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My father acknowledged my desire to pursue my goal, then surprised me with an interview arranged by Luc. The administrative assistant position at Lola’s Coterie offers me the opportunity to learn the business side of fashion. Lola was trying to handle all aspects of her company, despite Luc’s advice to focus on the creative design side and let an assistant handle the day-to-day tasks. After a one-month trial period, I proved to be efficient, dependable, and clever when balancing the activities that didn’t need Lola’s constant or immediate attention. I moved from London to Paris and loved my new job from the start.
But I don’t see Luc as much as I would like. Sure, he comes to the atelier since he’s Lola’s mentor and Vice Chair, and I sit outside of her office right in his line of sight. However, he and I never share more than a few words. I want so much more.
It’s been seven years since their deaths. Enough time—in my opinion—to grieve. He’s still a handsome man, sexy and fit. Now, with gray mingled in his jet black hair for a distinguished appearance. At six feet, four inches with a clean-shaven face that highlights the cleft in his chin. He could pass for a movie star. Not to mention being a billionaire duke, the last of his noble line. Only fifty years old. The age men reach the peak of their sexual desirability. And boy do I desire Luc Montaigne, Duke of Blois. Or Le Renard Argenté as Lola and Leonie call him. He’s The Silver Fox for sure.
The Universe proffered a taste. I want the feast.
A shiver runs through me as I slip the Saint Laurent evening gown over the Lola’s Coterie bra and matching thong. My nipples tighten beneath the black silk. I bite my lip at the pulse in my pussy. No, the guys tonight won’t send a thrill through me the way the thought of Luc does.
But I’ll put on my best face—not the side-eye—since it’s the annual fundraising gala for Thomas Industries’ foundation. It supports the families of miners, injured or worse. An important part of our organization. We give back to the community for more than goodwill. It’s the right thing to do.
“Blair, are you even listening to me?”
I slip my arms into the long sleeves of the gown and gesture for my sister to zip me up.
“Of course, Jilli. I heard every single word, Mother Hen. I will smile and not scowl. Right?”
I spin around and smooth my hands down the beige stretch-jersey covering my slim hips. The ruched bodice and skirt separated by cutouts on the sides held together with an oversized rosette at my middle flatter my lithe, five-foot-seven-inch frame. As I slip into strappy stilettos, I wink at my sister.
She rolls her eyes and huffs.
“Sure, you did. And I am not a mother hen. Mom and I worry about you—”
She giggles at my arched eyebrow.
“Okay, fine. Maybe I have a tad bit of a mother hen in me,” she says, then pivots sweeping her curtain of chestnut brown hair over her shoulder. “Here, zip me.”
Many people confuse us as twins with our matching cerulean blue eyes, straight hair, and height. We take after our mother, Tilda. While Jasper resembles our father with ebony hair and tawny brown eyes.
“Mum is going to wonder if we coordinated our looks with your cropped top and my cutouts,” I muse as I zip Jillian’s top.
She’s stunning in the black velvet, long-sleeved piece with a crystal bib neckline and crystals trimmed on the hem. A good four inches of her toned belly shows. More sparklers cover the waist of the maxi skirt that skims the floor.
“Great minds think alike,” she says, tapping the side of her head.
I stack bracelets on my arms and pick up my chocolate brown crocodile clutch. Jillian slides into strappy stilettos and grabs her crystal minaud. A last glimpse in the trifold, full-length mirror, and we leave the dressing room of her Knightsbridge penthouse flat.
My mobile rings as we step off the private lift into the lobby.
“Hi, Jasper. We’re headed your way,” I answer before he can ask our whereabouts.
“Finally. I’ve only been sitting in the limo for fifteen minutes,” he responds. “But hey, don’t rush on my account. Take more time.”
I giggle and ring off.
“Jasper?”
“Of course.”
“And I’m the mother hen?”
We giggle as the doorman opens one of the ornate glass and wrought-iron double doors. Jasper’s driver nods when he sees us and opens the limo’s door. Jasper glances at his watch pointedly, then cocks an eyebrow.
“Fortunately, the venue isn’t far. We wouldn’t want to arrive late to our own event, now, would we?”
Jillian squawks and flaps her bent elbows like a chicken. Her cerulean blue eyes gleam with mirth in the interior lights. Jasper huffs and picks up his mobile. I laugh as he ignores her antics.
Soon enough, we arrive and walk the red carpet lined with paparazzi and the media. My siblings and I pose for the cameras and answer questions about the charity. Since we volunteer, we’re well versed in its happenings.
