Chapter 5

Lola

My phone rings at ten A.M. and there’s a part of me that wants to just let it go to voicemail. I’ve been on conference calls since four this morning and I have another one scheduled in fifteen minutes. All I want is to spend the fifteen minutes I do have just sitting here with my coffee, doing nothing and thinking about nothing.

But a quick glance at my phone tells me it’s an unfamiliar number, and I’ve got feelers out about three different estate sales in Paris next week—not to mention a trunk show from one of the top fashion houses, where they plan to sell off select garments from previous years’ collections. Right now the whispers I’m hearing about it put it somewhere between total myth and long shot, but in this business that’s more than enough to have my spidey senses tingling.

It’s the thought of all that orphaned couture that has me putting down my much longed-for coffee and swiping to accept the call.

“Lola Barnes here. What’s up?”

There’s a pause, then a deep voice with just a hint of a French accent responds, “Lola. Hello.”

“Who’s this?” I ask, heart beating a little more quickly. The voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it and I’m hoping—please God—that it’s the Chanel rep I reached out to this morning.

“Oh, right. It’s Garrett.”

Garrett? I flip through my mental Rolodex for a second, trying to place the name, when the answer suddenly hits me like an eighteen-wheeler. “Gorgeous Garrett?” I blurt out before I can think better of it.

He laughs. “I’m going to go with yes, though I tend not to think of myself by that moniker. Seems so egotistical.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve always believed if you’ve got it, flaunt it.” Not really, but attitude is 99 percent of the game, so I go with it.

“I can see that about you.”

I don’t answer, just wait for him to tell me why he called. But when he doesn’t say anything either, silence stretches taut between us.

Because uncomfortable silences have always been my kryptonite, I jump back in just to make it stop. “How did you get my number?”

“I don’t know.”

That gives me pause. “You don’t…know?”

“I called the head of security for the royal family, asked him to figure out the name and phone number of an American tourist I met at the lake. He did.”

Right. Because when you are Gorgeous Garrett, that’s what you do. You just ask and whatever you want magically appears, even if you have to put your country’s answer to the Secret Service on it.

For a second, I wonder what that must be like. Then decide I would probably hate it. For me, the chase is always at least 80 percent of the thrill.

But that’s another issue altogether, and right now I’ve got other things to wonder—and worry—about. “Why?”

“Why?” He sounds confused, and a little intrigued.

“Why did you want my number?” I settle back in my chair and take a long sip of coffee. “Why are you calling me?”

“You left before our conversation was over yesterday.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one who left. Don’t you know it’s rude to keep a woman waiting for over half an hour?”

“It’s exceptionally rude, and I’m so sorry about that. Let me make it up to you by taking you to lunch today.”

“Lunch?” Even though a part of me was expecting the invite—why else would he be calling?—I’m still surprised. I mean, it was surreal enough to run into him at a local lake the other day. But this?

“Lunch,” he repeats. “That meal between breakfast and dinner?”

“I know what lunch is. I’m just…surprised.”

“That it exists?”

“That you want me to share one with you.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” His voice is warm, bemused, and I kind of want to wrap myself up in it. Which is reason enough for me to take a giant step back.

Men are often amusing, sometimes pleasurable, and always forgettable is a motto I live by. Which means that thinking about wrapping myself up in a man’s voice—or any other part of him—is totally off the table.

“Look, Garrett, I’m flattered. But I thought it was obvious the other day that I’m not into bowing and scraping.”

“Oh, believe me, it was. Then again, I thought I made it more than obvious that I’m not either.”

“You’re a prince.”

“Second in line to the throne. Of a lesser principality. There’s a lot less bowing and scraping than you might think.”

It’s the last thing I expect him to say and I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. The whole self-deprecating charm thing is…charming.

“Maybe so, but you’d never know it from the tabloid articles.”

He snorts. “You don’t want to know what I think about tabloids.”

There’s more than annoyance in his tone now, and I can’t help flashing back to the million or so stories that have been written about him in the last year. Can’t help thinking about the pictures that leaked after his rescue, pictures of pain, torture, emotional devastation.

It makes me feel like a jerk for being so flippant, when I rarely let myself feel much of anything at all. This guy has been to hell and back several times. The fact that he’s still a sane, functioning human being is worthy of more respect than I’ve shown him so far.

“I bet. I’m s—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, please don’t apologize. I’ve had far too many apologies from far too many people over the last nine months. They don’t…” He cuts himself off, as if suddenly aware of how much he’s revealing. And how vulnerable those revelations make him.

Because just the mere idea of being vulnerable makes me itch, I cut the poor guy some slack with a quick topic change. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get going. I have a work call scheduled to start in three minutes.”

“A work call.” He sounds surprised. Then again, most of the non-torture-related tabloid pics of Garrett show him frolicking with socialites who don’t have a clue what work is.

“I’m here on business.”

“What kind of business?”

“You got my phone number and not my bio?”

“The bio seemed like prying.”

“Nice to know you’ve got your standards.” The alarm on my phone goes off, announcing that my calls starts in one minute. “I really do have to go.”

“What about lunch?”

I think about it. For about one second. But the rest of my day is jam-packed, and making room for a guy who just wants to get laid—no matter how charming he is—isn’t in the cards. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m busy all day.”

“What about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, too. And then I leave for Paris. But it was nice meeting you, Your Royal Hotness.”

He laughs. “No one’s ever called me that to my face before.”

“Their loss. You’ve got a good laugh.”

“Lola—”

“I really do need to go. ’Bye, Garrett.”

I hang up before he can say anything else. And before I can change my mind.