I smile, but my disappointment is so strong it seeps into my voice. “Will you ever move in with me?”

  “I need to be sure who you are first,” she says.

  “Lucas Delaunay at your service,” I say, bowing ceremoniously. “I’m surprised you don’t remember me. And here I thought I was the one with amnesia.”

  She doesn’t laugh.

  My expression grows serious, too. “I’m the sum of everything I’ve done before and after the coma, aren’t I? The first thirty years of my life, my actions made me a jerk. The last six years, I was a goody-two-shoes. And now that my memories are coming back, I’m all of it. The bad and the good.”

  “The bad… it’s too bad for me.”

  “Is there something you aren’t telling me? Something I did or said that’s worse than sleeping with you and then informing you I had a girlfriend.”

  She chews on her lip, her eyes riveted to mine.

  “If you’re trying to go easy on me,” I say, “please don’t. Bring it on. I can handle it.”

  “OK,” she says suddenly. “You did say something, after you told me about Angie.”

  I wait for her to continue.

  “You said I was plain.” She looks away. “You said it was a pity fuck.”

  My insides lurch.

  I did expect to hear something unpleasant—but not this. This is… this makes me…

  “A piece of shit,” I say. “I was a piece of shit.”

  We keep silent for a long moment.

  “Give me another chance,” I beg, “I’ll move heaven and earth to make you forgive me.”

  She says nothing.

  I draw in a breath and utter the most honest words I remember myself saying. “I love you more than you know, but I can’t promise which side of me will win in the end, the good or the bad.”

  “I understand,” she says.

  “What I can promise is which side I’ll be supporting. For my parents’ sake, for my club’s sake and, most of all, for you.”

  She gives me a sad smile.

  I open the door, step out onto the landing, and turn back to her. “I want to be worthy of you, Izz. More than anything, I aspire to be the man you’ll want to move in with and love up close.”

  Epilogue

  Isabelle

  True to my word, I didn’t move in with Lucas.

  For a whole month.

  He kept remembering new things, and telling me about them. I kept looking out for signs of badness, which never came.

  We talked a lot.

  We kissed a lot, too.

  Then I moved in some of my things, for practical reasons, what with me needing him in my arms too much. A few weeks later, I moved in the rest, seeing as I needed him in my arms every night.

  Tonight is no exception.

  He flips me onto my stomach and spreads my legs. I smile as he kisses and rubs me, his thick erection prodding against my leg.

  In six months, one gets used to being loved and desired. To the passion of the man I considered unattainable. To his insatiable appetite for me, to the warmth of his body, to the sight of him straining to hold off his release until I’ve had mine…

  I love watching Lucas when we make love.

  But I love this position, too, where I can’t see him. He enters me, and I almost come straight away, so heightened are all my senses. I can hear his labored breathing and our flesh slapping. His cock is deliciously hard and thick inside me. The feel of his chest against my back, the weight of him… And the smell! Lucas smells like the god of sex.

  I dig my hands and knees into the mattress and push back, urging him to give me more.

  He begins to thrust harder and harder, until I come.

  Slipping his hands under me to cup my breasts, he thrusts a few more times and groans his orgasm.

  “I have something important to tell you,” I say a few moments later when we cuddle.

  “Me, too.”

  I smile. “OK, you go first.”

  “No, you go first.”

  We fall silent before we speak at once.

  “I’m resigning from my job,” I say.

  “Marry me,” he says.

  We pause again, processing.

  “Why are you resigning?” he asks. “Are you uncomfortable being my club’s publicist?”

  “A little, but it’s not—”

  “Do you feel you see too much of me?” he butts in. “Am I crowding you?”

  I shake my head and reach for my tote bag next to the bed. “I’ll continue counseling and helping you, but behind the scenes. I’ll no longer work for you.”

  “Did you get a better offer?” He stares at the large envelope in my hands. “Is that your new contract?”

  “That’s not how I envisioned it, but I guess you could call it that.” I smile and show him an ultrasound image.

  He stares at it, dumbfounded, and looks back at me. “Twins.”

  His expression is priceless.

  I nod, chuckling.

  “Twins,” he says again. “You thought… you feared you couldn’t—”

  “Turns out I could.” I shrug. “Perhaps I just didn’t get enough sex before moving in with you.”

  “How come I didn’t notice anything?” He touches my flat tummy.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not unusual not to show in the first trimester.”

  “How far along are you?”

  “Three months,” I say. “I’d had no idea until two days ago when I realized I hadn’t had my period since early October.”

  He frowns, not convinced.

  “It’s been such a busy time, what with the Youth Aquatics Games, the new season, and signing with Cleona Bank… Besides, I didn’t have any nausea.”

  “So you did a pregnancy test and booked an appointment with a doctor.” He points at the image. “And you kept it from me.”

  “I did two tests. The first one was positive and the second, negative.” I touch his hand. “I wanted to be sure before I broke the news to you.”

  He pulls me to his chest. “Izz, you should’ve told me! I would’ve liked to accompany you to your first checkup.”

  “I promise I’ll take you along for the second,” I murmur against the hollow if his neck.

  He lifts my head up, looking concerned. “It’s OK for us to have sex, right?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “As often as before?”

  I nod.

  “Am I allowed to… go as deep as before?”

  My lips quirk. “Uh-huh.”

  “I don’t want to hurt the babies.”

  “You won’t.”

  The line between his eyebrows disappears, and he takes my mouth in a long, thorough kiss.

  “Would you like to get married before or after the babies are born?” he asks when we break the kiss.

  Clearly, the possibility of me saying no hasn’t occurred to him.

  Oh, who am I kidding?

  There is no possibility—not even the slightest chance, not in this universe or in any of the infinite parallel universes around us—that I’ll say no to his proposal.

  “Definitely before.” I nuzzle up against his chest. “While we have time and energy for such frivolous pursuits.”

  << <> >>

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  Read on for an excerpt from Find You in Paris

  (The Darcy Brothers #1)

  If there's one man that store clerk and amateur photographer Diane Petit really, really, actively hates, it's fragrance mogul Sebastian Darcy who stole her father's company--and wrecked the man's health in the process.

  But the arrogant SOB had better brace himself because Diane has vowed revenge.

  And revenge she will have.

  Chapter One

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young man in possession of a vast fortune must be an entitled SOB born into money. Either that or a rags-to-riches a-hole who bulldozed his way to said fortune, leaving maimed bodies in his wake.

  The ferocious-looking PA returns to her desk. “Monsieur Darcy is still in a meeting.”

  “That’s OK.” I smile benignly. “I can wait.”

  I place my hands demurely on my knees and stare at the portrait adorning—or should I say disfiguring—the wall across the hallway from where I’m seated.

  Pictured is Count Sebastian d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, the oldest son of the late Count Thibaud d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice and the inheritor of an estate estimated at around one billion euros. Said estate isn’t your run-of-the-mill stock holdings or start-up fortune. Oh no. It’s made up of possessions that were handed down—uninterrupted and snowballing—all the way from the Middle Ages.

  Even Robespierre and his fellow revolutionaries didn’t get their greedy little hands on the d’Arcy fortune.

  What are the odds?

  Upon his father’s premature demise ten years ago, young Sebastian moved back into the town house in the heart of Le Marais and took the reins of the family’s main business. A twenty-three-year-old greenhorn at the time, you’d expect him to make tons of bad decisions and sink the company or, at least, diminish its value.

  But no such luck.

  Instead, Sebastian Darcy took Parfums d’Arcy from number three to the number one European flavor and fragrance producer—a feat that neither his illustrious grandfather nor his star-crossed father had managed to accomplish.

  According to my research, also about ten years ago, the new count chose to go by “Darcy,” abandoning the apostrophe and the rest of his status-laden name. I’m sure he only did it to fool those beneath him—which includes most everyone in a country that guillotined its royals—into believing that he sees himself as their equal.

  The hell he does.

  Sebastian Darcy is a stinking-rich aristocrat with instincts of an unscrupulous business shark. This means he qualifies in both the SOB and the a-hole categories.

  No, scratch that. He slays both categories.

  And I hate him more than words can say.

  The straitlaced man on the wall seems to smirk. I shudder, my nerves taut to the point of snapping. Will they kick me out if I spit at the photo? Of course they will. I steal a glance at the PA stationed between me and Darcy’s office. She looks like a cross between a human and a pit bull. I’m sure she’d love to stick something other than paper between the jaws of her sturdy hole punch.

  My hand, for example.

  But I didn’t come here to fight with Darcy’s PA. I’ll keep my saliva in my mouth, my eyes cast down, my butt perched on the edge of the designer chair, and my knees drawn together and folded to the side.

  Like the meek little mouse I’m trying to pass for.

  After waiting three weeks, I’m careful not to arouse any suspicion in Pitbull’s mind so she won’t cancel my appointment with Darcy.

  Eyes on the prize, Diane! Don’t forget you’re here to declare war by spitting in Count Sebastian Darcy’s face, rather than at his photographic representation.

  I look at the photo again, arranged in perfect symmetry between the portraits of his grandfather, Bernard, who founded the company, and his father, Thibaud, who almost put the lid on it. I know this because I’ve done my homework.

  During my week-long research, I dug up every piece of information the Internet had to offer about Sebastian Darcy and his family. I was hoping to find dirt, and I did. The only problem was it was already out in the open—common knowledge, yesterday’s news.

  And completely useless as leverage.

  Pitbull looks up from her smartphone. “Monsieur Darcy is delayed. Do you mind waiting a little longer?”

  “No problem.” I smile politely. “I’m free this afternoon.”

  She arches an eyebrow as if having a free afternoon is something reprehensible.

  How I wish I could stick out my tongue! But instead I widen my already unnaturally wide smile.

  She frowns, clearly not buying it.

  I turn away and stare at Darcy’s likeness again. In addition to the now-stale scandal, my research has revealed that Darcy is close to his middle brother, Raphael, and also to a longtime friend—Laurent something or other. Our vulture-man even managed to have a serious girlfriend for most of last year. A food-chain heiress, she looked smashing at the various soirées, galas, and fundraisers where she was photographed on his arm. Darcy was rumored to be so into his rich beauty he was about to propose. But then she suddenly dumped him about six months ago.

  Clever girl.

  He has no right to be happy when Dad’s life is in shambles.

  I won’t stop until I crush him, even if it means I go to jail—or to hell—for using black-hat tactics. It’s not as if they’d let me into heaven, anyway. I’ve already broken the arms and legs on Darcy’s voodoo doll.

  There’s no turning back after you do that sort of thing.

  The next step is to let the world know who he really is and hurt him in a variety of ways, big and small. And then, just before delivering the deathblow, let him know he’s paying for his sins.

  That’s why my first move is to show him my face and make sure he remembers it and associates it with unpleasantness. That way, when the shit hits the fan, he’ll know which creditor is collecting her debt.

  Pitbull breaks me out of my dream world. “Monsieur Darcy’s meeting is running late.”

  “That’s OK, I can—”

  “No,” she cuts me off. “There’s no point in waiting anymore. As soon as the meeting is over, he’ll head to the 9th arrondissement, where he’s expected at a private reception.”

  I stand up.

  She glances at my bare ring finger. “Mademoiselle, I can reschedule you for Friday, December twelfth. It’s two months away, but that’s the only—”

  “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” I say.

  I know exactly which reception Sebastian Darcy is going to tonight.

  Chapter Two

  Three months later

  “It might snow tonight.” Octave holds my coat while I wrap a scarf around my neck. “Will monsieur be taking his supper at home?”

  As always, I wince at “monsieur,” but I do my best not to show it.

  Grandpapa Bernard hired Octave before I was born. Roughly Papa’s age and a bear of a man, Octave has worked for my family for thirty-odd years, rising from valet to majordome. He’s seen Raphael, Noah, and me in all kinds of embarrassing situations young boys tend to get themselves into. I’ve asked him a thousand times to call me Sebastian.

  All in vain.

  Octave Rossi claims his respect for my old family name, my noble title, and my position in society is too strong for him to drop the “monsieur.”

  So be it.

  “Yes,” I say. “But I’ll come home late, so please tell Lynette to make something light. And don’t stay up for me.”

  He nods. “Oui, monsieur.”

  Chances are he’ll be up until I get home.

  Since I moved back into the town house after Papa’s passing, Octave has been helpful in a way no one, not even Maman—especially not Maman—has ever been. All the little things, from paying electricity bills and hiring help to undertaking necessary repairs and planning reception menus, are taken care of with remarkable efficiency.

  When he offered to assist me with my correspondence, I insisted on doubling his salary. My argument was that he’d be saving me the expense of a second PA for private matters.

  He caved in only after I threatened to move out and sell the house.

  I trust him more than anyone.

  “Morning, Sebastian! To the office?” my chauffeur, Greg, asks.

  He, at least, doesn’t have a problem calling me by my first name.

  “We’ll make a detour,” I say as I climb into the Toyota Prius. “I need to see someone first.”

  I give him the address, and he drives me to the Franprix on rue de la Chapelle in the 18th arrondissement. Greg parks the car, and I march into the supermarket, scanning the cashiers’ counters lined parallel to the shop windows.

  There she is!

  Diane Petit smiles at a customer as she hands her a bag of groceries. She’ll be finishing her shift in about ten minutes, according to the private eye I hired to locate and tail her. I’ll talk to her then.

  Right now, I pretend to study the selection of batteries and gift cards on display not far from her desk. What I’m really doing is furtively surveying the firebrand who smashed a cream cake in my face in front of a few dozen people last October. At the time, the only thing I registered about her through my surprise and anger was foxy.

  I’ve had ample opportunity to pour over her pretty face and eye-pleasing shape in the numerous close-ups the PI has supplied over the past few weeks. I’ve studied Diane in all kinds of situations and circumstances—at work with her customers, hanging out with her friends, and roaming the streets with her camera, immortalizing everyday scenes of Parisian life. She’s hot, all right, but there’s also something endearing about her, something unsophisticated and very un-Parisian.

  In spite of her extravagant outburst at Jeanne’s bash, Diane Petit seems to be an unpretentious small-town bumpkin through and through.

  I’ve learned a good deal about her since that memorable evening. I know she works part time at this supermarket, lives in a high-rise in the 14th, and hangs out with her foster sister Chloe, a coworker named Elorie, and a waitress named Manon.

  She enjoys photographing random things, going to the movies, eating chocolate, and drinking cappuccino.

  More importantly, I know why Diane did what she did that night at La Bohème.

  And I plan to use it to my advantage.

  Someone gives me a sharp prod in the back.

 

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