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Jeremiah took those notes as he gave a nod. “I agree.”
“Nothing can compromise our schedule. We’ve already had a major setback.”
“Of course.”
My phone rang, and it was Hugo—again. I finally answered because I was tired of him trying to reach me. “In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m busy. Don’t bother me unless it’s—”
“Urgent. Yes, I know. But this is urgent, Mr. Beaufort.”
“What’s happened?”
“Grave is on the property.”
I sucked in a deep breath and felt my tendons ache when my hand made a fist. “Why hasn’t he been shot?”
“Because you told us not to, Mr. Beaufort.”
My clenched fist released, and I felt another dose of rage.
“Unless your orders have changed.”
I breathed into the phone.
“Mr. Beaufort?”
“What does he want?”
“Camille. I’ve informed him she’s not here, but he doesn’t believe me.”
“Has he threatened you?”
“No. He’s unarmed.”
“Where is he now?”
“Standing right in front of me.”
The fucking audacity. “Put him on the phone.”
“Yes, Mr. Beaufort.” The phone changed hands.
His smirk was so loud I could hear it in every word. “I’m going to find her. And I’m going to fuck her in your bed.”
Thank fucking god Camille had insisted on coming with me. “She’s not there.”
“I’ll search every room in this house until I find her.”
“She’s. Not. There.”
Grave turned silent, his disappointment heavier than his previous smirk.
“I don’t go anywhere without her. So if you want her, you’ll have to come directly through me next time. Now, leave my butler alone and get the fuck off my property, or I’ll have my men fire.” I hung up and threw my phone at the wall so hard the screen shattered and pieces scattered. I paced, my hand rubbing over my beard, raging behind my clenched teeth.
At that moment, Camille appeared in the open doorway and looked at me. She looked at the broken phone then at me again. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Then she made the right choice and walked off.
I turned to Jeremiah. “Call Hugo. Tell him he’s not to mention any of this to Camille.”
Camille and I didn’t exchange more than a few words until we returned to France. She must have felt my seething anger every time she was in my company and was smart enough to let me boil in silence.
When we returned to my Cap-Ferrat residence, it looked exactly as it had before. An assault on my property was invisible to everyone except those who knew about it. I thought I knew Grave better than Camille, but she’d proven otherwise.
When I came face-to-face with Hugo, we exchanged a long look, both thinking about the same transgression.
He was the first one to speak. “I hope you enjoyed your trip, Mr. Beaufort.”
I ignored him and took the stairs.
“Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes.”
I kept going.
When I entered my bedroom, I took a shower to wash off the plane and then headed back downstairs. Camille was already seated under the umbrella on the deck near the pool. She didn’t look like she’d sat on a plane for several hours. Whether she was in her leggings with a loose shirt and no makeup or in full cocktail attire, she looked just as refined.
I was in my sweatpants and nothing else, letting the sun hit my bare skin.
She took a drink of her iced tea then studied my face, trying to determine whether it was safe to speak yet.
I would be angry for a very long time, but the worst had passed—for the moment.
“I missed you.”
I was already still before she spoke, but I felt my body tighten just a fraction more. The confession was totally unexpected, and the sincerity in her voice was even more unexpected. Stoic, I said nothing.
She didn’t seem hurt by my rejection. She drank her tea again.
“I’m here now.”
“I prefer you when you aren’t angry.”
“I’m always angry.”
“Then less angry…”
Hugo brought the plates of food and departed. Salad wraps with a side of fruit. The garden was in full bloom, and the birds sang from their homes in the trees. It was quiet otherwise, an oasis from the outside world.
“Did you…resolve everything?”
No. I’d entered a war. “Yes.”
“Your home is nice.”
I ate my food, enjoying my scotch the way she enjoyed her iced tea. Most of the meal was spent in silence, but the good kind, the kind that didn’t feel awkward without conversation. “Have you ever fallen for a client?”
The question brought her to a standstill. She was about to take a bite of the salad wrap in her hand when she hesitated. “I thought you didn’t want me to talk about other men.”
“Unless I directly ask you about it.”
She put down the wrap, as if her answer was more than just a simple no. “I’ve never loved any of my clients.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
She stared.
“Have you grown attached? Had feelings? Ever felt like more than just a job?”
