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I want to ask her everything, but I don’t know how much time we have. I’m not sure he’ll appreciate me prying.
Still, I need to know.
I clear my throat.
“Excusez-moi,” I whisper.
“Mmm?”
I continue in French to save time. “Do you happen to know what Monsieur Gerard does for work?”
“But of course,” she replies tightly. “Monsieur owns several reputable establishments in various locales in Corsica. In Paris, he’s a consultant and investor and one of the most well-respected men of his rank.”
That’s not the answer I’m looking for, but it’s clear she isn’t the one to give it to me.
Fabien turns our way.
“Thanks,” I whisper, even though she was literally zero help to me.
“Anytime.”
Fabien walks over. “Our plane will be ready in ten minutes, but is a good distance away, so you get your walk outside after all. Ready to go?”
“Of course.” I force a smile and take his outstretched hand.
The flight to Paris takes hardly any time at all. Soon, we’re landing. I adore the Charles de Gaulle airport, with its duty-free shops and excellent restaurants. There’s even an arcade with vintage games that take me back to my childhood, which is a bit more my speed than the luxury massage options. We don’t stay long, though, of course. Shortly after disembarking, as his staff grabs our luggage, we head to the waiting car.
“Welcome back to Paris,” Fabien says.
I look around me as wide-eyed as a girl. I try to take it all in, but it’s too much. The sights, the sounds, the gorgeous language and culture. The air smells heavily of warmed bread and daffodils. I want to close my eyes and simply breathe.
“It’s been a while,” I whisper. “Paris, how I’ve missed you.”
Fabien’s arm snakes around my waist. “Paris missed you, too.”
I smile.
“We’re only a few blocks from Maman’s, so we can walk if you’d like. You said you enjoy walking on nice, sunny days.”
“I definitely do. And it would be a gorgeous walk, but I have a question for you first.” My heart rate speeds. I swallow hard and don’t meet his eyes. I need to know this if I’m going to make any progress in my pursuit. I need to know more if I’m going to survive.
“Yes?”
“Can you tell me exactly what it is you do for work? I’m curious, because I’m not sure why anyone would ever want to intentionally sabotage your plane.”
“I own multiple establishments in Corsica. In Paris, I’m a consultant and investor.”
The party line, then. It matches what the flight attendant told me almost word for word.
Fair enough.
There’s more to it, and I know that, but do I really care? We met at a brothel. This is a job. It might feel like a relationship, and I may enjoy certain parts of it. I haven’t forgotten what he did on that plane. Okay, I’ll enjoy lots of parts of it. But this is still a job—no more, no less. I’ll do what I have to, just like I do at La Maison. I’ll earn my money and move on.
We stroll along the street. Late afternoon in spring in Paris is absolutely stunning. Parisians love a leisurely meal, a good cup of coffee, delicious food, and a stroll along the Seine. Couples walk hand in hand, push strollers, and ride bikes. If anyone were to look at us, they’d mistake us for one of them, a happy couple taking a leisurely walk together. If I cared about such things, it would feel like a lie.
A part of me wants to tell him what the girls warned me about. I want him to refute it. I want him to tell me it isn't true, he isn't some psychotic maniac that's going to become so enamored with me that he can't let me go. But I feel as if I am betraying my friends if I tell him anything they said. And also, maybe a small part of me doesn't want to know the truth.
I tell myself they don't know him. I tell myself they are afraid because of who they are, because they have had to protect themselves from becoming vulnerable for so long that they no longer trust anyone. Maybe he's too intense for them.
"Tonight, my cousins will have a dinner to practice the wedding."
"Oh. We call this a rehearsal dinner in America. Is that not the tradition here?"
"Not usually, that's a very American thing to do. But the bride is American, so that would explain it. "
The bride’s American. Will I know her? I don't know why I think such a thing. Given the hundreds of millions of people who live in America, the chances that I know her are slim.
But I don't want his family to know who I really am. I don't want anyone to know where we met.
We come to a stop in front of a gate that leads to a stunning garden. I know before he tells me that we’re here, we've arrived at his family home.
