Orchid Club Page 15

  “Don’t touch me or my father,” Victor snarled.

  “How about you shut the fuck up?”

  This whole thing was devolving into chaos.

  “What do you want, Uncle?” The words felt heavy as she said them.

  Gerard smiled. “Only what’s best for the company. To be sure we present the right image.”

  At that moment, Vivienne, trussed up and hiding her shame behind a destroyed ball gown and a borrowed shirt, felt dirty and worthless.

  Lips trembling, she nonetheless raised her chin. “Fine, let us discuss.”

  “I will call Tempest,” Gerard murmured. “Come with me, we’ll meet at Maison Delphine.”

  “No, we will meet at my apartment.”

  Gerard frowned. “We would be more comfortable at the house.”

  Vivienne was about to respond when Solomon touched her elbow, drawing her attention.

  “No, Vivi,” he said softly in English. “You don’t need to talk to them right now. He’s trying to—”

  “I know exactly what he’s trying to do,” she assured him.

  “Then don’t give in. Baby, I need to take care of you. We got ripped out of the middle of a scene and that can fuck with your head. My head. Both of our heads.”

  “But my family—”

  “Can wait until morning. Hell, you can meet with them at 5 a.m., and it will still be before business hours. You need to come out of the scene the right way.”

  “I have to deal with this.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  She felt conflicted and anxious, perilously close to tears that she would have been able to release had they not been interrupted. But she was strong, she had to be strong, and that meant being the CEO, standing up to her bully of an uncle and shutting down what was probably his latest attempt to oust her as head of the company.

  “I do.”

  “Vivi, listen to me. They stormed in here. They owe you nothing.”

  “The photo—”

  “Is bullshit. A press release and it’s over. We’re not celebrities, we’re just rich. Most people don’t care. A Kardashian will do something and a boring picture of us will be fucking forgotten by lunch.”

  “If the companies we were going to—”

  “Let me be your Dom.”

  Vivienne’s breath shuddered and she wanted to say yes, to lean into him and let him master her until she found that sweet release and peace she needed now more than ever.

  And she desperately needed him to be her Dom. But her family came first. She’d come back to him once she’d made the decisions and did the work to make sure her family didn’t fly apart at the seams.

  “As soon as I’m done, we can meet at your hotel.”

  Solomon’s face hardened. “No, Vivienne. We need an hour, even a half an hour.”

  “I need to go now.”

  “It’s the middle of the night. It will take hours for everyone to get up and get to your apartment—and let me reiterate, this is not a middle of the night meeting worthy emergency. Fuck, it’s not even a real emergency.”

  “I agree that it’s not a real emergency—“

  “Then come with me. Half an hour, that’s all I want.”

  “Let me talk to them and then I’ll come back.”

  His face was blank as he said, “So this non-emergency manipulation power play comes first?”

  He was right, part of her knew he was, but she wanted to deal with them before she did anything else. “I’ll come back and—”

  “That’s not how this works.”

  She stared at him, shocked. “So either I stay at the club with you right now, or…what?”

  “You know what. I have to know you’ll respect this. Respect us.” His shoulders moved as he sighed. “That things will be different this time.”

  She hadn’t thought she could feel any worse. She knew it was wrong, knew it was a bad idea, but she responded to his cold demands with ice of her own.

  “I don’t respond to ultimatums or threats,” she said coldly. Solomon, who a moment ago had seemed like her backup, her ally and safe haven, was now another opponent.

  He snorted. “Yeah, you do. The only difference is, when your family issues them, you give in.”

  “This is an emergency, and you think I should ignore that because you’re not done being my Dom?”

  “That’s the thing. It’s not an emergency. It’s a minor PR issue. So yeah, I expect you to stay. I expect you to respect this. Us. Because right now what we need is to get back up there. I need to get you out of everything and then we need to scene so you can let go of some of that shit you’re holding in right now.”

  He was right, at least about what she needed. She did need to get back up there. She needed to scene with him so she could cry and scream and then sink into the bliss of pleasure.

  But that was what Vivienne needed. What the CEO of CRD Beauvalot needed was to call a family meeting and squash whatever it was her uncle was trying to do, then soothe any ruffled feathers at the tech firms she and Victor were planning with.

  She reached out, cupping his cheek. Her hand covered the scar, and for a moment she could see him the way he had been.

  “I want to be your submissive, and you’re right. I would love nothing more than to go back to that ballroom with you, but—”

  Solomon grabbed her wrist, jerking her hand away from his face. “No, Vivienne.”

  His voice was cold, hard, and it made her heart ache. She just had to get him to understand this was just a little delay. “I’ll come to the Ritz as soon as—”

  “Don’t bother. You made your choice.”

  Those words echoed, and she had a horrible, painful, sense of deja vu.

  “We’re done.”

  And for the second time, Solomon Carter turned and walked out of her life.

  The story continues in Paris Punishment

  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 c
all 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.