Paris Punishment: Paris Trilogy: Part Two
Paris Punishment
Paris Trilogy: Part Two
Lila Dubois
Contents
Synopsis
Paris Punishment
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
Also by Lila Dubois
The BDSM Checklist Series
Synopsis
Paris Punishment
Solomon abandoned her in Paris, but Vivienne isn’t going to let the only man she’s ever loved walk away without a fight.
* * *
She wants closure, he wants her off his island...after they spend one last night as Master and sub.
* * *
They’re perfect for one another, and terrible together. They swear it’s the last time, but fate—and a billionaire friend with a private jet—are about to intervene.
Paris Punishment
Chapter 1
Paris—ten years earlier
* * *
There he was, her mystery American boy. At least, Vivienne Deschamps was fairly sure he was American. The style, cut, and most impressively, the way he wore his jeans had her pinning his nationality as “American.”
She’d studied him, especially those jeans, because the American boy was the most attractive man she’d ever seen. He was tall and muscled, with the most gorgeous forearms, longish dark hair, and blue eyes.
She hadn’t even known forearms could be gorgeous, but his were.
At twenty years old, Vivienne considered herself an urbane citizen of the world, mature and experienced enough to no longer feel something so inane as a crush.
Her mystery boy had proven her wrong. The last thing she felt around him was mature and worldly.
Crush. She most definitely had a crush on him, a strong enough crush that the moment she saw him, her normal confidence disappeared, leaving her awkward and nearly mute.
They’d exchanged polite hellos on the occasions they passed one another in the lobby of the apartment building where she’d been living while in college. The building was on Rue De Poissy, just off Boulevard Saint-Germain. Given the central location—and proximity to Notre Dame and other tourist destinations—most of the flats in the building were kept furnished and rented out to long-term tourists or business consultants. There was also the odd visiting scholar, as the building was walking distance to many schools, including the Sorbonne, where she was in her final year of her license.
As far as she knew, she was the only student who lived in the building, at least until her mystery American had moved in.
After months of obsessing about her American, today was the day Vivienne was going to have a conversation with him.
And now he was here, walking right toward her. Showtime.
He looked distracted and a bit tired, his head down, which meant he hadn’t spotted her yet. “Bonjour,” her boy said to the concierge Hernan.
Bonjour. The only word she’d ever heard him say.
He didn’t have a noticeable American accent, but it was hard to tell from a single word. If he was American, his French accent—at least for that word—was excellent.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” Hernan replied.
Vivienne was fairly certain his last name was Carter. She’d heard Hernan say Monsieur Carter once when greeting him.
Her American was almost level with her, his head still down as he trudged toward the back of the lobby. He hadn’t yet looked up and noticed her. She should speak first. But what to say?
He was only steps away.
Say something. Hello. Or, nice day. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Maybe she should drop her mail and then he’d come help her pick it up.
Maybe you are a moron.
Her inner voice was rude, but correct. Vivienne stared down at her phone, watching out of the corner of her eye as the boy walked past.
She waited for a moment, her heart pounding so loud in her ears that she felt like she was at a concert with the bass line thrumming through her.
Nothing. He’d passed her by and she’d said nothing.
She sighed and slumped, tossing her mail, which was all junk, into the trash.
The clatter of metal on metal made her jump.
Vivienne whirled. She’d assumed her American had taken the stairs—he normally did—but he was still in the lobby, standing a scant meter away, checking his own mail. The sound that startled her was the other keys on his ring clacking against the mailbox below his.
He shot her a quick, slightly weary smile, but it was still enough to render her nearly speechless. “Bonjour.”
Her mouth opened, closed. She cleared her throat. “Bonjour, Monsieur Carter.”
He blinked in surprise. “You know my name?”
Oh my god. Oh my GOD. She was such an idiot. She was also going to die of embarrassment.
“Oh, I, uh, heard Hernan greet you.” She shrugged, hoping her nonchalance covered the faux pas.
He set down the single letter he’d drawn from his box, adjusted his backpack, and then stuck out his right hand. “I’m Solomon Carter.”
Solomon. An unusual name, but the way he pronounced his last name—with a hard “r” sound at the end—was undeniably American.
Vivienne slid her hand into his. His hand was big and warm. Her fingers tingled and she felt a little jolt of electricity shoot through her. She covered her reaction—hoped she covered it—with a smile.
“Vivienne Deschamps. You’re American.”
Solomon sighed. “I thought my accent was pretty good.” He relaxed his grip on her hand and she reluctantly pulled back.
“Oh, it is,” she rushed to assure him. “But you look American.”
Solomon pursed his lips, one eyebrow going up. “I look American?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Vivienne reached back, pulling her hair forward over her shoulder and running her fingers through it to give her hands something to do.
Was he…he was. He was checking her out! Solomon’s gazed had followed the motion of her hand, lingering on her breasts for a bare moment before sweeping down to her feet, and then quickly back to her face.
He noticed her noticing him noticing her and he…was he blushing? Not quite, but he seemed embarrassed. Vivienne’s own nerves eased, and she felt more like herself, less like some tongue-tied idiot.
“You simply look American. The way you dress, maybe.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Ah, you saw me in my Stanford T-shirt.”
“No,” Vivienne said. “But that would have confirmed it.” She gestured to his legs. “You wear your jeans like an American.”
Solomon looked down at his pants for a long moment.
When he returned his attention to her, there was a heat in his eyes and a sexy curl to his lips that made her breath catch. “You’ve been studying my legs?”
Merde.
“Simply noticing. I know a lot about fashion.” She knew a lot compared to most people, but not nearly as much as she should, considering that Marie Beauvalot was her grandmother, and Bernard Beauvalot—current fashion director of the world-famous Beauvalot fashion house—was her great uncle.
“I think you noticed because you were checking out my ass,” Solomon said with a grin.
Vivienne managed not to sputter, but it was a near thing. She tsked and tossed her head. “I was not.”
; “Really?” Solomon took a step toward her. “Because I’ve been checking out your ass.”
“You have?”
“I probably shouldn’t admit that since it makes me seem like a pervert.”
“Appreciation—as long as you aren’t a creep about it—is nice.”
“Mmmm,” he said in a creepy voice, switching to English. “What a nice butt, lady.”
Vivienne giggled, but it turned into an inelegant snort. She covered her face, the snort turning into a full-blown laugh.
Solomon’s smile widened, and his eyes, which were so wonderfully blue, seemed to sparkle. “You know, I was having a shit day, but talking to you is making me think the whole day won’t be fucked.” He shrugged, tipped his head to the side. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”
“I…yes. I would.” Vivienne hoped she didn’t look as stunned and thrilled as she felt.
“Come on. There’s a place around the corner that does good espresso and croissants. It’s where I go when I need to stay up and study.”
She was not only talking to her American, who had a name—Solomon—but he’d asked her out for coffee just the way boys did on American TV.
Vivienne stuffed her phone in her back pocket. Feeling a bit dazed—and utterly, completely thrilled—she walked beside him back through the lobby toward the street. “You’re a student?” she asked.
“Graduate student. I’m doing a year at Sciences Po. The second year of my program, next year, I’ll be at the London School of Economics. What about you?”
“I’m in the last year of my license.”
“That’s like the bachelor’s, right?” He held open the door for her.
Vivienne stepped past him, her arm brushing his chest. For a second time it felt as if sparks of electricity were dancing along her skin. “I, um, I think so, yes. I’m doing a dual degree in Health Science and Law.”
“Wow,” he said in a very American way before switching back to French. “I’m doing International Economic Policy and Business.”
Side by side, Vivienne and Solomon walked down the street to a small cafe.
Five hours later they left that same cafe, hand in hand and laughing.
And Vivienne Deschamps knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she had just found the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with.
Chapter 2
Paris—Present Day
* * *
Loathed. He loathed Paris. Hate was no longer a strong enough word.
Solomon paced the lobby of the Ritz. It was 9:00 a.m., and he’d been down here for nearly five hours. After leaving the club, and Vivienne, he’d come back to the hotel, thrown his shit in a bag, and headed for the lobby.
He didn’t want to stay in the room. He couldn’t look at the couch without picturing her there, the bathroom without remembering how easy they’d been with one another that morning as they suffered through a hangover, courtesy of their own stupidity.
His phone beeped and Solomon glanced down at it, hoping it was the travel agent.
I just saw the press release. You’re talking to that woman again? Call me!
Solomon let his head hang. He’d known this was coming, but he thought he’d have a bit more time. After leaving the club last night, and once the rage that felt suspiciously like heartbreak dissipated, he did his part to head off the bullshit crisis that ass-wipe Bernard had been trying to manufacture. Thanks to the time difference between Paris and Mendocino—an area north of San Francisco where his mother had located the RedBall headquarters—his middle-of-the-night call to RedBall’s VP of public relations had caught the woman while it was still evening, West Coast time.
He’d barked out information, the briefest explanation he could manage, and twenty minutes later she’d sent him a drafted press release which he’d okayed. It was set to go out at 3:00 a.m. US Pacific Time, 6:00 a.m. Eastern Time. It would be in time to hit the morning US news, assuming any news outlet wanted to talk about it, which he found very fucking unlikely.
More importantly, 3:00 a.m. West Coast time was noon in Paris, meaning the statement would hopefully be picked up by French news outlets in time for the evening news.
He’d planned to be in the air, Wi-Fi off, when the statement was released.
That plan was being stymied by the fact that he couldn’t get a fucking flight.
His phone beeped again.
I know you read this message. Call me.
Damn it, message read notifications were off on his phone, so his mother shouldn’t have been able to tell if he was actively reading her texts, but he didn’t doubt for a second that she had somehow overridden that feature. It was one of the many downsides of having a mother who was both an incredible businessperson and a tech genius.
He dropped into a lobby chair, near his hastily packed suitcase, and typed out a reply. Came to Paris to see a friend. Ran into her. Very civil. Gossip blog posted a picture of us together. Trying to stop it from turning into a mess.
Why the hell hadn’t the travel agent called him back? Maybe he should have just booked that first itinerary, the one with three stops that would take him thirty hours to get to George Town.
Maybe he shouldn’t have been such an optimistic asshole and canceled his return flight. He’d postponed it, then, after their first full night at the club, canceled it. He’d wanted to keep his options open.
Now he was stuck because there sure as shit weren’t direct flights from Paris to the Bahamas, and thanks to a storm in Frankfurt, air traffic all over Europe was fucked. He needed to get to Miami, and from there catch either a commercial flight or try to bum a ride on a private plane to George Town Airport on Exuma. From there his regular pilot would pick him up in a helicopter to get him back to his island.
And then he’d do his best to avoid leaving the island for several months.
His phone binged. Civil?
Solomon thumped his phone against his forehead. “Not now, Mom.”
He waited for his mother to send an angry, demanding, or angrily demanding follow-up, but his phone stayed quiet.
Solomon’s shoulders sagged. In a way, this was worse. He could picture his mother sitting up worrying about him. His relationship with his mother was complicated, but he’d never doubted she loved him or wanted him to be happy. And when his relationship with Vivienne had fallen apart the first time, he’d gone home. He’d needed home. Needed the time and space that provided to lick his wounds and try to redefine himself.
Home.
Once, Vivienne had been his home, and for a moment being with her again had felt like home. That sense of relief and release. Topping Vivienne had been thrilling, sexy, and comforting. Comforting like walking in after weeks of travel, dropping everything, and sinking down into a favorite chair. Perfect and peaceful.
He snarled and stabbed his call history. The travel agent answered with some polite greeting that Solomon interrupted. “Get me anywhere on the US Eastern Seaboard. I’m headed to the airport, and there better be a ticket in my email by the time I get there.”
“Monsieur Carter, I’m sorry, but due to delays—”
“Ticket. Now.” He hung up and stood, catching the eye of the concierge, who immediately picked up a phone to call for a taxi. Solomon forced himself to relax. He hated feeling out of control, and he felt very out of control at the moment.
“Always such a way with words, my friend,” a new voice said.
Solomon turned to face the speaker. Edmund Normandy looked posh and fashionable, as was fitting for the current fashion director of Beauvalot. Slim, tailored black pants, a crisp white button-down shirt, glossy black belt, silk knit scarf draped casually around his neck, and a pair of dark glasses.
“Edmund.” Solomon intended the word to be a curse, but he hadn’t hated Edmund, even at the end. He was Solomon’s favorite member of Vivienne’s family, which admittedly wasn’t saying much. Still, it meant the word came out more resigned than angry.
“You’re leaving?” Edmu
nd gestured at the bag.
“As fast as fucking possible.”
Edmund arched an elegant eyebrow. “And why were you in Paris?”
“RedBall is issuing a press release later.”
Edmund tsked. “I have to wait for the press release? Really, Solomon…”
Damn it, once upon a time he’d considered this man a friend. Everything he knew about dressing well—and he knew a lot, even if he decided to ignore it—was thanks to Edmund. There were many nights he’d sat up with Edmund and Vivienne, trying desperately to unravel the mess they’d found themselves in.
He owed Edmund more than a brush-off.
Solomon sighed, then took two steps, embracing the other man in a quick hug. He could feel Edmund laugh, then draw back to brush their cheeks together in the oh-so-French greeting.
“It has been too long,” Edmund said softly.
“It’s good to see you, but I’m not going to agree. It hasn’t been long enough.”
Edmund strolled over to a chair and took a seat, hiking up his slacks at the knee in that precise motion that was both elegant and practical.
Solomon dropped into his recently vacated chair with a thud.
“You bring me back to my original question,” Edmund said. “Why are you in Paris?”
Solomon leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Just to see a friend. There was a conversation I needed to have with him face to face, and he was in Paris.”
“And Vivienne?”
“I didn’t plan to see her. It was an accident.”
“And where, precisely, did you see my cousin?”
Solomon didn’t reply.