Page 25 of The Stranger

“I’m not sure I will.” Am I not sure I’ll get over it, or not sure I’ll go through with it? Damned if I know.

“You’ll manage,” she says, at the door now. She loops her fingers around the handle and slides a doe-eyed glance my way. “Because, the thing is, I might not have been wearing a wire or whatever, but I’m not just some girl you can push around. I have choices, resources, connections, and stuff.”

“How, exactly, does that not sound like blackmail?”

“It does a bit, doesn’t it?” This she says with a small smile as she twists the handle. “But at least it isn’t going to cost you anything but a little discomfort.” The door swings open and she takes a step before glancing back. “But try to make me leave, or fire Em, and I promise you, seeing your face in a gossip magazine will be the least of your problems.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. And you owe me a pair of knickers.”

And with that, she slams my office door shut.

8

PRIMROSE

What in the fairy-tale fuck—why did I have to mention my knickers?

My heart hammers in my chest as I keep my hand on the doorhandle, as though afraid he might follow me.

The hallway is blessedly cool, dark, and best of all, empty as I try to fit the puzzle pieces together. Out of all the men in Paris… I just don’t understand.

And how come he sounds as English as pinstripes and bowler hats?

At least he’s a widower. I mean, I’m sorry for his loss, but I’m happy to learn for my own peace of mind that he isn’t married. Even if he is a low-down dirty liar. Who gives the most amazing head. He’s also mean and kind of sadistic. I think I hate him.

Releasing the handle, I hurry through the house, hoping I’m heading in the right direction for the staircase. I need to find the room I was assigned earlier. My footsteps echo against the marble floors as I pass vast salons with soaring ceilings, and a grand piano gleaming beneath a heavy chandelier.

He’s not the only liar, I suppose. I do have a pretty good understanding of French. Not that he deserves to know. Not the way he’s behaved. That man has given me a galloping pulse and jelly legs twice in less than twenty-four hours. In very different circumstances, yes. But I’d be a big fat fibber if I said I didn’t think about last night as he’d loomed over me in his office while toying with my bikini strap.

He was trying to intimidate me, for sure.

Too bad for him I liked it—I mean, too bad for him I’m not easily scared.

Were the stairs to the left or to the right here?

I take a punt and find of the hallway as I slip through the door (which doesn’t look like a door at all) which leads to the servant’s staircase. Of course someone as egotistical as him would have a staircase for the help, I think as I hurry upward. He’s probably the type who never wants to set his eyes on the domestic helpers, that ice-cold, egotistical, arrogant, heavenly smelling, pussy-dominating, good for nothing… urgh!

Did I really use the word sexpert?

My bare feet angrily slap the steps as I climb the ugly staircase in a house that’s otherwise picture-book perfect in the Parisienne style. Cream colored stone and tall windows with wrought iron balconies. Ornate crown molding and ceiling roses, marble floors and turkey carpets. This family is old money, and it shows.

Upstairs, I glance over my shoulder, then right the wedgie that’s been annoying me since the pool. Bloody Lavender. She must’ve swapped out my one-piece for this stupid bikini. Not only is it so high-cut its wedgie inducing, but the puny triangles on string barely contain my boobs.

Sadly, I didn’t notice the swap until Sylvie pulled the stretchy red fabric out of my bag after insisting on showing me to my room and then helping me to unpack.

It’s how we’d ended up at the pool.

Cut to an hour later when her father’s eyes sliced hotly my way. I felt flames lick at my skin, and the pull of lust deep in my core. I mean, obviously, I’m an idiot, because he was quick to remind me that first impressions do indeed count.

By the time he’d practically frog-marched me to his office, that fiery feeling had turned from a bush fire (if you get what I mean) to a red-hot poker-prodding rage.

I felt as un-Primrose-like as I’ve ever felt. I usually swallow my anger, even when it feels so huge I think it might choke, but not today. Today I chose violence! Verbal violence, at least, because I don’t believe in causing actual hurt. Even if some people deserve it.

Honestly, he’s lucky he’s not wearing the Basquiat as a collar.

I press my hand to my mouth, laughter threatening to burst out of me like gunfire. God, it felt like an out-of-body-experience. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. The higher handed he got, the more incensed I became, and the more I wanted to goad him—and I did! But he deserved it for a dozen reasons. For last night. For the things he assumed about my bestie. For treating me like a pleb. And for marching me into his office like he’d caught me smuggling out the family silver in my bra! But most of all, he deserved it for pushing me out of that door.