Page 70 of The Stranger

“The Darroze 1924.” He whistles as he reaches down, grasping the bottle by its long neck. “That the bottle Marchand sent you? And you’re downing it like cheap liquor.”

I slide him a look that says careful. Then return to blowing circles out to the darkened mountain range, satisfied when the smoke blends with shadowed clouds.

Jacques sighs, the sound loud and long suffering, as he cracks the cap of his beer. He swallows, then makes a noise of satisfaction. “What do you want me to tell him?” he asks, lowering his long frame into the adjacent seat. “You know, when he calls next. Once or a dozen times. Your phone, your office line, my phone.”

“He likes the chase.” My words sound lazy. Soporific. I haven’t drunk that much, surely.

“You sure about that?”

“Very.”

“Because he sure has a hard-on to for you.”

“That’s not a compliment.” Given how well he seemed to be known at Ardeo, the club in Paris. A select clientele… titans of industry, European royals.

Networking, Marchand had tried to explain after setting his worried eyes on me. He’d been selling me a lie, telling me his hotel chain was a family legacy, built on loyalty and trust. The man even introduced me to his wife. I can forgive many things, but hypocrisy isn’t one of them.

Ridicule. I sit suddenly forward and stub out the cancer stick. It’s a habit I promised my son I would give up months ago after he suffered through a particularly gruesome health education lesson at school. And I did give it up. I have. Tonight is just a tiny bump in my seat from the wagon of abstinence. Not a fall from it.

I throw the rest of my drink back and reach for the bottle to top my glass. I should never have gone to the fucking club, because then I wouldn’t be in this predicament. In these predicaments—I’ve allowed problems to arise and fester in two areas in my life.

Nils Marchand and Primrose Whittington. One a thorn and one not quite a rose. By name, at least. Two parties enmeshed in my life and causing me problems. If I hadn’t been there…

Then Primrose might well have ended up one of his conquests.

Fuck.

I have never in my life lusted after an employee—and for good reason. I don’t need the drama, and I certainly don’t need to feed the press gossip. There is always someone watching, someone willing to sell me out.

But Primrose. In a certain light, she be perfect.

“I was speaking figuratively.” Jacques lowers himself into an adjacent chair. “But what’s confusing me is if you’re trying to give him the droop or make him take his dick elsewhere.”

“I wanted the company.” I drag my mind out of the delightful dilemma named Primrose. “I wanted to own it. Absorb it and all it stands for—wealth, luxury, the household name—and bring it under the du Beaumont aegis.”

“Gee, really?” He makes a disparaging click of teeth and tongue. “I mean, I thought that was the plan. And Marchand wants to sell it to you. He’s frothing at the mouth for you to make him a very rich man. So what’s with the slow-down? You trying to get it cheap?”

“I’m making him sweat.” Making him pay for an insult he doesn’t realize he’s made.

“For the hell of it?”

“I don’t like the man. I don’t like how he does business, and I detest that he seems to want to make me his friend.”

“You know what they say. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

My brow quirks. “You think I’m neglecting him?”

“I think you’ve given him a taste, and if you don’t follow through, he might drop trou elsewhere.”

“More penis analogies?”

A chuckle huffs out of him. “You said penis and anal in the same sentence. You, my friend, need to get laid. But not before you finish with Marchand. Smile, for fuck’s sake. You’re about to get what you want, making yourself richer in the process if I know you. And I do know you.”

But the aim is not more money, not anymore. I’m building an empire. Restoring the family name. Leaving my children’s grandchildren to want for nothing. And keeping myself entertained because idle hands are the devil’s playground, or so my father was wont to say. My thumb finds the pale band where my wedding ring once sat. One day, the skin will tan and the indent smooth. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

“So?”

“The plan remains the same.”