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I do as I’m told, coughing a little anyway. “My gosh, it smells like socks on fire.”
“Oil and tar.” He laughs. “Neither is supposed to be consumed by the human body.”
“You’re a bad influence.” I side-eye him, holding the cigar away from my face. I’m done. I came, I saw, I coughed out a lung. No more.
Arsène leans forward, catching my gaze. “I wish someone had corrupted you long ago, and thoroughly enough for you to sniff out a weasel like Paul Ashcroft and never give him a chance. I could’ve spared you a lot of heartache, you know. If I’d met you first.”
“You were with Grace.”
“On and off.” He hitches a shoulder up. I’m confused as to why we’re talking about a hypothetical scenario where we could’ve dated. “Warning you off Wall Street wolves would’ve saved you from that asshole.”
“No one could’ve known.” I put the cigar out in an ashtray.
“Oh, I could.” He sits back. “Back in Italy, when I roasted you publicly and he turned a blind eye.”
“Well, what does that make you?” I flash my teeth angrily. “If not an even bigger asshole than Paul.”
He nods, unperturbed. “True, but my fiancée had known that about me all along. She never needed a prince. Only an interesting enemy to pass the time with.”
Whenever I think about these two’s relationship, I want to cry. There seemed to be so much hostility and sadness between them. Then I remind myself I shouldn’t pass judgment. At least Arsène and Grace knew one another for what they truly were. I never got to know the man who shared an apartment, a life, a bed with me.
After we’re done, we pour ourselves out into the night. I start walking in my apartment’s direction, and he follows. Our time is coming to an end, and I’m both relieved and disappointed. I’m not sure how I feel about this man. One moment, I find his presence comforting and uplifting. The other, I want to stab him in the neck.
“Are you really going to sell your family’s theater?” I ask as we make our way down the street.
“Yes.”
I wrap my arms around myself, feeling the night chill. “Good. Maybe the next owner will actually put some effort into it. Fix all the things that need to be fixed.”
“Don’t count on it.” He tsks. “No offense, but the place is a real money pit. Now, how about we get back to the matter at hand. Our transaction. More specifically—Paul’s office.” He stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, making me come to a halt too. We stand in front of one another. His face is grave, for the first time in a long time. I find myself wanting to smooth the creases between his eyebrows.
“I want you to let me inside it.”
“Is that why you let me into Grace’s apartment?”
Even though we’re not friends, I find it disappointing that everything he does to me, for me, with me, is always as a result of his obsession with Grace.
“Yes,” he says honestly. “And I’ve no issue with you coming to my apartment and going through it. Although, I should warn you, there are cameras everywhere in my building, and the chances Paul had ever been there are akin to my spontaneously giving birth to an eel.”
“I can’t let you into his office. That would be a breach of Paul’s trust in me,” I say slowly. “Even though he was a certified dirtbag, I hold myself to a higher standard.”
“But don’t you want to know?” His eyes twinkle mischievously.
“Know what?”
“What other cards I hold up my sleeve. I still have more info about him,” he coaxes. “So much more for you to explore, to learn, to hate.”
“I want to see the file first,” I say. “From the private investigator.”
“Knock yourself out.” He chuckles.
“And there’s a ground rule I wanna lay out right here and now, before we continue this journey toward detonating our loved ones’ privacy and our loyalties to them.”
“Lay it on me, Bumpkin.”
I bite down on my lower lip. “Never, ever kiss me again.”
There’s a beat of silence before he throws his head back and laughs blithely.
“I give you my word. I’ll keep my lips—and other organs—to myself.”
“It wasn’t so easy for you to do that at the gala.” I resume my walk, trying to keep the insulted bite out of my voice. He falls into my step, letting out a sexy, throaty laugh.
“Yes, well, as established, I was very drunk and very lonely. Not a good combination, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“Spare me your excuses. Just never touch me again.”
“Why?” he asks, genuinely interested. “Forgive my honesty—not many people use it these days—but it’s not like you betrayed Paul. He is currently six feet under, in an advanced stage of decomposition—”
“Arsène!” I roar, stopping in place again.
