CHAPTER ONE
LUCA LEGRAND COULDN’T decide whether he had the best luck in the world or whether he was actually cursed with the worst fucking luck ever. At the moment, sitting in a holding cell that stank like piss and rancid sweat, he was pretty sure it was the latter.
“Legrand!” A uniformed member of the Paris Police Prefecture banged on the bars. “Votre avocat est ici.” Your lawyer is here.
Pushing himself to his feet, Luca waited for the man to unlock the cell and then followed him down the hall to a cubicle not much larger than a toilet stall. François Chevalier, the lawyer for the Legrand Estate vineyard, was already waiting inside, reading a newspaper at a steel table that was bolted to the floor.
François glanced up when the door opened. He didn’t stand, and did not greet Luca, but rather drummed his fingers on the metal tabletop as he waited for Luca to take the seat across from him.
Once the door was shut behind the officer, François went back to reading the paper. More specifically, he perused an article with the headline, Héritier de Legrand Vineyard en Prison Pour Voies de Fait. Heir to the Legrand Vineyard in Prison for Assault. Beneath the headline was a blown-up image of Luca being shoved into a police car.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Luca said.
“Really? Because it looks bad,” François said calmly, though his mustache twitched.
Luca leaned back in the hard metal chair, folding his arms over his chest. He gazed directly at François, not willing to look away because he was not contrite in the fucking least.
“It’s not my fault,” he said.
“Is that so?” François leaned toward him, palms on the table, forcing Luca to look up at him. His face—though always red—was now the color of a sun-ripened heirloom tomato. “You punched a reporter. You broke his nose. You smashed his camera. How is that not your fault?”
He stood up and swept a hand around the tiny room that smelled like mildew and stale cigarettes. “The first Legrand man to ever be arrested. Yet still you sit there and say it’s not your fault?” He made a sour face, as if tasting a too-green wine, one that should be spit out immediately.
Slowly, Luca got to his feet, all six feet two inches of him, so François had to look up at him. “The man deserved what he got.”
“I don’t care what he deserved. All I care about is your legacy. Which you have single-handedly destroyed.” He glared at Luca. His heavy lids and the bags beneath made it nearly impossible to see his eyes, but Luca was determined to hold François’s gaze. The fact that François looked away first did not give him any pleasure, however.
“The value of our champagne has dropped significantly since you took over. Do you realize that?”
Luca ground his teeth, forcing himself to count to five. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq... But counting did not stop the deepest part of his gut from rumbling with liquid fire that was amplified with every breath. Through clenched teeth, he said, “The value of our champagne dropped the day my father died.”
It was true. His father had run the estate for thirty years, continuing in the footsteps of his father and grandfather and two hundred years of ancestors before that. His father had been a robust, healthy man and it had seemed as if he would live forever. Not that Luca had seen much of him in the past ten years while he was competing on the Grand Prix motorcycle racing circuit.
“This cannot continue—” François gestured toward Luca’s chest. “These scandals.”
Here we go. Luca leaned against the wall, crossing one ankle over the other. Waiting for François to detail each of his latest “scandals.” There was no point in defending himself.
Ticking items off his finger, François began the lengthy list. “Disturbing the peace.”
Disturbing the peace? Luca had broken up with his girlfriend, Anika Van Horn, a model he’d quickly learned was more interested in the fame and fortune of the Legrand name than in Luca himself. She did not take the breakup well. In fact, she’d slapped him, making sure to do so at an outdoor café, causing a scene that spread in seconds via social media. He still wasn’t sure how charges had come of it.
“Public drunkenness.”
He had attended a fellow Monster teammate’s bachelor party. While Luca had had his fair share of drinks, he had not been nearly as drunk as the groom-to-be, whom Luca had rescued from the Fontaine Stravinsky.
“Public nudity.”
It had been his friend, the bachelor, who was naked. But the press had a way of spinning things so that it sounded like Luca was the one who’d disrobed, jumped into the fountain and done lewd things to a colorful, busty mermaid with water spouting from the tips of her breasts.
Sighing, Luca waved for François to keep going with the damning list, knowing what was coming next.
“Then. Just to up the ante...a sex video gone public. And not just any sex...” François paused, arching his brow for effect. He sniffed instead of finishing his sentence. “Such a boost to the prestige of your esteemed family name.” François grimaced with sarcasm.
Luca opened his mouth, the excuse—the fact that the video was meant to be private and that Anika had obviously been the one to leak it online, either for publicity to boost her career or to publicly humiliate him—was ripe on his tongue. But what good would it do to explain this to François? It didn’t change the outcome.
“And now, one week later, here you are.” François’s eyes leaked with moisture born of anger, like a grape in the press right before it was about to pop. “Assault and destruction of property. How noble.”
The paparazzi had been relentless since the sex scandal. Luca had been unable to leave his flat. To go to the market. To do anything without being accosted. When one particularly pushy reporter, who had been doggedly harassing him night and day, had stepped in front of Luca while he was on his brand new Yamaha VMAX, causing him to swerve and nearly crash into a lamppost, Luca had lost it. He wasn’t proud of his actions, but if faced with the same situation again? He wouldn’t change a thing.
He’d parked the bike, walked straight up to the man who had the camera attached to his face like it was an appendage and asked him—civilly—to erase the images. When the man ignored him in order to take more pictures, Luca had simply snatched the camera away with the intent to erase the memory. The man shoved him, which resulted in Luca dropping the camera, smashing it on the cobblestones.
Oops.
Then the screaming idiot had thrown a punch, which Luca had easily dodged before acting on pure instinct. One punch. That’s all it took to drop the petit connard. It wasn’t his fault the man had started something he couldn’t finish.
Again. No point in explaining any of this to François. The man cared about one thing and one thing only. The value of the estate. Which had, indeed, plummeted since Luca took over.
“I get it.” Luca returned to the chair and sat down. “I’m a big fucking disappointment. Now, when are you bailing me out of this shit hole so I can get to work to rebuild the ‘family name’?”
“Bail you out?” François laughed. “I’m not bailing you out. Non.” He shook his head. “This is the safest place for you. You can’t get into any more trouble if you stay locked up.”
The molten metal that swirled in his gut erupted, filling Luca’s veins, forcing every muscle to contract. He grabbed François by the collar and hauled him across the table toward him. “What did you say?”
The only sound François was able to manage was a sputtering plea for his release, which resulted in spittle spraying Luca in the face. For the first time that day, Luca felt remorse for his actions. François had been loyal to the family for three decades, yet he barely knew Luca, and for all he did know, Luca was indeed the fuckup that the media was making him out to be.
The sex scandal was one thing, but Luca couldn’t understand the rest of it—the charges and the constant bad press. As a Grand Prix driver and a Legrand, he was used to being in the public eye, but lately the media seemed out to get him. Why? Was it because of the sex tape, or did he simply keep ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Softening his grip, Luca raised his hands in appeasement. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” François’s voice was high. “This behavior of yours is unacceptable.” The lawyer straightened his shirt and tie where Luca had crumpled it. “You are an embarrassment to your family name.”
“François, I recognize the...” Luca swallowed. With difficulty. “The folly of my recent actions. But I can’t very well right wrongs from a prison cell.”
Blinking rapidly, his eyes so puffy they were mere slits in his face, François said, “I don’t think you understand the full implications of your actions.”
“Then explain them to me.”
François removed a sheaf of papers from a briefcase beneath the table and plopped them on the table.
“Do you know what these are?”
Luca slid the papers toward him. “Company bylaws.” He slid them back across.
“Yes. And, if you were to read them, you would know that there is a code of conduct clause.” He paused. “For all employees.” He flipped to an earmarked page and shoved the document back across the table.
Luca glanced down. The words “grounds for dismissal” were highlighted as well as, “appropriate conduct.”
“I know the bylaws. I am the CEO.” It was sort of true. He’d been too busy running the company to pay much attention to them.
“So it should come as no surprise that the board is discussing your removal as CEO.”
“What?” Luca guffawed. “They can’t do that. I’m the only heir to the estate and I own fifty-one percent of the shares of the company.”
“Well...”
“Well, what?”
“There has been discussion about your father’s will being contested. In light of all that has occurred.” He gestured toward the room in general.
“Contested? By whom?”
“Marcel Durand.”
Marcel was only a few years younger than Luca and had only worked for his father for maybe five years. “Why would Marcel Durand contest my father’s will?”
“Because Marcel is your half brother.”
* * *
The first thing Jasmine Sweet did after finding her seat in first class on the Air France flight to Paris was to ask for a glass of champagne. The second thing she did, once she had the glass in hand, was to turn away from the large and empty seat beside her and sip the bubbly liquid until it disappeared. And the third thing she did was twist off the platinum band with the four-carat princess-cut diamond and shove it into the inside pocket of her purse. This was all accomplished before the plane had finished boarding.
“Excuse me.” Jasmine held up a finger to signal the unfairly beautiful and terribly refined French flight attendant. “Do you have any berries? Blueberries, raspberries, that sort of thing?”
“Berries?” The woman asked with what Jasmine decided was a disdainful tone. “Non.”
“Too bad. Just another champagne, then, please.”
The woman pursed her lips before settling into a bored smile. “Would you care for orange juice with that or perhaps something to eat?”
“No, thank you,” Jazz said, waving her hand dismissively. “Just the champagne.”
Before the attendant moved past, Jasmine stopped her again. “Oh, and if it’s not too much to ask...” Jasmine glanced at the seat beside her and lowered her voice. “This seat is empty.” She pulled tickets out of her purse. “I have both tickets. Would you see if someone from economy would be interested in an upgrade?”
Both delicate brows arched at this request as the woman took the tickets from Jasmine’s hands. Her full lips pursed together. “Yes, I see.” Handing the tickets back to Jasmine, she said, “I will inquire.”
“Oh, and make sure they like champagne. That’s a must,” Jasmine called, but the woman didn’t turn around. “Thanks,” she shouted. “You’re a peach.”
The flight attendant carried on through into coach, ignoring her while she made sure all carry-on items were stowed correctly.
Well, what had she expected? Friendliness? Kindness? Empathy?
Ha! So far her experience with the French was that they were aloof, intimidating and gorgeous. But, she supposed, she wasn’t even off American soil yet. Things would be better once she landed in Paris.
She rubbed the bare spot where her ring had been only moments before. Her skin was lighter where the band had circled her finger for the last sixteen months, a promise of the life she’d always dreamed of, as if her skin wasn’t quite ready to give it up.
She closed her eyes, imagining that she and Parker Wright had gotten married yesterday, as planned, celebrating their union at the Waldorf Astoria in Chicago with three hundred of their closest friends and family—Parker had a large family. And lots of friends. Well...work colleagues and friends of his parents, really. But whatever. And now they were on their way to Europe for their honeymoon. With eyes closed, she observed the physical sensation of the plane taxiing along the runway before accelerating, the seat beneath her vibrating as the plane took off.
A week in Paris, another week in the South of France, then on to Italy: Venice, Milan, Tuscany—ahh!—before returning to Paris for the final few days. She’d planned the whole thing, poring over hotel web pages and travel forums for what to do and where to stay.
“Money’s no problem,” Parker had said. “It’s our honeymoon, after all.”
Yes. It was their honeymoon and she’d booked all these gorgeous boutique hotels close to the sights, restaurants and shops—shopping was something they both loved to do. And then, after a day of exploring, she’d thought they would return to their hotel and make love—tenderly, passionately. Definitely trying new things now that they were married (like the new furry handcuffs she’d picked up and the ridged vibrator—yes, please!). As her imagination strayed to creative ways to use the toys, her hand strayed to the seat beside her, encouraging Parker to take her hand and clasp it in his warm fingers.
Instead, her hand came into contact with a large, hairy arm that was a smidge damp. Jasmine’s eyes popped open and she swiveled to face the person seated beside her. He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties with thinning hair and a friendly face. He wore a tie-dyed T-shirt that stretched across an ample frame, and as he met her gaze, he pushed square glasses back onto the bridge of his nose before dipping his hand into a party-sized bag of Doritos. Jasmine noticed bright orange crumbs dotting the front of his shirt and the armrest.
“Doritos?” he asked, as he held the bag out to her.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Jasmine said, taking a handful. She waved at the glass of champagne sweating on her pull-down table. “Do you want something to drink? It’s free up here, you know.”
The man smiled and Jasmine tried not to stare at the orange residue stuck between his two front teeth. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Jazz pressed the button to signal the attendant and the woman materialized beside her seat. “Another champagne for my friend, here.”
“I’d prefer beer if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” Jasmine smiled sweetly at the man before turning her beaming face toward the French woman. “Beer for my friend. And another champagne for me. In fact,” Jazz added, indicating the first-class cabin with a wave of her hand, “Why don’t you bring out champagne for everyone!”
The woman rolled her eyes but Jasmine didn’t care. Was it the champagne making her feel light-headed and carefree?
“Toodle-oo, now.” She motioned with just the tips of her fingers, hoping to give the woman—who wasn’t even attempting the bored smile anymore—the brush-off. Then she turned to her seatmate.
“I’m Jasmine.” Jazz stuck her hand out and the man beside her took it, shaking it with a surprisingly firm grasp.
“Neil.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Neil. So, tell me about yourself.”
The two exchanged pleasantries: where they were from, what they did for a living, whether they’d been to Paris before.
See? Jasmine consoled herself. Look how calm I am, making nice with a complete stranger as if everything is normal.
As if her whole world hadn’t been turned upside down a mere forty-eight hours ago and she hadn’t received the worst shock of her life.
Their drinks arrived, though Jasmine noticed her champagne was a little on the glass-half-empty side.
Bitch.
“So, Neil, what’s in Paris? Business or pleasure?” She downed the champagne in three swallows and pressed the call button again.
Two can play this game, gorgeous French woman.
“Oh, a comic convention. It’s the biggest one in all of Europe. I’m an illustrator.” He brushed a wisp of hair off his forehead.
“Interesting.” Jasmine helped herself to another handful of Doritos. “What kind of illustrations?”
“Do you want to see?”
“Why not?”
Neil unfastened his seat belt and retrieved a bag from the overhead compartment, taking out a sketchbook before replacing the bag and sitting down. He flipped open the sketchbook to cartoons of—well, Jasmine was having a hard time focusing, to be honest.
“The cartoon is called Betty Boobs. It’s a play on Betty Boop. It’s very popular in Europe.”
Jasmine blinked and squinted. Big-chested, naked cartoon women with a bit of 1930s flare graced the pages of his sketchpad. Getting it on. Porn. The guy drew cartoon porn.
Cool.
“Neil, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you know what a beard is?” She blinked at him, forcing herself to swallow. That last sip of champagne had burned.
“You mean like facial hair?” He stroked his chin.
“No. The other connotation. Do you know it?”
His bushy brows drew together and then rose up his forehead as if filled with helium. “You mean like a gay guy who—”
“Yes.” She poked him on the arm. “That’s exactly what I mean. For example, my fiancé—well, ex-fiancé—asked me to marry him, right?”
“Okay.”
“Unbeknownst to me, I was his beard.” Reaching over to the little table in front of Neil, Jasmine snagged the can of Bud that he’d barely sampled and guzzled a good third before continuing. “We were supposed to get married yesterday.”
“Really?” His gaze was on the beer, not her.
She nodded.
Wow. She was really doing it. No tears. No temper tantrums. Just reporting the facts as if it had happened to someone else or like she was completely over it. Jasmine was proud of herself.
She drank deeply again before leaning close and placing her hand on Neil’s sweating forearm. “Yep. I’d have never known, except the night before the wedding, while I was supposed to be staying at a hotel with my friends, I came back to my apartment to pick up something I’d forgotten—something borrowed, or was it something blue?” She tapped her lips. “Hmm. Either way, that part doesn’t matter. What matters is that I caught my fiancé in bed with his best friend. They were booping. Betty Booping, if you will.”
“Holy shit,” Neil said, still eyeing the beer in her hand. “That must have been a shock.”
“Oh, yeah.” She pointed to the seat he was occupying. “My new husband was supposed to be sitting where you are sitting right now, but he’s not. Because he’s gay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He never loved me.” Jasmine fell back into her seat, staring at the headrest in front of her. “He was only using me. God. And I was so blind because he gave me whatever I wanted.”
“Hey.” The guy patted her hand where it lay on the shared armrest. “You okay?” He carefully retrieved his nearly empty beer from her slack fingers.
“A gorgeous penthouse apartment. Fifty-thousand-dollar limit on my credit card.”
“I can’t imagine...though a limit like that would be nice...”
“You know what the worst thing was, Neil?” She lolled her head toward him. “After I caught him? He was relieved. Relieved.”
“It’s hard to live a lie, I guess...”
“And he said nothing had to change.” She poked him in the sternum, above the orange crumbs. “Can you believe it? He still wanted to marry me!”
“Umm, you might want to keep it down a bit—”
“A housekeeper and cook if I wanted...whatever I wanted, really. Bribery.” She shook her head. Her neck was stiff. So was her jaw. Tight, like it was wired shut. “All fucking bribes and distractions,” she said through clenched teeth. “Distractions from what, you might ask?” She turned to face Neil and the rest of the story came out of the deep hole where her heart used to be. “So that my soon-to-be husband could take business trips with Robert. That’s the fucker’s name. Robert Miskey. I’m a fucking cover so Parker can be-boop Robert fucking Miskey.”
“You’re not allowed to shout on planes these days.” Neil blinked nervously.
“Am I making a scene, Neil? Am I?”
“Umm, yes.”
“Don’t you think finding out that you’re a beard on the eve of your wedding warrants a scene?”
The man was now frantically pushing the attendant call button.
Unbuckling her seat belt, Jasmine stood, addressing all the people in first class. “I’m supposed to be married. I’m supposed to be on my way to Europe for my honeymoon. And instead I’m here with Neil, who draws cartoon porn.” She glanced at Neil and said in a marginally more controlled voice, “Sorry, Neil.”
His smile wavered and his hands said, No problem, crazy lady.
“Doesn’t that give me the right to make a scene?” She tried to meet the other passengers’ eyes, but there were no takers. “Doesn’t it?”
Cool fingers circled her upper arm and an accented voice said calmly, “Please return to your seat or we will be forced to make a stop in New York City where you will be escorted off the plane and detained. Do you understand?”
Jasmine attempted to tug her arm out of the attendant’s grasp but the woman was freakishly strong. Fucking French.
“I—” When she turned her head she was met with the sincerest smile she’d received from the woman yet.
“Please,” the woman said soothingly. Her sincerity came as such a surprise that Jasmine’s knees buckled and the woman had to help her back into her seat.
Jazz caught a whiff of the woman’s perfume—Coco Mademoiselle by Chanel, if she wasn’t mistaken—as the flight attendant leaned over her to secure Jasmine’s seat belt. Tasteful, subtle, perfect.
“I’m very sorry you’re having a bad day. Please don’t make it any worse.” Before standing, the woman tucked a handful of tissues into Jasmine’s fist and, moving close to her ear, whispered, “Whoever this man is who hurt you? He did not deserve you.”