?”

Ignoring her, I ask, “What book is that?”

“Ten Ways to Deal with Difficult People.”

“You’re joking.”

She rolls her eyes and lifts the book as her reply: No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy.

A favorite of mine.

“Have you read The Road?”

She gives me a pointed look as if to say, Are you really asking me that?

I take a seat on the lounge chair beside her and unfold my French newspaper. I’m making a point. She doesn’t need to worry; I can mind my business. Never mind that we’re almost elbow to elbow with the lounge chairs pushed so closely together. I can smell her shampoo on the gentle breeze. I’m attuned to her every subtle shift.

“Did you really have to sit right beside me like this? There are plenty of lounge chairs over there. And you know what?” She twists around and shields her eyes from the sun as if to study something. “I think I even see some beautiful women sunbathing by the pool. Oh, gosh, look at that—they need someone to help them apply sunblock. If only there were a person for the job…”

“I’m sure they’ll manage,” I say, wetting my thumb so I can easily flip through to the économie section of the newspaper.

She feigns a worried gasp. “Oh dear, now one of them has completely lost her bikini top. She’s looking everywhere for it. She really needs help.”

My only reply is the flutter of my newspaper as I turn to another page.

She sighs in defeat and turns back toward the lake. At first, she sits there with her book turned upside down on her lap. She isn’t quite ready to throw in the towel.

“To be clear, I’m not a bad influence,” I tell her, my focus still on my paper. “I didn’t drag you out into the garden last night like some deviant. You found me.”

She huffs annoyedly. “Yes, sure. I stumbled upon you innocently enough, but when everyone saw us run out of the gardens together, they all assumed the same thing.”

“Which was what exactly?”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

My devilish grin is impossible to suppress. “I’d like to hear you say it.”

She closes her book and leans toward me. “You’re not good for a lady’s reputation. For my reputation.”

“Why?”

“Because of who you are…a billionaire playboy with nothing to lose. I’d rather not look like I’m this week’s flavor.”

“I could take offense to that.”

“But you won’t,” she responds dryly.

No, I won’t. I’m not easily offended. I hold myself in too high of regard to care what other people think of me.

“For the record, I’m hardly a playboy.”

She sighs as if she almost pities me. “I know you aren’t all over gossip magazines or anything. In comparison to other men like you, you’re pretty tame. You were discreet even during your St. John’s days.”

“I had no idea you kept such careful watch over me.”

She doesn’t even flush as she responds matter-of-factly, “Yes, you did.”

At that, I laugh. I love her willingness to meet me head to head. This fiery side of her is so damn intriguing, even more so because she keeps it so well hidden.

She continues, “The world sees things in black and white, unfortunately. They have their assumptions about you and about me, and it’s futile to try to fight against it.”

“Well damn the world. What did your fiancé have to say about last night? Surely his opinion is all that matters.”

My question snuffs the spark from her eyes.

She turns toward the water and leans back against her lounge chair, having decided to ignore my inquiry.

“It’s Royce, isn’t it?”

A simple nod is all I get.

Royce Saunders is exactly the type of man I like to avoid. He’s perfectly average in every arena that counts: intellect, wit, business savvy. He comes from a well-established pedigree and acts like that should be sufficient in and of itself, never mind having an actual personality.

“Why him?”

Her gaze narrows on the water. “You’ll have to ask my grandmother that.”

“How long have you known him?”

“We first met at a dinner party a year or two ago.”

“So the betrothal has been a long time coming?”

Her green eyes pierce me when she whips her head back in my direction. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I’m trying to figure out how it’s possible for someone to care so little about their life. If my father strapped me to a lifetime of suffering alongside the female equivalent of Royce Saunders, I’d do everything in my power to fight against it.”

I can see my comment stings. Her shoulders stiffen, her back straightens.

“Oh yes, what a lovely life you’ll have growing old by yourself, no children or partner by your side, nothing of value to account for beyond that week’s business deal.”

“I never said I don’t want children.”

Her eyebrow arches tauntingly. “Never mind the children’s mother?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

She tosses her hands up. “You see how utterly annoying it is trying to take advice from a man like you?”

She rises from her lounge chair, but I reach out and capture her wrist before she can storm off. I feel desperate to keep her here.

“You’re right. I’m being obtuse. I want to hear straight from your lips why you’re marrying Royce.” I give her wrist a little shake. “Tell me.”

There’s a determined set to her jaw when she replies, “There is nothing to tell. There’s not some big secret, no blackmail or coercion. I want to, so I am. Now leave it alone.”

At that, she wrenches herself free and walks away, her book left forgotten on her chair.