Chapter Two

Antoine

I make sure Kristen gets into her office building safely, then drive away, my hands tight around the steering wheel.

There are certain words you should never use to describe your best friend’s baby sister.

Hot. Sexy. Desirable.

So when Kristen emerged from her apartment building in that pink top and white pants ensemble, I decided the blue of her eyes was pleasant, and her facial bones were fine enough, and she really ought to cover her cleavage. Not because her tits are plump and soft enough to bury my face in, but because I’m certain it’s not professional to show that much skin.

But I didn’t comment on any of that because commenting would mean I noticed, and I’m not supposed to notice.

When she brushed past me, I smelled the floral shampoo on her bright red hair. Fortunately, I had enough coffee left to erase the fragrance.

Except now the damned SUV is full of her scent.

I open the window to air out the car. And I try not to think about the way she pushed her tits forward while talking to me.

It probably didn’t mean anything. Women’s tits move when they move, unless they’ve had surgery, and Kristen’s are all natural. I know because she’s just a natural kind of person, not because I’ve studied the way her breasts move.

Your best friend’s baby sister is not a woman. She’s more like…an honorary sister you never had. And only the most fucked-up pervert would associate words like “sexy” and “desirable” with a sister.

Besides, even if she weren’t Dominic’s sister, I would never date her. For her own sake.

I go to an Italian bistro/café near my offices at King Consolidated. I’m in charge of King’s security, among other things. I keep the executives safe, make sure nobody’s engaged in corporate espionage and so on. I enjoy my work. It’s interesting and rewarding.

Most importantly, I get to stay away from the crazy drama of my parents. That to me is worth at least two adult humans’ weight in gold.

The bistro/café isn’t that crowded. It’s too early in the morning for people to do anything except take their coffee and gluten-free pastries to go. I get an iced macchiato and scan the tables for Remington Covey, a friend of my parents’ who’s looking to work for Shaw Construction, a subsidiary of King Consolidated, and wants a referral. I texted him to just email HR, but he insisted on a meeting because he needs every edge he can get. His résumé looked good, so I don’t know what he’s worried about, but whatever. It’s only for ten minutes.

A corner booth is taken, and I can only see the top of a woman’s head. Not my guy. I check the time. I’m a couple of minutes early.

I take a table in the middle, sip my macchiato and wait, tapping one foot. If my appointment doesn’t arrive in the next two minutes, I’m leaving.

A brown-eyed brunette in a red dress comes over, holding a cup of iced tea. She’s pretty, with an hourglass body, extra-large tits and long, toned legs. If I didn’t have an appointment with this Covey guy, I might consider flirting with her, because I definitely need a distraction after the forty-five minutes with Kristen. But work comes first.

“Antoine Boucher?” the woman says, her voice as perky as her tits.

“That’s me,” I say, tilting my head to look at her.

“Hi! I’m Remington. You can call me Remi.” She holds out a hand, palm down.

What the fuck? I grasp the hand like a canine paw, lift it slightly and let go.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says, breathlessly, as she takes a seat across from me.

“Ah,” I say, being as noncommittal as possible.

The woman doesn’t match the résumé I was given. Not that it came with pictures, but it made it sound like Remington Covey was the type of man—woman—who crushed enemies’ skulls before breakfast to work up an appetite. Remi, however, has cotton-candy-soft hands, long, immaculately manicured nails and a good amount of muscle tone that she undoubtedly earned from aerobics and body-sculpt classes.

“So. What are you really interested in?” I say, getting to the point.

“First, I just want you to know you have the hottest British accent. Your mom didn’t say.” She gives me a faux-pout over the horrible omission.

I merely smile. I only use the accent because it gets me more chicks. I didn’t spend enough of my childhood in London to speak real British English.

She crosses her legs. “You don’t seem like the type who appreciates games, so I won’t play any.” She leans forward. The front of her dress gapes, showing me her pointed nipples in a see-through bra. They aren’t as good as Kristen’s. “I want to have sex with you and have your baby.”

I spit my macchiato. Thanks to my superior reflexes, I catch the brown liquid on a paper napkin rather than my shirt.

Remi isn’t finished. “We should marry somewhere in between.”

“Before or after the baby?” I ask, just to see what’s going to come out of this crazy woman’s mouth next.

“Definitely before the second trimester. I want to look good in the photos,” she says seriously.

“How does all this relate to working for Shaw Construction?”

“It doesn’t. But Chantelle said you’d understand.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. “Tell her she’s wrong.” I stand up and toss the wet napkin in Remi’s face.

Jesus. Job-seeking friend, my ass. This is another of my parents’ dramas, in which Maman wants me to costar. No way.

“Wait!” Remi stands, reaching out.

“Don’t even think about it unless you want this coffee in your face next.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.” For some weird reason, women think I’m a gentleman. I’m not. “Get the fuck out of here before I change my mind and toss it anyway.”

“Barbarian.” Remi huffs, then starts to stalk away.

“Wait!”

I freeze at the familiar voice, which Remi fortunately ignores, then turn toward the booth. The lone customer sitting there jumps to her feet, and yup. It’s my mom. Chantelle Boucher in the flesh.

We look a lot alike. The black hair and green eyes, the same thin blade of a nose and full lips. Mamy often said I look just like Maman, which is fortunate, because my dad isn’t the best looking guy. What he gave me is the body—the height, the breadth of shoulder and the strength.

What Maman has, other than her face, is the kind of figure a woman thirty years her junior would envy. And she makes sure to show it off by wearing tight dresses and high heels.

“Remi, wait!” Maman says, but it’s too late. Remi’s already almost at the door.

Maman walks over and sighs theatrically. “Antoine, how could you,” she says in flawless English. She spent the first twelve years of her life in New York City, before her parents moved back home to Paris, and it shows in her speech.

“Me? What did I do?”

“She was here to help,” she says, completely ignoring my annoyance.

“By offering to have sex with me, then have my baby…while somewhere along the line having us get married? I don’t see how any of that helps me.”

“Remi is just your type. Look at her.” She gestures at the door. Sadly, Remi’s already gone. She did look good.

“Maman, I don’t mind the sex. Just the rest of it.”

“Nonsense! You have to have the rest,” she says. “I’ve been trying to get you to do the right thing, but you won’t listen.”

The right thing. Code for whatever it takes to get your grandfather’s money. “I didn’t listen because I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Yes, you’ve been avoiding my calls. But we’re here now. Let’s sit down and I’ll explain the situation to you. Surely you can spare me a few minutes,” she says, taking a seat.

I grimace, but there’s no way I can avoid her now. I sit down ungraciously and suck down my iced coffee. This isn’t too terrible a theater, considering, with relatively few people around to witness the drama. The workers are mostly minding their own business.

Maman starts, “I was saying…I had no choice. If you’d just answered my calls, I wouldn’t have gone this far.”

Yeah. Sure.

“You can be so obtuse and stubborn, but this isn’t the time. I’ll be damned if Nicole is going to get what’s mine.”

I just wait, resigned to listening to Maman’s theatrics for the next five minutes. If I don’t, who knows what she’ll do next? Sending a woman with a man’s name is on the benign side, considering.

Maman leans back, crossing her arms and studying me critically. She purses her lips, then lets out a dramatic sigh. “Do you know your papy finally made up his mind about how he’s going to divide his fortune between me and Nicole?”

“No. But I’m sure you’ll tell me everything.”

“It’s not going to be divided. The whole thing is going to whoever marries and produces an heir first.”

“Well, you had me first, so you won,” I point out. Maman’s always been so proud of that.

“It doesn’t count. It’s you or Nicolas who needs to marry and produce an heir.”

“What?”

“Apparently what I accomplished doesn’t count because I’m a girl.” Her voice is so bitter, I can almost taste it. “He wants the competition to be between you and Nicolas.”

I lean back in my seat and shrug. “Then Nicolas has already won. He’s probably impregnated half the population of Europe.” My cousin is a shameless womanizer and proud of it.

“There are many things you can say about Nicolas, but he isn’t stupid, Antoine. He has managed to avoid impregnating anyone so far.” Maman laughs, the sound overly loud. “You should’ve seen Nicole’s face when she heard what Papy wanted. She looked like she just stepped in a pile of merde de chien while wearing a pair of brand new Louboutin.”

“I’m sure it was highly amusing. Ha. Ha.”

“It was. Just what kind of woman names her son after herself?” Maman rolls her eyes. “The worst kind of narcissist, obviously.”

My tante, Nicole, named her son after herself because she said she was entitled to that much after twenty-six hours and forty-nine minutes of intense labor. Her husband Clément didn’t object, but he’s the type to roll over, panting joyfully, as long as she scratches his belly once in a while.

Maman continues, “I’m sure Papy decided to have you and Nicolas go for it because he wants you to win.”

“How do you know?” Papy and I aren’t that close, mainly because I don’t always jump at his command. It got so bad at one point, I refused to spend my summers in Europe if my grandfather didn’t quit trying to control me. Nicolas, on the other hand? Every holiday was spent with our grandparents. He didn’t care that he had to give up all of his wishes and needs so long as he could have a luxurious vacation in Europe, paid for by Papy.

“Nicolas is a mama’s boy. He tries hard to look grown up, but truly, it takes more than seducing every woman one meets. A man must have discretion and taste, both of which you have abundance.”

Should I point out she thought Remington would be able to seduce me? Nah. Why pop Maman’s bubble? She’ll run out of steam soon enough.

“Anyway, your darling papy is worth one point two billion, Antoine. That’s a fortune! You can stop cleaning up after Dominic.”

“He cleans up his own messes.” I keep my voice extra mild.

She laughs again, the sound too bright and forced. “You’re so funny. You know he doesn’t. Just look at how he got shot.”

“Exactly. He, not I, got shot trying to save the woman he loves.” And I still feel bad about that because I should’ve been there. “I didn’t have to clean up anything.”

“You had to coordinate with his lawyers and the police.”

“He wasn’t conscious. Somebody had to do it.”

“But it doesn’t have to be you if you get Papy’s money.”

“I don’t want Papy’s money.”

“Everyone wants his money.”

I sigh. This is why I avoid talking with Maman. She can’t imagine how anybody could not want what she wants. “I’m happy where I am. I make plenty, I enjoy my work, I like being in L.A…”

“You don’t have to move to Greece,” she adds hastily. “Your dear papy Jonas has moved the company to Frankfurt.”

“Right. Because being in Germany would be better.” Where I have no friends. No job. No purpose.

“Germans are reliable,” she says, undeterred. “And I’ve already screened several suitable women. All you have to do is meet them—I suggest, mmm, three a day—and decide.”

“How? Have sex with all of them and see which gets pregnant first?”

She makes a small moue that says, If that’s what it takes…

I run a hand over my face. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Maman, I’m not interested in the women you pick out.”

“You haven’t seen the list.”

“The woman I’m going to marry is going to look like a Victoria’s Secret model and fight like Bruce Lee.”

“Bruce Lee…wasn’t a lingerie model,” Maman says, bewildered.

“I know, but that’s my ideal woman. I’m going to stay single until I find someone like that.” Or someone funnier, prettier and sweeter than Kristen.

“Nonsense! You don’t have to like the girl, Antoine. You can divorce her after you get the money.”

I finish the last of my coffee and stand up. “Gotta go to work, earn an honest living.”

“I’m not asking you to quit working! Think of it as an extracurricular—”

“Adieu, Maman.” I kiss her on the cheek.

“Is this because of Tessa?”

The name punches me in the chest, and I inhale sharply.

“It doesn’t matter,” she continues. “You and Eddie were such good friends, and you adored her. This is your chance to fix everything if you want.”

Not happening.

“She’s in town, you know…”

“Not having this discussion. Ever.” I leave the bistro.