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
