Chapter Three

Antoine

By three, I’m ready to break my phone and move to the middle of Antarctica just to escape any type of mobile reception. Maman has called me twenty-seven times, texted every ten minutes and sent me picture after picture of women she deems ideal for me to marry and impregnate. This is pure harassment. I feel cheap. Worse than cheap. I feel like a stud stallion, some kind of sperm slave…and not in a good way.

What the hell would I do with a child, and what the hell was Maman thinking, telling me to divorce the woman after I got the money? What would I tell the kid? Sorry, your mom’s no longer needed—and stop crying because neither are you…

Yeah. That’d go over well.

I’m doing humanity a great service by not bringing an innocent child into the crazy, mad drama that is my family. One point two billion bucks won’t make me change my philosophy on dating, marriage and children.

My phone buzzes. Again.

I walk out of my office, restlessness making it impossible to sit behind my desk. Sarah looks up from her work station.

I hired her as my assistant specifically because her experience looked great on her résumé…and because she looks great, with mile-long legs, cornflower-blue eyes and long platinum hair. She could’ve been a model if her nose weren’t so narrow and about an eighth of an inch too long. It throws off the overall balance of her face. But still…her body makes up for the minor flaws, and I like it that she’s so hot. When Kristen visited the office four years ago, she stared at Sarah like she was the Antichrist.

“Hi, Antoine. You okay? Need anything?” Sarah asks.

“I’m fine,” I say, even though my terse tone says I’m ready to bite somebody’s head off.

“Okay,” she answers dubiously.

Don’t bite Sarah’s head off. Don’t bite Sarah’s head off. It isn’t her fault Maman has no concept of boundaries…or sanity.

My phone buzzes. Argh. I’m going to get arrested for matricide at this rate.

I pick it up, ready to read Maman the riot act, but a familiar gravelly voice stops me.

“Something’s come up,” Tolyan says.

“What?” I say tightly.

“Check out the main page of the Hollywood Blaze.” His voice is flat and cold. But it’s missing the usual tone of bored superiority, which means he’s unhappy.

“I didn’t know you read that trash.” The Blaze is one of the sleaziest online tabloid sites in the world. It gets lots of visitors, though, and makes good money from ads, although you gotta wonder about companies that would advertise on a site like that.

“I don’t…unless it’s something that concerns Lizochka.”

Oh crap. This can’t be good. Elizabeth and Dominic are on their honeymoon in Bora Bora, ensconced in an over-the-water villa. Sleazy business tactics must be more lucrative than I thought if the Blaze has the money to send people out there.

“Hold on.” I return to my office, hooking the door shut with my heel, and pull up the site.

PREDATORY HEIRESS FLASHES A MINOR, the main page screams in lurid hot pink and neon green caps. The subheading says, MONEY GIVES LICENSE TO MOLEST CHILDREN?

What the fuck?

My eyes drop to the prominently displayed photo underneath, and I see the familiar redhead, who stands topless in a pool, the “minor” being a teenage boy who’s gaping at her. You can’t really see the kid’s face—it’s been blurred out, but Kristen’s hasn’t. It’s as clear as you can make it—her eyes bright and lips parted—and ditto for the bared tits, although the site did put black squares over her nipples.

Red drenches my vision.

“Who the fuck Photoshopped this?” I demand.

“Not Photoshopped. Taken yesterday at Ming Ming’s pool party,” Tolyan says.

“How do you know?”

“Ming Ming. She called.”

Great. Just freaking great. I want to shake the woman, but I can’t. She’s one of Elizabeth’s closest friends and was the maid of honor at the wedding. Not to mention she’s too politically connected in China. Shaking her teeth loose would cause an international incident.

“The kid snuck in and managed to yank down Kristen’s bikini top. It was a bandeau, so no straps to get in the way.” Tolyan sounds terribly calm. I know the bastard well enough to know the calm is a lie. If he were there, the kid’s parents would be cradling a corpse.

I swear. “How the hell did the kid and a photographer sneak in?”

Tolyan’s silence is full of disapproval. “Kristen wanted to take security of her own, but apparently couldn’t.”

Aw, fuck. I run a rough hand over my face. She asked me to come with her, but I turned her down. It felt too much like a date, and I did not need to see her in a skimpy bikini. But I’m a pro. I should’ve been there to keep an eye on things.

This is all my fault.

“Somebody needs to pick her up,” Tolyan says.

“I’ll take care of it.” Even if his tone didn’t imply I should be the one doing the task, I would volunteer. It’s a mess that was created by me not being there.

“Call if you need backup.”

“Won’t need any.” I’m dealing with this one myself.