Page 166 of The Stranger

I wriggle under his questing hands and feed my fingers through his. “She says you’ve met.” I chance a look at his expression. Barely an eyebrow raise. “At Art Basel,” I add, sort of wishing I hadn’t said anything at all. “She owns a gallery in Shoreditch. Maybe you’ve been? Whit & With?”

He gives a tiny shake of his head. “I don’t think I remember your sister.”

I doubt he’s been anywhere near her gallery, not with his expensive tastes, though I try to ignore the satisfaction I feel that he might not find Lavender memorable. “You’d remember her if you had met. Lavender leaves a lasting impression.” A bit like a hand put a cheek at high speed.

“Like her sister.” His lips brush my hair. It’s a good thing I’m lying down, or I might’ve melted off the bed. “So you’ve spoken to your sister about me?” There’s a note of teasing in his tone.

“Just in vague terms. She knows Emmy, and I suppose she must know she works for you.”

“Emmy never mentioned to you who she worked for?”

My shoulders lift higher up the bed. “Probably,” I admit with a slight twist to my lips. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. I didn’t know who La Billionaire Bleu is.”

He groans at the tabloids’ moniker and drops his head to my shoulder. But then his head comes up fast and his gaze sharpens. “So that’s the name I see burning behind your lips sometimes.”

“What?” The word hits the air with such amusement.

“Admit it.”

“Blue-eyed billionaire?” I scoff. “That’s a pretty poor insult.”

“So you insult me?” he demands, delighted.

“Everyone has names for their boss!” I exclaim, laughter coloring my excuse.

“What did you call me?”

“None of your business.” Heat floods my face as I try to roll away, though Luc catches me, hauling me closer with his arms and his legs.

“Primevère,” he growls.

“Absolutely not!”

“Confess!” He pokes me in my ribs.

“Oi! The only thing I confess is I only use it when you deserve it.”

“So you insult me!” he exclaims to the tune of ah-ha!

“You bring it on yourself with your big⁠—”

“I thought you like my big…” he purrs as he prods me again. Not with his finger this time.

“—brooding presence,” I end. “And your annoying ways.”

“What is it, this insult you have just for me?” His touch skates down my arm.

“I’m not tell—” My denials halt as he tickles my ribs. “Stop that!” I exclaim, pushing at his arm.

“Tell me.”

“Never!” I turn to jelly as he tickles and tickles me again.

“You will confess.”

“Monsieur… monsieur…” I’m laughing so hard, thrashing this way and that to the point I can barely get the words out.

“Monsieur what, Primrose? Monsieur I’m sorry? Monsieur let me make it up to you?”