CHAPTER TWO
THE SECOND JASMINE opened the door to her hotel room, she smelled roses.
Ugh.
Towing her bag behind her like it was an old, arthritic dog who was too tired to go for a walk, Jasmine made her way through the suite she had so lovingly booked months ago. Months ago when she thought she’d be sharing this room with the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with. But he’d been lying to her the whole time! Asshole.
The room was gorgeous—dammit! Twelve-foot ceilings and original crown molding from when the hotel was a mansion owned by a famous jeweler who had bought it for his mistress during the Renaissance. Now the beautiful, airy suite only mocked her. The Louis XIV furniture taunted her, reminding her that she’d chosen it for Parker. She preferred country chic. The filmy white drapes only served to remind her of the ten-thousand-dollar wedding gown that hid in her closet like a shameful secret, never to be worn.
But the worst was what she found on the polished cherrywood table in the sitting area: a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries, with an envelope addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Parker Wright propped between the berries and an ice bucket. Inside the bucket was a bottle of champagne sitting at a jaunty angle, chillin’.
Like a villain.
Stupid champagne.
Jasmine plucked the bottle from the bucket, unwrapped the foil on top and popped the cork. It ricocheted off what she hoped was an imitation painting, then off the crown molding, landing somewhere behind a potted plant. Not bothering with the crystal flutes, Jasmine drank directly from the bottle like it was water and she was dying of thirst.
“Hair of the dog,” she muttered, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She set the bottle on the table, unconcerned with the wet patch left on the highly polished tabletop, and rummaged in her bag for aspirin. Instead of the travel-sized bottle of pills, she located her cell phone.
According to her phone it was 3:23 and there were forty-seven—yes, forty-seven!—texts waiting for her. Reminding her—as if she needed any more reminders—of the ordeal of the last forty-eight hours.
With a groan, she tapped the message app...
Five from her mother. Delete.
Two from her father. Delete.
Thirteen from her best friend, Ashley...hmm. Maybe she’d read those later.
Twenty-seven from Parker.
The man was desperate.
Her finger hovered over the delete button, but instead of deleting the messages, she deleted him from her contact list.
“Liar. You’re dead to me,” she muttered before tilting her head way back and letting the bubbly burn down her throat.
Parker’s voice rose between her ears, C’mon, Jazz. I figured you knew. Nothing has to change between us. I still love you, you know, as a best friend. He’d made that statement while sitting in bed beside his lover. Then he’d gotten out of bed and approached her, hands out, pleading. You can have whatever life you want, I won’t interfere. All I ask is that you keep my private life secret.
Honestly? In this day and age, why did he need to pretend? Well, she’d asked him that question directly.
It’s my father. He’s homophobic, okay? I’ll lose the trust fund.
God! So, all of this was for the money? He’d deceived her for years just so he could maintain his precious lifestyle?
Not that she’d minded the lifestyle. It was what had kept her from making demands, from thinking too hard about the lack of intimacy and passion she’d yearned for. Parker’s generosity seemed proof enough he loved her, and she’d been so wrapped up in their perfect life, she’d failed to see what was happening right in front of her.
With bottle in hand, Jasmine wove toward the window, pushing the drapes aside so she could admire the view.
And what a view. The rounded Parisian rooftops, the Eiffel Tower—so close she could practically lick it. The view was the reason Jasmine had chosen this suite, a dream come true...
Opening the French doors, Jasmine stepped out onto the wrought-iron balcony. Fresh air. That was what she needed. She plunked herself down in the chair and set the bottle on the glass-topped bistro table as she gazed out at the magnificent sight.
And she had no one to share it with. She was completely and utterly alone. She sighed, slumping with the weight of self-pity. Wasn’t she allowed? She’d been ready to give Parker everything, thinking he’d felt the same way. She shut her eyes. Maybe her ex-fiancé cared for her, even loved her, like he’d said. But it wasn’t the kind of love she’d thought it was. The love she’d always craved. And she wasn’t ready to forgive him for tricking her into believing that it was. Her phone chirped, and Jasmine automatically glanced down. Another message from Ashley. Tapping on the message app, she skimmed the messages.
Jazz? Are you okay? Call me.
Please, let me know you’re okay.
Your parents are worried. You should call them.
Jazz? Are you in Paris?
Instead of replying to the text, Jasmine touched the FaceTime button. Her best friend answered immediately. The video was grainy, but Jasmine could still see the dark circles beneath Ashley’s hazel eyes and that her fine blond hair had yet to be combed.
“What time is it there?” Jasmine asked by way of a greeting.
Ashley blinked. “It’s twenty to ten.”
“In the morning?”
Ashley’s eyes narrowed. “I knew it. You went to Paris, didn’t you?”
“See for yourself,” Jasmine said, panning her phone to give Ashley a panoramic view of the Paris skyline.
“Holy shit,” she heard Ashley comment. “Nice.”
Switching the screen back to face her, Jasmine half smiled. “It’s nicer now that I have you to share it with.” She sighed. Damn if her lip didn’t start quivering. “If I had been thinking clearly, I would have changed the other ticket and brought you with me.” Her lip quivered for real and she covered her mouth to quell the shaking.
“If you had been thinking clearly, you would have at least told me—told someone—what you were doing. Jesus, Jazz. We’ve been so worried.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just...” She had to stop talking because the trembling in her lips spread across her face, pricking the backs of her eyes until tears spilled over her lashes. She shook her head since words were impossible at the moment.
“Have you talked to Parker?” Ash asked softly.
“No.” Jazz wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m not going to, either.”
“Understandable. What about your parents?”
“I will.” She passed back through the French doors into the hotel suite and plopped down at the table, plucking a sweating strawberry from the plate and popping it into her mouth.
“So, what are you going to do?” Ash asked. “God, those strawberries look good, by the way.”
Jazz grabbed another berry and bit into it. “They are good. Really sweet.” Her voice cracked on the last word and the chocolate-covered berry suddenly tasted like ashes in her mouth. She swallowed the lump with difficulty.
After a pause, Ashley piped up, “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.”
“What?”
“You are going to have yourself an adventure.”
“An adventure?”
“Yep. You want to forget about Parker? Go have fun. Do all the things that you want to do. Shop on the Champs-Élysées, go on wine tours and see the sights. Hell, take a train to Monte Carlo and rack up Parker’s credit cards.”
Something hot yet icy lanced Jasmine’s gut. “Oh, God. The credit cards.” She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t want to use them.”
“What do you mean?” Ash asked, leaning closer to her phone camera. “After all you’ve been through? You deserve to spend some of Parker’s money.”
“No. I can’t do it. I can’t live off of him anymore. It’s just so...” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Symbolic of my life with him. Dependent and lame.”
Even from across the distance, Jasmine heard Ashley’s deep inhalation, followed by a long exhalation. “But, how are you going to survive if you don’t?”
The reminder that she had no way of supporting herself slammed through Jasmine. When she’d met Parker she’d been working as a stylist in an upscale salon. She’d liked the job—loved it, actually—but as her relationship with Parker progressed, they’d seen little reason for her to keep it. He made more than enough to support them.
“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think about money before I left.”
Ashley rubbed her jaw, her gaze sliding up and to the side as she considered this possibility. Her gaze returned to the screen. “Where’s the ring?”
“What ring?”
“Duh...your engagement ring?”
Jasmine’s gaze automatically searched her ring finger only to find it bare. Her purse! She reached inside, found the cold platinum and held it in front of the phone for Ashley to see.
“Get rid of it.”
“Like, chuck it?”
“No! That thing cost Parker a fortune. Go sell it. Use the money to do something wild and crazy. And whatever’s left? That’s what you use to start over.”
Jazz held the ring up, seeing it in a new light. Could she do that?
Hell, yes, she could. The ring was hers. Parker had given it to her when he said he’d love her forever. Now she was heartbroken, fucked over and desperately in need of a break. Parker probably wouldn’t even care.
Jazz bit her lip. “I’ll sell the ring, but I don’t know how to do ‘wild and crazy’.”
“Oh, my God.” Ashley slapped her forehead. “I’ve known you most of my life and if there is anyone who knows how to be wild, it’s you.”
“Ash...”
“Don’t Ash me. You know what you need?”
“A drink?” Jazz held the champagne bottle aloft.
“I think you’ve self-medicated enough,” Ash replied with pursed lips. “No. Here’s what you need. Go find yourself some smoking-hot Frenchman who knows how to treat a woman. And then you need to have a month of raunchy, nasty, awesome sex.” She snapped her fingers. “A sex-venture.”
“A sex-what?” Jasmine rolled her eyes.
“I’m not kidding. You need a release from all this tension—what better way than good sex? You’re totally single now.”
Jasmine groaned.
“I’m sorry, hon. But that’s why you need a passionate, torrid, love affair. Feed some romantic French dude chocolate-covered strawberries. Let him lick champagne off your body...”
“Seriously?”
“Go to one of those sex districts and buy awesome European sex toys...or...” Ashley’s eyes lit up. “No, wait! Buy yourself a gigolo. A super-hot one!”
Jazz couldn’t help laughing at Ashley’s suggestion. It felt good to laugh. “You are insane.” She blew her bangs out of her eyes. “And you should be here,” she finished softly.
“Yeah, well...” Ashley stood and patted her rounded belly. Her friend was tiny, so her third trimester of pregnancy made her look like she had a basketball tucked up under her shirt. “I’m not exactly in the best form for sex-ventures. Plus, I’m pretty sure I would scare off any potential hotties.”
Jasmine touched her finger to the screen as if touching Ashley’s belly. “That is one lucky kid to have you for her mother.”
Ashley’s lips twisted. Her friend had worries of her own with her first child due in under a month.
“Thanks, Ash.”
“Hey. What are friends for? You know I’m here for you. Anytime. I’m just a FaceTime away.”
Jazz nodded.
“Oh, and Jazz?”
“Yeah?”
“Let me be your cautionary tale...” Ash rubbed her belly. “As soon as you sell that ring and before you embark on your sexy time?”
Jazz groaned. “Uh-huh?”
“Buy condoms. Lots and lots of condoms.”
* * *
Two weeks had passed since Luca had been released on bail. The agreement he’d made with François was that he’d not only stay out of the limelight, but that he’d disappear completely while François worked behind the scenes to change the board’s mind. He had hired Myra Monte, publicity guru to the stars, to try to salvage the Legrand brand—promos, charity donations and the like.
“Give me a month,” François had said. “During that time, I don’t want to hear about you, read about you or have to bail you out.”
“But wouldn’t it be better if I talk to the board? Prove to them I’m competent?”
“No. You have to trust me.”
Luca did trust him. Thus he was lying low, as requested, staying out of the press, staying out of trouble. The problem was, scandal had followed him for the last year like a stray dog he’d fed on a whim, a dog that wouldn’t leave him alone. It was that feral beast he didn’t trust.
Bad luck? Luca wasn’t so sure anymore.
He stopped his Ducati Diavel Cruiser at the red light, considering for the thousandth time the information François had revealed.
What if he was being sabotaged? If he was, Luca knew exactly who was behind it.
Marcel Durand. His half brother.
Luca still had a hard time processing the news. Marcel was blond, but with blue eyes—like Luca’s. He had shown a real interest and talent for running the exclusive champagne empire. Yet, his father had left the estate to him. Not Marcel. Did that mean he wanted Luca to run it? That he’d forgiven Luca for his mother’s death?
Something tightened in his chest.
His father had died before Luca had the chance to ask if he’d forgiven him. He’d also died before telling Luca about Marcel. Had he wanted Marcel to inherit and run the Legrand estate?
Luca revved the engine.
He’d never know what his father wanted, but whatever it was, it didn’t change the fact that what Marcel was doing was shitty. He’d almost confided his suspicions to François but decided against it. Since his mother’s death, Luca had always taken care of his affairs himself. This was no different, and if he was right, if Marcel was manufacturing these “incidents”—which only required an anonymous call to a tabloid divulging Luca’s whereabouts, readily available on Google Calendar—then Luca would figure out a way to take care of Marcel himself.
The first step was to take a hiatus from his high-profile life, making sure no one would know where he was. So he’d rented a flat in a quiet part of town through a discreet agency, he’d started growing a beard—which itched like mad—and he’d been driving his Ducati around Paris. No one would suspect Luca Legrand, professional driver, to be on a Ducati, a make driven by an opposing team. He’d even bought himself a new phone with a new number so he wouldn’t be contacted by friends...or tracked by Anika.
Only one problem.
He was bored stiff and had no idea if this hiatus would help with the mess he’d created.
No. The mess Marcel has created.
Grinding his teeth, Luca revved the engine again, released the clutch and sprang forward just as the light changed to green. The thing was, before he’d known who Marcel was, he’d liked him. The man was smart, competent and had seemed like Luca’s only ally when every other employee of the Legrand estate—they aren’t employees, they’re family, his father had always said—had shown him little more than polite but cold deference. Something else his father had always said was that trust takes time. Then there was forgiveness...
Luca took the next corner hard and when he spotted a police car at the other end of the street, he reminded himself to slow down. “You don’t need to break any more fucking laws,” he muttered to himself.
Just to be safe, he turned down a narrow side street—the kind that drove tourists crazy because they went unmarked on tourist maps—and then turned down another, which was narrow and deserted.
No, it wasn’t deserted; there was a motorcycle—a Honda Shadow—parked at the side of the road beside an antique shop. The man astride it glanced Luca’s way, watching him as Luca drove past. At the corner, Luca checked his rearview mirror.
Something was off. He could feel it by the way the man’s helmeted head followed his departure. After Luca turned the corner, he stopped the bike by an empty storefront and parked. Leaving his helmet with the shaded visor on, he walked back to the corner and peered down the street.
The man was in the process of pulling off his helmet, and under that he wore a balaclava. With a final surreptitious glance up and down the street, the man strode into the shop with a crowbar hanging from his fingertips.
Fuck.
It was just his luck.
Luca’s one goal was to avoid trouble and here he’d stumbled across a robbery in the middle of the goddamn day.
* * *
For the first time in two days, Jasmine forgot everything that had happened and wandered with delight through the shop she’d found using Google maps. It was off the beaten track, down some lonely little cobblestone street. And it was full of treasures.
This was not the type of pawnshop she was familiar with from the United States—a seedy place with bars on the windows where a greasy man wearing an undershirt picked his teeth behind an enclosed counter. This was a delightful boutique with beautiful items carefully displayed, everything from lamps and pots to clothing and jewelry.
“This is so...Paris,” she said quietly to herself as she gazed about the tiny space.
There were so many exquisite pieces in the shop to choose from: necklaces, bracelets, earrings. There were also hand-embroidered silk scarves, funky original hats and handbags. There were antiques and what had to be one-of-a-kind items, like the silver oil lamp that reminded her of the stories Auntie Bibi used to whisper at bedtime when she slept over at her cousins as a young girl. Adventures and genies from Arabian Nights. She picked up the lamp, considering. Maybe this lamp was a sign that she should have her own adventure, just like Ash encouraged.
Though, a sex-venture?
Jazz smiled to herself. Crazy.
“Est-ce que je peux vous aider?” the man behind the counter asked.
“I’m sorry,” Jasmine said, making her way toward him, the lamp, a silk scarf and a necklace clutched in her hands. Not that she needed any of the items but the prices were so good and Jazz was a sucker for a good deal. “I don’t speak French. Do you speak English?” She leaned on the display case, her gaze drawn to the gorgeous jewelry inside.
“Yes, a little.”
“Those are so pretty,” she said, pointing to a pair of emerald-drop earrings.
“Would you like to take a look?”
Oh, yes please, she nearly gushed before she remembered her reason for being there. She absently rubbed the polished silver of the lamp and said, “I have a ring I’d like to sell.”
“To sell? May I see?”
She set the lamp down on the counter and reached into her purse. Room key. Wallet. Cell phone. Passport. Hmm...where had she put that ring?
“It’s in here somewhere.” She dug around. Seriously, where the hell was the ring and what would she do if she’d lost it? She was sure Parker had paid about twenty grand for it. Not that she’d looked it up online or anything.
Okay. Maybe she had.
She located the ring at the bottom of her bag and placed it on the counter for the man to inspect, straightening her shoulders as he picked it up and scrutinized it through the lens of a loupe.
“C’est belle,” the man murmured as he checked the ring from all angles.
The bells over the door tinkled but she didn’t bother to look because something inside of her had shifted. An unknown weight lifted from Jasmine’s shoulders, making her feel like a brand-new person. Could she really put her broken engagement behind her and be the woman Ash had described—carefree and adventurous? A woman who lived in the moment and was on the lookout for a sex-venture...
“Mettez-vous par terre!” a deep male voice shouted.
She turned toward the voice but nothing about the man behind her made sense. It was like she’d stumbled upon the set of a movie and her already muddled brain was having a hard time computing why a man would be wearing a ski mask in spring and brandishing a crowbar.
To her bewilderment, he strode forward and smashed the display case she’d been leaning on with one massive blow.
What the...?
“Écoutez-moi!” He shouted right in her face.
So weird. Was she dreaming? Because this whole thing had an otherworldly quality to it and it just got worse when the dude reached into his beat-up jacket, pulled out a gun and pointed it at her.
“Par terre!”
Before Jasmine had time to consider what the man was shouting, he grasped the back of her neck and shoved her to the floor.
Oomph!
That hurt.
But now that she was on the ground, the thief ignored her and she lifted her head to find him swiping handfuls of jewelry and dumping the items into a leather satchel. Her ring was among the things he took.
Something inside of her gut, something hot and heavy and furious, was not about to lie benignly on the floor while some petty criminal robbed this delightful shop.
And her.
After all she’d been through? She deserved that fucking ring. Or, rather, she deserved the money from that fucking ring so she could move on from the disaster that was her life.
With energy she had no idea she possessed, Jasmine sprang to her feet, grabbed the outstretched arm of the thug and clung to it like her life depended on it.
“You fucker!” Jasmine growled, twisting his arm in a move she’d learned in a self-defense class, forcing the man to drop the gun. She grabbed the strap of the satchel, pulling it off his shoulder.
“Salope!” The man swung the crowbar catching the side of her head.
The pain in her temple was so sharp and stinging, that warrior-Jasmine drained out of her system as she curled on the ground, gripping the satchel like a beloved teddy bear, feeling like she might vomit from the pain. What happened next would have confused her at the best of times, but her head was still spinning from being clocked and her body was still pumping with adrenaline, lack of sleep and jet leg...
There was a crash.
Followed by a wet thunk and a man cried out in pain.
A body crumpled heavily half on, half off her.
A hand appeared in front of her face, gesturing for her to take it in order to help her to her feet. “Ça va?”
And then Jasmine was standing on noodle-y legs, gazing into the face of a stranger. The man wore a black leather jacket and a black helmet with the visor raised, revealing a face with a scruffy beard, dark brows and...the clearest, bluest, most amazing eyes she’d ever seen.
And then there were four eyes, then six...
“Mademoiselle?” He snapped his fingers in front of her face.
She shook her head, and then wished she hadn’t as stars appeared, dancing in front of her open eyes. She would have fallen if not for the strong hands gripping her arms, holding her up.
However, there were equally strong hands tugging on the strap of the satchel she was still clutching. The thug on the floor grappled for the bag and two things happened simultaneously. The bag slipped from her hands, spilling the contents on the tile floor just as a black leather boot swished past her line of vision, kicking the thief in the face and knocking him out. The rest happened in slow motion. Rings, earrings and necklaces scattered, jumping and skittering across the polished tile floor like live things freed from captivity. Jasmine caught sight of her ring bouncing along the hard floor, ricocheting off the bottom corner of the counter and landing—plunk—inside the passing boot of the stranger.
Without thinking, Jasmine lunged for the man’s leg, reaching into the top of his boot for her ring, but he shook her off, glaring down at her and speaking harshly—probably cursing—in French. Then the man stilled, his head jerked toward the door and the street and Jasmine became aware of the sound of sirens approaching.
“Merde!”
With one powerful shake, the six-eyed man dislodged Jasmine from his leg and strode toward the door.
“Wait!” Jasmine scrambled to her feet and hurried out after the stranger in black. Once on the street, she saw him jogging toward a corner and Jasmine took off after him, calling, “Please, wait! You’ve got my ring!”
However, running in high heels was nearly impossible on the cobblestone street, so Jasmine paused to pull off her sling-back sandals and hurl them away—she’d grab them later. Then she ran the rest of the distance in bare feet. Her head pounded like a drummer was between her ears, playing a solo at a heavy metal concert.
When she got to the corner, her legs wobbled and she could barely see straight.
There.
The man with her ring was straddling a motorcycle, the engine roaring to life as she stumbled toward him, stepping onto the road, holding her hand up to stop him.
Her brain must not have been functioning, because just as the man revved the engine of the motorcycle the world went sideways, and where once there was a street, a man and a motorcycle, there were now only quaint French rooftops, an impossibly blue sky and a bird flying at an odd angle.
Then everything went black.