“Hey, little men,” Samira said late the next morning. “It’s okay. You can come on over. I’m on hold.”

She wedged her phone between her ear and shoulder and waved over the eight-year-old twins who’d been eyeballing her while hovering on the periphery of her table. Having finished her Saturday morning errands already, she sat in one of the quieter corners of bustling Java Nectar, the local coffeehouse and social hub on Journey’s End’s main street, DeGroot Avenue, with her laptop open. Her plan? To pay her bills and catch up on some of her work e-mails before Melody joined her for lunch in a bit, then her Krav Maga class. She’d just called customer service to double-check her credit card balance and was now on hold.

“What’s up, Ms. Samira?” asked Noah Lowe as he carefully set her tiny pitcher of cream on the table. Brown-skinned with short black hair and glasses, today he wore a Star Trek T-shirt that said I’m Not Worried About the Kobayashi Maru and a pair of worn jeans that showed a good inch or more of his skinny ankles in white socks.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones working today,” Jonah Lowe said glumly, handing her a napkin and spoon for her pot of tea, which a server had already delivered a minute ago. His Star Trek T-shirt said This Is Your Future Captain Speaking. He pointed to her briefcase and paperwork. “That looks like hard stuff.”

“What’s wrong, guys?” She tried to tune out the elevator hold music blaring in her ear. “You wanted to sleep late today?”

“Yeah,” Noah said. “Cause our mom and James are still on their honeymoon.”

“And they didn’t take us,” Jonah added, his scowl deepening.

“We figured if they’re taking two weeks off from work, we shouldn’t have to work, either,” Noah said. “But Mom said we don’t get our allowance if we don’t work, so we had to show up.”

“Wow,” Samira said, trying not to grin. Miranda, their mother and Java Nectar’s owner, ran a tight ship. “That’s tough.”

“I know!” Jonah brightened with sudden inspiration. “Do you think we could sue her, or something? For child labor?”

Samira covered her twitching mouth with her hand and tried to look grave. “I’m not sure about that. Do you think it’s good for a family if the boys go around suing their mother?”

“Well, she’s breaking the law!” Noah said, sweeping his arms wide in his outrage. “How can we keep working like this? This can’t be good for little kids!”

“How long are you working today?” Samira asked.

“A whole hour!” Jonah said.

Somehow Samira managed to choke back her laughter. “Yeah, I don’t really think that’s a sue-able offense, guys. Sorry.”

But the boys looked undeterred as they turned to go. Noah hooked his arm around Jonah’s shoulder and they put their heads together. “I think that was a good idea, man. Do you think we’ve saved enough to hire a lawyer?”

“I don’t know. Let’s look at our bank statements!”

They raced away just as the music in Samira’s ear abruptly cut off and a female voice came back on the line. “I double-checked, Ms. Palmer. You have a zero balance.”

“But I haven’t paid the bill,” Samira said, flabbergasted.

“We received an online money transfer for the full amount this morning,” the woman said. “I can send you an e-mail confirmation, if you’d like?”

“Yeah, because I think there’s been some mistake—oh, my God.” Samira smacked her forehead as a logical explanation hit her. “I think my parents must have paid my bill.”

“Your parents?”

“Yeah. My wedding got canceled at the last minute, and they wanted to pay for all the nonrefundable charges, but I told them not to do that. Looks like they didn’t listen. I hope they didn’t tap into their retirement accounts for this. Can you do me a favor? What’s the name of the bank the payment came from?”

“Let me see… Here it is. It’s got a French name I can’t pronounce, and it’s on the Boulevard Saint-Germain in Paris. You’ll see it in the e-mail.”

Samira froze, her heart threatening to pound out of her chest. It couldn’t be.

“A…French bank, did you say?”

“Yes, ma’am. Did you need anything else from me today?”

“Just the e-mail,” Samira said, feeling dazed. “Thanks. Bye.”

She hung up just as Melody crept up to the table with her shoulders hunched and her head ducked, looking like the guilty party that she was.

Samira fired right up at the sight of her. Last night’s interlude with Baptiste had left her more unsettled than ever—hard to keep a guy at arm’s length when you’d already slept with him, spent half the night on the phone with him and practically had phone sex with him—and Melody was the so-called friend who’d handed Samira over to him.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kick your ass right now, Benedict Freaking Arnold,” Samira said.

“You know what Buddha said.” Melody flashed her cheesiest grin. “‘Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.’”

“Yeah? Well, false friends are worse than bitter enemies. Scottish proverb.”

“Oh, get over it,” Melody snapped, abandoning her I’m so ashamed routine in favor of open defiance as she slid into her chair and put her bag down. “I liked him. I think he’s good for you. Let’s move on.”

“Luckily for you, I’ve got bigger fish to fry than dealing with your treacherous betrayal,” Samira said. “You’re not going to believe what I just found out.”

“Yeah, you’re not going to believe what I just found out, either.”

Samira paused, not caring for the grim tone. Didn’t she already have enough on her plate at the moment without additional drama from Melody?

“What is it?”

“You go first,” Melody said.

“Fine. I just got off the phone with my credit card company. I think Baptiste paid my bill.”

“What? How much?”

“All of it!”

Melody’s lower jaw popped open, but she recovered quickly. “And he didn’t mention it to you?”

“No.”

“Why would he do that?”

“No idea.”

“How did he do it?”

“I don’t know.” Samira thought back, straining her memory banks. “Well, I mean, I lost my statement the night of the party. I had it in my little clutch. I remember that much. But it disappeared. That’s why I had to call just now to find out my exact balance.”

Melody looked aghast. “You’re not suggesting that Baptiste rummaged through your purse—?”

Samira tried that on for size and discovered she couldn’t make it work. Maybe she was criminally naive or delusional, but she just couldn’t picture Baptiste as a snoop. Some people did stuff like that out of jealousy or possessiveness, but Baptiste?

“No,” she said firmly as a sudden memory hit her. “Hang on. I did drop my purse when I was in his hotel room. I don’t know, maybe he found the statement…?”

Melody leaned in, her eyes aglow with excitement. “Well, what’re you going to do about your new sugar daddy?”

Samira gasped. “You think I should keep the money?”

Melody shrugged. “He wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t have the money to spare.”

“Maybe he thinks it’s a loan…?”

“Doubtful,” Melody said firmly, pursing her lips.

She sounded dead certain, which sparked Samira’s curiosity. “What makes you so sure? And why the face?”

Melody drummed her fingers on the table and stared at her, pausing long enough to allow a lump of dread to grow in Samira’s belly. “Have you, ah, looked him up online yet?”

“No…?”

Disbelieving snort from Melody. “What is this? Nineteen-eighty? What kind of woman sleeps with a man and doesn’t look him up?”

“I haven’t had a chance yet. I planned to a little later.”

“Just don’t kill the messenger, okay? I hate to be the bearer of this news, but it seems especially relevant now.”

Samira’s dread flared like a sunspot. “Oh, God. Please do not tell me Baptiste is gay, too.”

“Oh, no, honey,” Melody said quickly, waving a hand. “Nothing like that.”

Samira all but collapsed with relief. “Well, what is it? Stop beating around the bush.”

Without a word, Melody got out her phone, pulled something up and handed it over. “Just scroll through.”

Samira took a deep breath and looked down at the screen, where she was immediately confronted with a nightmare list of paparazzi snaps and tabloid headlines in both French and English.

Her heart sank.

There was a younger Baptiste with shorter hair and glazed eyes, with his arms slung around the shoulders of a couple of his buddies as they half-dragged him out of some club. There was Baptiste looking glamorous as he posed with some willowy, eight-foot-tall blond supermodel outside a movie premier in Cannes. Oh, and this one was fun: Baptiste lounging on a yacht with a bare-breasted woman draped on each side.

Samira paused to rub her aching chest, telling herself she would not feel this kind of crashing disappointment over a guy she just met and barely knew. It wasn’t like he’d ever promised her anything, no matter how earnest he always seemed. It wasn’t like they were soul mates. Baptiste had had a life before he met her. She knew that. Baptiste loved women. Hell, he’d told her that.

So why was she so upset to discover that he was exactly the type of man she’d suspected him to be? Because he was fascinating, smart, handsome, charming, amazing in bed and had whispered a few pretty words in her ear?

You know better than that, Samira.

You didn’t need him anyway, girl. You don’t need the drama.

At least there were no mug shots, she thought glumly, although maybe Melody’s research hadn’t been as thorough as it needed to be.

Ah, but there were tabloid headlines, though. Plenty of headlines. Why not check those out?

My Wild Night With The Partying Playboy, read one.

Mercier Heir Struggles To Protect Billion Dollar Fortune, said another.

The Three-Month Man: How Baptiste Mercier Kept Me And Left Me was the pièce de résistance.

Samira made it through a few lines of that last story before she couldn’t take it anymore. Disgusted and maxed out on all things Baptiste for the day, Samira clicked the phone off and handed it back to Melody without a word.

“So…what’re you going to do?” Melody asked delicately.

“Hell if I know,” Samira said, fiddling with the cream pitcher.

Melody seemed surprised. “Really? I thought you’d use this as the final nail in his coffin to never see him again. Since you already think he’s unsuitable and all.”

“That’s what a smart woman would do, yeah.”

“I just…” Melody floundered, shaking her head and frowning thoughtfully.

Samira looked up. “Just what?”

“I just…there’s something about him, honey. Something about the way he looked at you. It’s crazy intense.”

“It’s those damn green eyes,” Samira said, crossing her arms.

“No, it’s not.”

“Well, then, it’s just lust, dummy. You should know that. It’s not your first rodeo.”

“I’m not sure. Whatever it is, Terrance damn sure never looked at you that way.” Melody sighed, her expression turning dreamy. “I think you should give Baptiste a chance. See how this plays out a little bit. What’ve you got to lose?”

“Pride? Dignity? Self-respect?”

Melody lost the dewy-eyed look and zeroed in on Samira’s face with the kind of keen interest that never boded well for Samira. “What’s really going on here?”

“Nothing,” Samira said quickly. “Let’s order—”

“Spit it out, Sam. Now.”

Samira opened her mouth, struggling to put it into words. “You’re going to think I’m insane.”

Melody flapped a hand. “Oh, don’t worry. I often think poorly of you.”

They both laughed, breaking most of the tension.

Samira rested her elbows on the table, gathered her thoughts and chose her words carefully. “I know I just met him. I barely know anything about him. But I’ve had more fun in the ten minutes I’ve spent with Baptiste than I had the whole time I was with Terrance. Hotter sex. More of a connection.”

Melody’s eyes widened. “And…?”

A shadow loomed over their table, startling them.

“And she’s afraid she’ll fall for me if she lets her guard down,” Baptiste said, his unsmiling gaze fixed on Samira’s face.