It’s three days before Christmas, and Lily has a cold.

She’s all stuffed up, but the bright side of her congested nose—at least from my perspective—is that when she closes her eyes after my lullaby, I know for sure she’s asleep.

Because she snores.

And that’s my cue to tiptoe out of her room.

It’s been three months since Raphael knocked on my door and everything accelerated.

In October, Gaspard posted the video on the Internet and emailed it to Màma’s official address despite Raphael’s vigorous warnings.

She deleted the mail without opening.

As for the World Wide Web, I can only hope my sex tape will drown in the noise until we’ve forced Gaspard to withdraw it. Raphael has sued him on my behalf. The case is still pending, but it’s clear we’ll win. First, because what Gaspard did was against the law. Second, because Raphael hired two hotshot attorneys while Gaspard was unable to afford any.

For once, there’s fairness in the unfairness of life.

In November, I defended my thesis and earned the right to be called “doctor of philosophy.”

Hello, everyone, I’m Mia Stoll, PhD.

In the days that followed, I landed the maître de conférences job.

Two weeks ago, Lily and I moved in with Raphael. Before we did that, he’d had to make a few… er, a gazillion adjustments to his lifestyle, as well as to his open-concept loft.

He says it was no trouble at all.

I have my doubts, but I like to think he says that because having us here makes him forget the inconveniences.

He and Genevieve had a falling out shortly after the weekend on Ninossos. He won’t give me the details, but I suspect she trashed me again and he decided he’d had enough. Three days after Lily and I moved to Raphael’s place, Genevieve’s daddy bought her an apartment in Hollywood, where she’ll try her luck as a producer for one of the studios.

I would’ve given her a “free tip” to specialize in evil witch biopics if we were on speaking terms.

Quietly, I enter the living room and head to the couch where Raphael sits, reading.

I’m about to confess that he’s Lily’s dad.

Actually, “confirm” would be a better word because I’m sure he knows. We’ve never talked about it, but some time ago I stopped lying about her age, and he took to calling her “my little flammkuche.”

He must know.

“Of course I do,” he says after I fess up. “But I wanted to hear it from you, once you were ready.”

“Thank you for your patience.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Actually, I didn’t mind your silence so much. It allowed me to get used to the idea and readjust my priorities.”

I smile. “How long have you known?”

“From the moment I laid eyes on her.”

I frown in disbelief.

“Let me show you something,” he says, heading to his desk.

I follow him. Raphael pulls a photo out of the top drawer. It’s Lily, smiling her adorable double-dimpled smile. Except something is off…

“Her dress,” I say, pointing at the picture. “Lily doesn’t have a dress like that.”

He smiles. “This isn’t Lily. This is my mom when she was about the same age.”

A few moments later, I realize my mouth is gaping. I shut it.

Still smiling, he sets the picture on his desk and gathers me to him.

I wrap my arms around his waist and breathe him in.

He ruffles my hair. “You know, I’ve gotten so used to your pixie cut I actually prefer you with less hair on your head now.”

“Good,” I say.

His other hand cups me between my legs. “And with a full bush here.”

I snort against his chest.

Less than a minute later, we’re half-naked, my ass on the edge of his desk and him buried to the hilt inside me.

“Don’t hold back,” I say, meeting his measured thrusts. “I want it hard and fast tonight.”

“Yes, doctor.”

A few minutes later, we clutch each other, spent.

He kisses my forehead. “Marry me?”

I gasp.

Raphael’s heartbeat quickens against my chest. That he’s nervous like this about my answer is pure delight.

“Baby, if you need time to think, I totally—”

“No,” I say.

He tenses, making me realize how my reply sounded.

“No,” I say again, “I don’t need time to think. And yes, I’ll marry you. If you’re certain it’s what you want.”

“I’ve never been more certain about anything in my whole life.”

We both grin like idiots.

“Actually,” he says as his hand trails down my back to palm my ass. “I wasn’t planning on proposing tonight… like this. I was going to do it in a more classical way and with an appropriately sized rock tomorrow at Le Jules Verne.”

“This was perfect,” I say, planting a kiss on his mouth.

His grin widens.

“Except one major flaw,” I add.

“Which is?”

“What will we tell Lily the day she asks how daddy proposed?”

He frowns. “Hmm.”

“We’ll be forced to lie to her.”

He raises his index finger. “I have a solution!”

“Listening.”

“We’ll do another proposal tomorrow at the restaurant. I’ll get her to give you the ring.”

“She might decide to put it in her mouth instead,” I say.

“We’ll keep it inside the case, then. It won’t fit in her mouth.”

“OK.”

His face crinkles up in a smile. “That way, she’ll be part of the proposal, too. And the day she asks about it, we’ll have a cool, true story for her.”

I kiss his chin. “It’s a really sweet plan.”

“It’s because I’m a really sweet man,” he says smugly.

I begin to roll my eyes but stop halfway. “You know what, Raphael d’Arcy? You actually are.”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young man in possession of a vast fortune must be an entitled SOB born into money. Either that or a rags-to-riches a-hole who bulldozed his way to said fortune, leaving maimed bodies in his wake.

The ferocious-looking PA returns to her desk. “Monsieur Darcy is still in a meeting.”

“That’s OK.” I smile benignly. “I can wait.”

I place my hands demurely on my knees and stare at the portrait adorning—or should I say disfiguring—the wall across the hallway from where I’m seated.

Pictured is Count Sebastian d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, the oldest son of the late Count Thibaud d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice and the inheritor of an estate estimated at around one billion euros. Said estate isn’t your run-of-the-mill stock holdings or start-up fortune. Oh no. It’s made up of possessions that were handed down—uninterrupted and snowballing—all the way from the Middle Ages.

Even Robespierre and his fellow revolutionaries didn’t get their greedy little hands on the d’Arcy fortune.

What are the odds?

Upon his father’s premature demise ten years ago, young Sebastian moved back into the town house in the heart of Le Marais and took the reins of the family’s main business. A twenty-three-year-old greenhorn at the time, you’d expect him to make tons of bad decisions and sink the company or, at least, diminish its value.

But no such luck.

Instead, Sebastian Darcy took Parfums d’Arcy from number three to the number one European flavor and fragrance producer—a feat that neither his illustrious grandfather nor his star-crossed father had managed to accomplish.

According to my research, also about ten years ago, the new count chose to go by “Darcy,” abandoning the apostrophe and the rest of his status-laden name. I’m sure he only did it to fool those beneath him—which includes most everyone in a country that guillotined its royals—into believing that he sees himself as their equal.

The hell he does.

Sebastian Darcy is a stinking-rich aristocrat with instincts of an unscrupulous business shark. This means he qualifies in both the SOB and the a-hole categories.

No, scratch that. He slays both categories.

And I hate him more than words can say.

The straitlaced man on the wall seems to smirk. I shudder, my nerves taut to the point of snapping. Will they kick me out if I spit at the photo? Of course they will. I steal a glance at the PA stationed between me and Darcy’s office. She looks like a cross between a human and a pit bull. I’m sure she’d love to stick something other than paper between the jaws of her sturdy hole punch.

My hand, for example.

But I didn’t come here to fight with Darcy’s PA. I’ll keep my saliva in my mouth, my eyes cast down, my butt perched on the edge of the designer chair, and my knees drawn together and folded to the side.

Like the meek little mouse I’m trying to pass for.

After waiting three weeks, I’m careful not to arouse any suspicion in Pitbull’s mind so she won’t cancel my appointment with Darcy.

Eyes on the prize, Diane! Don’t forget you’re here to declare war by spitting in Count Sebastian Darcy’s face, rather than at his photographic representation.

I look at the photo again, arranged in perfect symmetry between the portraits of his grandfather, Bernard, who founded the company, and his father, Thibaud, who almost put the lid on it. I know this because I’ve done my homework.

During my week-long research, I dug up every piece of information the Internet had to offer about Sebastian Darcy and his family. I was hoping to find dirt, and I did. The only problem was it was already out in the open—common knowledge, yesterday’s news.

And completely useless as leverage.

Pitbull looks up from her smartphone. “Monsieur Darcy is delayed. Do you mind waiting a little longer?”

“No problem.” I smile politely. “I’m free this afternoon.”

She arches an eyebrow as if having a free afternoon is something reprehensible.

How I wish I could stick out my tongue! But instead I widen my already unnaturally wide smile.

She frowns, clearly not buying it.

I turn away and stare at Darcy’s likeness again. In addition to the now-stale scandal, my research has revealed that Darcy is close to his middle brother, Raphael, and also to a longtime friend—Laurent something or other. Our vulture-man even managed to have a serious girlfriend for most of last year. A food-chain heiress, she looked smashing at the various soirées, galas, and fundraisers where she was photographed on his arm. Darcy was rumored to be so into his rich beauty he was about to propose. But then she suddenly dumped him about six months ago.

Clever girl.

He has no right to be happy when Dad’s life is in shambles.

I won’t stop until I crush him, even if it means I go to jail—or to hell—for using black-hat tactics. It’s not as if they’d let me into heaven, anyway. I’ve already broken the arms and legs on Darcy’s voodoo doll.

There’s no turning back after you do that sort of thing.

The next step is to let the world know who he really is and hurt him in a variety of ways, big and small. And then, just before delivering the deathblow, let him know he’s paying for his sins.

That’s why my first move is to show him my face and make sure he remembers it and associates it with unpleasantness. That way, when the shit hits the fan, he’ll know which creditor is collecting her debt.

Pitbull breaks me out of my dream world. “Monsieur Darcy’s meeting is running late.”

“That’s OK, I can—”

“No,” she cuts me off. “There’s no point in waiting anymore. As soon as the meeting is over, he’ll head to the 9th arrondissement, where he’s expected at a private reception.”

I stand up.

She glances at my bare ring finger. “Mademoiselle, I can reschedule you for Friday, December twelfth. It’s two months away, but that’s the only—”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” I say.

I know exactly which reception Sebastian Darcy is going to tonight.

* * *

“It might snow tonight.” Octave holds my coat while I wrap a scarf around my neck. “Will monsieur be taking his supper at home?”

As always, I wince at “monsieur,” but I do my best not to show it.

Grandpapa Bernard hired Octave before I was born. Roughly Papa’s age and a bear of a man, Octave has worked for my family for thirty-odd years, rising from valet to majordome. He’s seen Raphael, Noah, and me in all kinds of embarrassing situations young boys tend to get themselves into. I’ve asked him a thousand times to call me Sebastian.

All in vain.

Octave Rossi claims his respect for my old family name, my noble title, and my position in society is too strong for him to drop the “monsieur.”

So be it.

“Yes,” I say. “But I’ll come home late, so please tell Lynette to make something light. And don’t stay up for me.”

He nods. “Oui, monsieur.”

Chances are he’ll be up until I get home.

Since I moved back into the town house after Papa’s passing, Octave has been helpful in a way no one, not even Maman—especially not Maman—has ever been. All the little things, from paying electricity bills and hiring help to undertaking necessary repairs and planning reception menus, are taken care of with remarkable efficiency.

When he offered to assist me with my correspondence, I insisted on doubling his salary. My argument was that he’d be saving me the expense of a second PA for private matters.

He caved in only after I threatened to move out and sell the house.

I trust him more than anyone.

“Morning, Sebastian! To the office?” my chauffeur, Greg, asks.

He, at least, doesn’t have a problem calling me by my first name.

“We’ll make a detour,” I say as I climb into the Toyota Prius. “I need to see someone first.”

I give him the address, and he drives me to the Franprix on rue de la Chapelle in the 18th arrondissement. Greg parks the car, and I march into the supermarket, scanning the cashiers’ counters lined parallel to the shop windows.

There she is!

Diane Petit smiles at a customer as she hands her a bag of groceries. She’ll be finishing her shift in about ten minutes, according to the private eye I hired to locate and tail her. I’ll talk to her then.

Right now, I pretend to study the selection of batteries and gift cards on display not far from her desk. What I’m really doing is furtively surveying the firebrand who smashed a cream cake in my face in front of a few dozen people last October. At the time, the only thing I registered about her through my surprise and anger was foxy.

I’ve had ample opportunity to pour over her pretty face and eye-pleasing shape in the numerous close-ups the PI has supplied over the past few weeks. I’ve studied Diane in all kinds of situations and circumstances—at work with her customers, hanging out with her friends, and roaming the streets with her camera, immortalizing everyday scenes of Parisian life. She’s hot, all right, but there’s also something endearing about her, something unsophisticated and very un-Parisian.

In spite of her extravagant outburst at Jeanne’s bash, Diane Petit seems to be an unpretentious small-town bumpkin through and through.

I’ve learned a good deal about her since that memorable evening. I know she works part time at this supermarket, lives in a high-rise in the 14th, and hangs out with her foster sister Chloe, a coworker named Elorie, and a waitress named Manon.

She enjoys photographing random things, going to the movies, eating chocolate, and drinking cappuccino.

More importantly, I know why Diane did what she did that night at La Bohème.

And I plan to use it to my advantage.

Someone gives me a sharp prod in the back.

“Why are you here?” Diane asks as I spin around.

“To give you a chance to apologize.”

She smirks. “You’re wasting your time.”

“No apology, then?”

“You’re here to let me know you’re on to me, right?” She puffs out her chest. “Read my lips—I’m not afraid of you.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“How did you find me, anyway?”

“I hired a professional who tracked you down within days.”

She tilts her head to the side. “And you’ve waited three months before confronting me. Why?”

“I wanted to know what your deal was, so I gave my PI the time to compile a solid profile.” I hesitate before adding, “Besides, your foster sister was shot, and you were busy looking after her. I wanted to wait until Chloe had fully recovered.”

“You’ve met Chloe?” She sounds surprised.

“Of course.” I shrug. “Jeanne introduced us.”

She blows out her cheeks. “What do you want, Darcy?”

“Just to talk.”

“About what?”

“I have a proposition that might interest you.”

She looks me over. “Unless your proposition is to give me a magic wand that would turn you into a piglet, I’m not interested.”

“I obviously can’t do that, but what I can do is—”

“Hey, Elorie, are we still on?” Diane calls to a fellow cashier who passes by.

Elorie smiles. “Only if you and Manon let me choose the movie.”

“Fine with me, but I can’t vouch for Manon.”

While Diane and Elorie discuss the time and place of their outing, I resolve to draw Diane somewhere else before making my offer. Preferably, somewhere that’s on my turf rather than hers.

“Can we go someplace quieter?” I ask Diane after Elorie leaves.

She sighs. “OK, but don’t take it as a good sign.”

“Understood.”

I do take it as a step in the right direction, though.

She follows me outside and into the car.

“To Le Big Ben, please,” I say to Greg.

He nods, and thirty minutes later, Diane and I are seated in a private booth at my favorite Parisian gentlemen’s club, which I also happen to co-own with Raphael as of three weeks ago. We’ve kept the old manager, who’s doing an admirable job. I’ve continued coming here with Laurent or Raph, as a longtime patron who enjoys the subdued elegance of this place and its unparalleled selection of whiskeys. The staff may not even realize the club has changed hands. It’s easier this way—and it removes the need for socializing with them.

“So,” Diane says after the server brings my espresso and her cappuccino. “What’s your proposition?”

“Marry me.”

She blinks and bursts out laughing as if I just said something outrageous. Which I guess it was without prior explanation.

Maybe I should start over.

“Here’s the deal,” I say. “You and I will date through April.” I make air quotes when I say “date.”

She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

“You’ll move in with me in May,” I continue. “About a month after that, we’ll get married.”

Diane makes a circular motion with her index at the side of her head and mouths, “Nutcase.”

“A month into our marriage, I’ll cheat on you,” I continue, undeterred, with a quote unquote on cheat. “And then you’ll leave me.”

She gives me a long stare. “Why?”

“It doesn’t concern you. What you need to know is that I’m prepared to pay fifty thousand euros for a maximum of six months in a pretend relationship.”

“Why?” she asks again.

“You don’t need to know that.”

“OK, let me ask you something I do need to know.” She arches an eyebrow. “Why me?”

I shrug.

“If you continue ignoring my legitimate questions,” she says, “I’m out of here before you finish your espresso.”

“You’re perfect for a plan I’d like to set in motion,” I say. “And as an incentive for you to play your role the best you can, I’ll quadruple your fee if my plan succeeds.”

“How will I know if it succeeds if you won’t even tell me what it is?”

“Trust me, you’ll know.” I smirk. “Everyone in my entourage will.”

Diane leans back with her arms crossed over her chest. “Can’t you find another candidate for your shady scheme? It couldn’t have escaped your notice that I humiliated you in public.”

“I assure you it didn’t,” I say. “But what’s really important and valuable here is that it didn’t escape other people’s notice, either. A picture of my cream-cake-covered mug even ended up in a tabloid or two.”

She gives me a smug smile.

“At the time, I told everyone I didn’t know you, but I can easily change my tune and confess we’d been dating.”

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Believe me, it does—a whole lot of sense—if you consider it in light of my scheme.”

“Which I can’t do,” she cuts in, “because you won’t tell me what your scheme is.”

True. “Anyway, I’ll tell everyone we’ve talked it over and made up.”

She says nothing.

“Mademoiselle Petit… Diane.” I lean in. “Your parents—and yourself—are not in the best financial shape right now. I’m offering an easy solution to your woes.”

“Ha!” she interjects with an angry gleam in her almond-shaped eyes. “Says the person who caused our woes!”

She’s right, of course, but not entirely. Before going in for the kill, I did offer to buy out her father’s fragrance company. The offer wasn’t generous by any measure, but it was reasonable given the circumstances. Charles Petit’s artisanal workshop wasn’t doing terribly well. In fact, it was of little interest to me, with the exception of the two or three of his signature fragrances that were worth the price I’d offered. Charles is a lousy businessman—but he’s a true artist. He created the fragrances he sold, and he also created for others. I would’ve offered him a job in one of my labs had I not been one hundred percent sure he’d decline it.

As it happened, he also declined my fifty thousand, calling me a scumbag and a few other choice epithets I won’t repeat in front of a lady. Fifty thousand euros isn’t a fortune, but seeing as he stood no chance against me, he should’ve taken the money.

It was better than nothing.

But Charles Petit proved to be more emotional than rational about his business. And he ended up with nothing. Worse than nothing, actually. I heard he took to drinking, got kicked out by his wife, and had a heart attack. Or was it a stroke?

Anyway, my point is, at least some of those misfortunes could’ve been avoided had he sold his company to me.

I open my mouth to say this to Diane, but then it occurs to me she must already know about my offer. She probably also shares Monsieur Petit’s opinion that it was indecently low.

“Can we skip the whole dating and marrying nonsense,” Diane says, “and go straight to the part where you grovel at my dad’s feet, thrust a check for two hundred thousand into his hand, and beg him to take it in the hopes he might forgive you one day?”

I sigh and shake my head.

She stands. “The answer is no.”

“Why don’t you think it over? I’ll be in touch next week.” I set a twenty on the table. “May I offer you a ride?”

“Thank you, Monsieur Darcy, you’re very kind.” She bares her teeth in a smile that doesn’t even try to pass for a real one. “But I prefer the métro.”