Chapter Nine
Adrien cracked open an eyelid. Sunlight poured through gauzy fabric from the window nearby, framing the broken dresser as though an art feature at a museum. He shifted and felt empty space beside him. Turning over, Clara was gone. Light tapping sounded from beyond the worn tapestry dividing the apartment.
He swallowed, tongue finding a sour taste in his mouth. They’d whiled away the night giving and receiving orgasms, so much that they never even made it beyond her bed. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d had such an explosive sexual chemistry, not to mention all the fun and laughter that accompanied their sex.
He groaned as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. After so much physical exertion, the extra sleep was necessary.
Pulling on his boxer briefs, he pushed past the tapestry. Clara sat cross-legged on the couch in the middle of the room, bent over her laptop. She looked up at him, smiling.
“Morning, champ.” She shut the laptop, placing it aside.
“Good morning.” He bit back a yawn. “Is it still morning?”
“Got about another hour left.” She patted the couch beside her. “Did you sleep well?”
“Surprisingly. I normally don’t sleep well in new places.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” She tucked her knees into her chest as he sat on the couch. The springs creaked beneath him.
“How long have you been up?” He draped his arm along the back of the couch, dragging his fingertips along the exposed part of her neck. Goose bumps erupted in their wake.
“A couple hours.” She shrugged, yawning. “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to get started on the hunt.”
“You’re that eager to marry me off.” His eyes wandered along the curve of her neck, over the lines of her jaw. She cast him a wry glance.
“Well, it’s my job now. I have to earn my paycheck.”
“You never told me how much it will be.”
“Whatever you think is adequate.” She fingered a stray fiber on the couch.
“Is this how you’re going to negotiate pay raises when you start working at the academy?” He gave her a wry smile. “Come on. What are your services worth? I’m a venture capitalist. Convince me to part with my money.”
She bit back a grin, color flushing her cheeks. “Fine.” She took a deep breath, studying the ceiling for a moment. “I promise to find a consistent group of potential wives on a weekly basis. At least 4 blind dates per week, ranked on categories such as profession, awards and recognition, attractiveness, etc.”
“Go on.”
“Four new women each week, for a period of four weeks. Then we can extend the period, if needed. I’ll arrange everything—I’ll set up the dates, the places, the reservations, all of it. I’ll send you the information as I arrange it, based around your schedule once you tell me what times are generally good for you throughout the week.”
“Okay. Price?”
She bit her lip as she studied the ceiling again. “Five to seven hours a day…maybe up to seven days a week…I’d say my base price is fifteen hundred dollars per week.”
He nodded, impressed by how she’d stepped up to bat. “Very good. You lowballed yourself, though. Always give a higher price and negotiate downward. Don’t start with the minimum that you’ll accept. I’ll give you twenty-five hundred a week.”
Her eyes shot open. “Are you serious?”
“Of course.” He pinched her arm. “Now let’s have breakfast somewhere.”
“That’s like, fifty dollars an hour.”
“I know.” He stood, stretching. “This is an important task. I’ll give you a bonus for finding the right match, too.”
She nodded, reaching for her laptop. “That sounds appropriate. I like that.”
He grinned, sauntering toward the bedroom. “Good. Think of a new place for us to eat this morning. I want something American.”
Adrien grabbed his phone from the nightstand before he made his way to the bathroom. New messages awaited him, mundane updates from the security detail and work colleagues. A couple missed calls greeted him, all with the Luxembourg area code. He sighed, tossing the phone on the bed. Turning to leave for the bathroom, the phone vibrated against the rumpled comforter.
Luxembourg. Calling again. He gritted his teeth, debating on ignoring it once more. If there were this many repeated calls, it was something serious. His parents almost never called his personal phone anymore. He snatched it up, answering before he could think twice.
“Hallo?”
“Adrien.” His father’s rich tenor rumbled jovially from halfway across the world. The good mood was another red flag. “Comment allez-vous?”
“Trѐs bien.” He paused, unsure where to begin. “Why have you called so many times?”
“La bonne nouvelle.” The good news. His stomach sank. “Your wedding date has been chosen. The plans have been made. You will marry the Archduchess Francesca in five weeks.”
“I’m not marrying Francesca.” Adrien knew fighting it was futile, but he couldn’t just swallow the news without hiccupping a bit. “I refuse.”
“You can’t refuse and you know it. Your family will be there, with or without your presence, to celebrate your hand in marriage with the archduchess. Contact your mother for further plans and arrangements. We expect to see your shining face in five weeks.”
His stomach knotted. The time limit was real now. “I want nothing to do with her, or with continuing the monarchy.”
“That doesn’t matter now.” His father’s voice grew gruff. “Your opinion is the least of our concerns. Good day, Adrien.”
The connection went dead and Adrien squeezed the phone, the bad news leaving a sick taste in his mouth. The arrangement with Clara couldn’t have come at a better time. He just hoped that she could deliver.
He stormed into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. Five weeks to either find a wife or resign himself to a nationalistic destiny that felt foreign and vicelike. Five weeks to enjoy the last dregs of freedom with Clara, however he could, before his life took a turn for the strange and restricted.
Emerging from the bathroom, Clara watched him curiously. “Who called?”
“My father.” He locked his hands behind his head, pacing the far wall in front of the window.
“Your French is sexy.”
He smirked. “Thanks. Did you understand any of it?”
“I heard the name Francesca, I think. Was that in there?”
“It was.” He grimaced, pausing to observe the muted commotion of the street below. Pedestrians paused around a cart of fresh fruit. Shady types lurked around parked cars, glancing up and down the street. “A wedding date has been set.”
There was a long pause. He turned to face her.
“How much time do you have left?” Her voice came out small.
“Five weeks.” He joined her on the couch, sighing as he sat down. “We’ll have to work fast.”
She nodded, lazily tracing the keys of her keyboard. “I have a couple leads already. Hopefully I’ll have you set up for some dates in a few days.”
“Great.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose, sensing a stress headache arriving. “I can’t wait to meet the future Mrs. LaCroix.”