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
