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God...
But that wasn’t the worst of it. It was the look on Bastien’s face that made her hands shake as she unfolded the paper.
What she could understand of the caption froze her blood.
Heidecker’s New Love. Is He the Cure for this Drug-Addicted Supermodel?
Skimming the article, she desperately tried to recognise enough words to understand what the article said. Her horror grew as she spotted Simone’s name repeatedly. Her breakfast surged upwards, making a bid for freedom.
She barely made it to the bathroom before she emptied her stomach’s contents. Trembling from head to toe, she wrenched at the tap, rinsed her mouth, then clutched the sink, eyes squeezed shut, struggling to breathe.
This was the absolute last thing she needed...
Standing there, propped against the sink, she didn’t realise the pounding wasn’t just in her head until she heard her name called out.
‘Open the door, Miss Duval.’
Heart leaping into her throat, she prised h
er fingers from the cold porcelain and approached the bathroom door.
She cracked it open. ‘What do you want, Bastien?’
He surged into the room. ‘What took you so long?’
A few smart answers rose to her lips but she smothered the more hysterical ones when she caught his frown. ‘What...?’
‘You look pale. Are you all right?’ He laid a hand against her forehead.
For several seconds she couldn’t speak. ‘I’m fine,’ she finally managed. ‘How did you get in here?’
‘This hotel belongs to me.’ He dropped his hand. ‘HH Geneva is one of several hotels owned by my bank.’
The HH Group—Heidecker Hotels—was renowned for its understated opulence, was yet another feather in the Heidecker cap...a fact she’d missed with her weariness last night.
‘It doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my room,’ she replied, cringing as she wondered whether he’d heard her retching.
‘I told you to be ready at nine—that was five minutes ago. When you didn’t answer your door I let myself in. Don’t fret. If I’d hoped to catch you naked I’d have turned up an hour ago as you took your shower.’
‘Careful, there, Bastien, or I’ll add Peeping Tom to your list of unsavoury characteristics.’
That earned her a mocking look as he returned to the sitting room and crossed to the open suite door. He didn’t slam it. Yet the decisive snick of the lock and a glimpse of what he held in his fist sent a shaft of pure, unadulterated dread through her.
He unfurled another newspaper. The front-page picture was the same as on hers, but the language was different.
‘Tell me what you know about this,’ he invited softly.
‘If you’re asking if I’ve seen the paper, yes—I have.’ Her eyes inadvertently slid to the breakfast table. Her heart sank as he followed her movement.
The temperature in the room dropped another degree. ‘Of course you have. Did you salivate over it before or after you had your breakfast?’
‘Excuse me?’
He ignored her outrage. ‘How much are the tabloids paying you for this?’
‘What? You’re insane if you think I had something to do with this!’
‘So you deny you had anything to do with this rubbish?’
