Paris Punishment: Paris Trilogy: Part Two Page 2

  Edmund brushed at his slacks. “She’s still in love with you, you know. She never stopped loving you, and I’m quite certain she will die loving you.”

  The air stopped moving. Or maybe it was that Solomon’s whole body had turned to stone, and he could no longer breathe, what breath inside him forever trapped.

  “No,” he wheezed. “That’s not—”

  “Oh, it’s quite true.”

  “It isn’t. Vivienne doesn’t love me—”

  “She does—”

  “Well, then she doesn’t know what love is.”

  Edmund’s calm facade cracked, his head snapping up. “And you do?”

  “Why are you here, Edmund? To defend your cousin’s honor? I assure you, she is still devoted to her family and doesn’t need defending. She’s the fucking dragon in this story.”

  “And you are an ass and a fool.”

  “He is that,” a new voice said.

  “Fan-fucking-tastic.” Solomon hung his head, listening to the sound of footsteps as James and Christiana finished their approach.

  “Bonjour.” Edmund rose.

  “James Nolen. And this is my fiancée, Christiana Dell,” James said in English.

  Edmund switched languages, his accent classically Parisian when he spoke. “It’s my pleasure. I’m Edmund Beauvalot-Normandy.” Publicly, Edmund had hyphenated his name, adding his mother’s maiden name of Beauvalot, in order to help solidify his place in the fashion house.

  “You’re Vivienne’s cousin?” Christiana asked.

  Burying his head in the sand and pretending James and Christiana weren’t there clearly wouldn’t work. Solomon pushed to his feet, stepping into the little circle of people. Christiana looked lovely and practical in a pair of jeans, a thin, tight sweater, and a beautiful diamond choker.

  Choker? That was a day collar.

  Jealousy knotted his gut, and Solomon had to look away from the happy couple.

  James looked much the same as he always did—well-dressed and at ease in his own skin, though compared to Edmund he didn’t seem as stylish as normal.

  “I am, indeed, Vivienne’s cousin. You are friends of hers?” Edmund asked.

  “No, we just met her last night,” Christiana said. “Well, I did. You look familiar.” The last was directed at Edmund, whom Christiana was peering at.

  James smiled as he kissed Christiana’s temple, then said, “Edmund is the fashion director of Beauvalot, a major fashion house here in Paris.”

  “Oh. And I’ve heard of Beauvalot, I’m not a complete idiot.” Christiana smoothed her jeans against her thighs in a sweetly nervous gesture.

  “Your cousin would be very jealous to know you met him…” James mused, lips twitching.

  Christiana whipped out a cell phone. “Can we take a selfie?”

  Edmund blinked, then grinned. “To make your cousin jealous?”

  “Yes. She’s a doctor.”

  “Ah, well then, stand with me.” Edmund put an arm around Christiana while James manned the cell-phone camera.

  “Well, you all are having a great time,” Solomon said in utter and complete exasperation. “I’m leaving.”

  Edmund released Christiana, who snatched her phone, looking like the cat who’d caught the canary as she checked the pictures.

  James glanced at Solomon, his clear amusement at his part in this strange little tableau fading the longer he looked at Solomon. “We came to check on you,” the Brit said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?” Edmund asked. “Did something happen?”

  “No,” Solomon said.

  “That is what I came to find out,” James said. “You and Vivienne disappeared, and based on what Christiana said about Vivienne’s…state of being in the locker room, it seemed that the evening hadn’t gone as planned.”

  Solomon’s jaw ached as he clenched his teeth. James was trying to be circumspect, but Solomon could read between the lines.

  Vivienne had still been in bondage when she’d gone to the locker room. Someone had seen her, maybe had to help her, and now word was spreading through their little community that he’d walked out on her. He had, but not by choice. He’d walked out because he had to. Because as much as he wished it wasn’t the case, his heart had broken when Vivienne, once again, chose her family over him.

  Christiana tucked her phone into her pocket and looked at him, her expression sympathetic. “No one but me and the attendant saw her. I helped her get out of the—”

  James cleared his throat, and Christiana’s eyes widened, gaze sliding to Edmund.

  “—helped her get ready to go,” she finished. “I only told James, and it seemed like…it seemed like maybe you could use a friend today.”

  Solomon’s shoulders sagged. He could use a friend? That was trite, simplistic, and totally true.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I’m headed home soon. Flights are fucked, but I’ll get on some plane, headed somewhere. Anywhere as long as it’s out of Paris.”

  “We are going to London in a few days,” James said, “You could come with us.”

  “What happened last night?” Edmund demanded.

  Solomon looked at the concierge, who was still on the phone. How fucking long did it take to call a cab?

  “If you are Vivienne’s family, why don’t you ask her instead of Solomon?” Christiana asked.

  Solomon felt a swell of patriotic camaraderie with his fellow American. “She’s got a damned fine point, Edmund.”

  “Because Vivienne has to be strong, even in front of me. It hasn’t always been that way, but the last few years…” Edmund shrugged. “She is not the same, and she is not happy.”

  “And that has nothing to do with me,” Solomon said.

  All three of them looked at him. James seemed mildly amused, Christiana was peering at him as if she wasn’t sure if he were joking, and Edmund was blinking slowly, as if he were having trouble processing what Solomon was saying.

  Before any of them could comment, the concierge appeared at Solomon’s elbow. “Monsieur, your car is here.”

  “Right.” Solomon grabbed his bag. “This has been…something.” He stuck out his right hand. “James.” They shook, then Solomon pulled Christiana in for a one-armed hug, dropping his mouth near her ear. “Was she okay?” he breathed.

  “Physically? I think so, but she—”

  Solomon pulled back, cutting her off and turning to Edmund. “Goodbye.” He held out his hand.

  Edmund leaned in for a perfunctory double-cheek kiss, ignoring the offered handshake. “Not goodbye, but à bientôt.”

  See you again.

  “No,” Solomon countered. “Goodbye.”

  Bag in hand, he turned and followed the concierge to the front door. As Solomon was about to leave the Ritz, step one in getting the hell out of Paris, Edmund called out, “Don’t forget what I told you. She still loves you. She will always love you.”

  Solomon’s knuckles creaked as he clenched the handle of his suitcase. He didn’t look back, but he heard Christiana’s gasp.

  “Goodbye, Edmund,” Solomon called as he walked out the door.

  Edmund’s parting shot was barely audible, the words floating through the rapidly closing doorway.

  “We will see.”

  Paris—ten years earlier

  Solomon walked Vivienne to the elevator. She pressed the button, then swept her hair back with one hand, a gesture that, after four official dinner dates and a few less official ones, as well as dozens of trips to the cafe for coffee, was familiar. Her silky locks immediately slid forward, brushing her cheek.

  His mouth went dry, and Solomon felt thirteen instead of twenty-three. She was just so…so awesome.

  He was an idiot. There had to be a better word than that. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, though she was. She was smart—seriously, seriously smart. The kind of smart that didn’t just want to be a doctor, but change world health policy.

  She was also
funny, but not in a goofy way. Talking to her made him feel like he was a character in a TV show—it was all witty banter and intellectual references.

  But all of those things paled in comparison to the way he felt the moment he touched her. It was as if he were both calmer and had his senses heightened. The air between them crackled with possibility.

  Chemistry. Raw, dangerous, sexual chemistry.

  What he felt with her was more than he’d felt with any other woman, and all he’d done was kiss her cheek. He’d been holding back on kissing her, for a variety of reasons. First of all, he was trying to be a gentleman. Secondly, part of him was well aware that a kiss would lead to something more, and he’d barely managed to carve out time in his study schedule for the few dates they’d already had. He, quite literally, didn’t have time for a relationship. What they had worked only because she was as busy with classes as he was, so most of their dates were casual—meeting at a small cafe for dinner or a cup of coffee before walking home together, after which they’d go their separate ways.

  And the last reason, the most interesting reason, was that he was scared the chemistry would disappear. That once they kissed, this electric anticipation would dissipate, and he was loath to lose the feeling. It was almost like the disappointment that came on Christmas morning, after the presents were opened. There was no longer anything to look forward to.

  Solomon was definitely looking forward to kissing Vivienne.

  Kissing Vivienne was his current favorite daydream. Imagining Vivienne naked was his jack-off fuel, though it made him feel a little skeevy.

  The elevator doors opened and Vivienne stepped in, turning to look at him. “Do you want to…ride up with me?”

  Up until now he’d made a point of leaving her at the elevator and then taking the stairs, which meant he didn’t know which apartment she lived in. He never wanted to make her feel uncomfortable or scared, and since he lived in the same building, that seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do.

  “You sure?”

  Vivienne put her hand on the door, preventing it from closing. “I trust you…at least well enough to get in an elevator with you.” She winked saucily.

  Solomon grinned and stepped in, turning to press the button for the third floor. Four was already illuminated. “So we’re taking our relationship to the next stage?” he joked.

  “Um, I thought—”

  “No, wait, I just meant now I know where you live.”

  Vivienne pressed her lips together, but he could see the smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

  “And I sounded like a serial killer. Great.” Solomon turned and thunked his head against the wall.

  Vivienne laughed as the elevator came to a stop on three. “And now I know where you live.”

  “Maybe I should be worried.” Solomon stepped out into the hall, holding the door open. “Thank you for coming with me.”

  Vivienne’s smile was small, but not shy. It was secret, as if she smiled just for him.

  He imagined her smiling up at him while she was on her knees, and his cock twitched. He squashed that thought.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” she asked.

  “Please do.”

  The elevator began to beep angrily after being held open, and Vivienne stepped out, brushing against him as she passed. She rocked back on her heels, looking around the hall as he let the elevator door slide closed. She was wearing wonderfully tight black pants, a cotton shirt that was thin enough to cling to her curves, and a lightweight jacket and scarf, perfect for a fall day. Her lips were glossy and pink. If she’d had a backpack on, she would have looked like a stock image for a pretty college student, but instead of a backpack she carried a big tote-style purse with her laptop and books tucked inside. It had a gold nameplate from one of the famous French fashion houses, but given the casual way she treated the bag, it was probably a knockoff.

  “Secret?” he prompted.

  “I actually tried to figure out which apartment was yours before we even met.”

  “Stalker.”

  “Perhaps if you were less oblivious, I wouldn’t have had to work so hard.”

  Solomon sputtered. “Excuse me? I asked you out.”

  “Because I waited in the lobby for you to come back from class.”

  “I was planning to talk to you.” Solomon started down the hall toward his door.

  “You did talk to me. I said hello. Then you said hello.” Vivienne waved one hand in the air. “Such conversation! Just like one of Paris’s famous literary salons.”

  He snorted as they reached his door. “Still, I said hi to you that day in the lobby. Not the other way around.” He put his key in the lock, then turned to look at her.

  His next comment died on his lips.

  Vivienne was frowning at the door. “This isn’t your apartment.”

  He looked from the door to her, then back to the key in the dead bolt. He twisted and the lock clicked open. “Yep, it is.”

  Vivienne shook her head. “But this apartment belongs to TelConiste.”

  Solomon blinked in genuine surprise. “Uh, how do you know that?”

  Vivienne looked up at him with wide, worried eyes. “Solomon…are you…”

  “Wait, are you asking if I’m squatting?”

  “If you need it, I can help you—”

  “I didn’t break in.” He rolled his shoulders, the backpack feeling heavier than it had a moment ago. “The CEO of TelConiste is a friend of my mom’s.”

  Vivienne’s face twisted with doubt. “The CEO of a European telecommunications company is friends with your mother?”

  “Yea…there’s something I haven’t told you. I don’t like to make it a big deal, but—”

  He shuffled his feet. His mother’s identity was both a source of pride and embarrassment. The last thing he wanted was to be that guy—the stuck-up rich kid. Vivienne’s family was clearly well-off if she was living in a building in this part of Paris while going to school. But well-off and child of a billionaire were two totally different things.

  “My mom is Ruby Dawson.”

  Vivienne stared at him, as if starting to doubt his sanity.

  Solomon just waited.

  Her mouth opened, forming a perfect, pretty “O” that he would definitely think about later. “Your mother is RedBall?”

  “Yep.” The way Vivienne had phrased it was perfect. Ruby Dawson was the founder, president, and CEO of RedBall, a Silicon Valley tech giant. “I’m the red ball. I mean it was my red toy ball, and whatever I was doing with it, that inspired her to write DataPrized.” DataPrized was a piece of security software that now existed on almost every telecom server in the world.

  Vivienne opened her mouth, then closed it. “But I googled you! And your last name isn’t Dawson.”

  “Carter is my father’s last name, and hello, my mother is a tech genius. She regularly scrubs all my information. She was worried someone would kidnap me for ransom when I was younger.”

  Vivienne’s shock was evident. Solomon sighed. It was trite, the whole I-want-people-to-want-me-not-my-money thing. But being trite didn’t make it any less true.

  “But…I thought you were normal,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah, well.” Solomon adjusted his backpack strap. “Anyway, when I decided to come to Paris for grad school, TelConiste loaned me the apartment for the year. Made my mom happy because it keeps my name off any lease documents that reporters could find.”

  Vivienne stayed silent, just looking at him with the oddest expression.

  “How did you know who this apartment belonged to anyway?” he asked.

  “My family owns the building.”

  “Oh.” That certainly made sense as to how she could afford to be here. And if her family owned property in central Paris, they were probably loaded. He relaxed a little. “So your family is in real estate?”

  “On my father’s side. Real estate and wine. Well, really it’s more about the wine. The real estate is just a bypro
duct.”

  “Way to bury the lede,” he teased.

  “Pardon?”

  “You have wine connections. I’ll buy if you figure out what we should get. I’ve always wanted to try one of those crazy expensive bottles.”

  “If you, we, want wine, there is no need to buy—”

  “No, seriously, I’ll buy.”

  “—because I could have several cases of rare, expensive wine here within the hour.”

  Now it was his turn to be taken aback. “Oh, so your family is really into wine, and…”

  He trailed off because Vivienne had raised a single brow while looking at him expectantly. He was missing something.

  “Deschamps,” she prompted. “My last name is Deschamps.”

  He had a lightbulb moment.

  “What. Hold up, hold up. You’re a Deschamps, like Château Rossolina Deschamps?”

  Her smile grew into a grin. “One of Europe’s first families of wine. Oh, and my father’s mother? A Beauvalot.”

  “Holy shit. Like the fashion people?”

  “Yes.” She patted her bag.

  The bag wasn’t a fake; she just treated it like any other bag, because for her it probably was. He knew how much high-end bags cost since they’d been his go-to present for his mom once macaroni art was no longer acceptable.

  Solomon leaned against the doorjamb. “So I’m the son of a tech billionaire. You’re an heiress to French fashion and wine…why aren’t we on a yacht, taking pictures of ourselves for Facebook?”

  “Because I have reading and a lab report due on Friday. You have a paper to write.”

  Solomon threw his head back and roared with laughter. It was both wonderful and absurd that they’d kept the information about their families hidden for as long as they had. He liked it this way.

  “Later, if you want to pose for a profile pic, I will print out a picture of a boat and hold it up behind you,” Vivienne said saucily.

  Solomon doubled over, unable to stop laughing.

  This girl was so fucking perfect. He was going to fall in love with her. Fuck, he might already be in love with her.

  When his amusement died, Solomon pushed himself up and just looked at her. He wanted to memorize this moment. To always remember the night he’d known, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who he was going to love for the rest of his life.