as her fingers penetrated her slick channel. The man in her fantasy looked up from what he was doing. Dark hair. Dark brows. A week-old beard. The bluest eyes.
This wasn’t the man from her fantasy.
It was Luca.
Her orgasm hit her like a rogue asteroid, knocking her out of orbit, shattering her as she pressed one hand on top of the other between her legs lest she literally explode.
* * *
Luca stood outside the door. The woman was moaning. In pain? Should he go in? He put his hand on the doorknob and was about to turn the handle when she cried out.
Then everything went quiet.
That was not good. He didn’t want to walk in to find her passed out. Or worse. He waited a few seconds before knocking.
“Jasmine? Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” she called in a high-pitched voice.
“Bien. I’ll wake you around midnight, okay?”
“Yes. Okay. Perfect. That’s good. Thank you.”
Luca’s hands lingered on the door before he moved to the bathroom to wash up. It was early, yet, for him, only nine thirty, but he should try to rest if he was going to rouse the woman every four hours.
“What else do you have to do?” he asked his reflection. “You’ve got two more weeks to wait before returning to work. You should be glad for the distraction.”
Distraction was fine, but this distraction was a little too...distracting.
He dried his face, the image of Jasmine’s naked back burned into his irises.
“She’ll be gone tomorrow,” he muttered, then he hung up the towel and turned the light off.
On his way to the living room, he paused outside her door, listening. No more moans. No more sounds. He hoped that meant all was well. He moved past and settled his frame onto the sofa, reaching for the laptop that sat on the coffee table. Like every night for the past week, he navigated the web to the Legrand website.
When Myra Monte took over the estate’s publicity, she convinced Luca to auction off one of three remaining bottles of the Legrand Goût des Rubis. The exclusive rosé blend had been commissioned for the marriage of Grace Kelly to Prince Rainier in 1956, and the bottle included a two-carat ruby in its label. While the bottles were meant to be passed down through the family, Luca had readily made the decision to give one up for the auction if it meant he could maintain control of the estate.
Already the international interest from collectors had been a distraction from Luca’s dishonor and prompted an uptick in champagne prices.
Luca entered a name into the search engine: Marcel Durand. He’d done the same thing every night for a week. Watching for any new article or item to show up. He creeped his social media pages and watched for any indication of the slimy eel Luca knew him to be. But, he had to admit, the guy knew how to keep his nose clean.
Luca could almost hear François’s voice telling him he could learn a thing or two from this young man.
Salaud! Bastard!
“Literally.” Luca ground his teeth.
He was just about to type in another search when he noticed something new. An announcement of Marcel’s engagement to Lydia Fournier—hmm...the name sounded familiar. Luca must have met her at one of the functions the company had held in the last eleven months. She was blonde and tall, almost as tall as Marcel, who stood beside her in the photo that had been posted in today’s paper. Luca skimmed the article, reading that she had been attending university in Madrid. Then he stopped reading.
So, Marcel was living a perfect life. That would end when Luca exposed him for what he was, though he still had no idea how to go about doing it.
Probably because it was difficult to make a move when he was in hiding, rarely going out during the day. Of course, today had been the exception. This morning, he’d gone for a long ride along the Loire River valley. Riding was the only thing that kept him sane.
But instead of sanity, what had he gotten? An American damsel in distress.
The polar opposite of sanity.
Worse, this damsel just happened to have gorgeous, thick hair, soul-melting eyes and the nicest ass he’d ever seen...
Luca pinched the bridge of his nose. He was a sucker for a beautiful woman in need. Wasn’t that how he’d met Anika? She’d had too much to drink during a party on a yacht. He’d held her hair while she got sick.
Without thinking about what he was doing—maybe it was a reminder of why not to get involved with the devil that was woman—Luca typed “Luca Legrand sex video” into the search engine.
Despite the fact that Luca’s team had had the video taken down—and wanted to take legal action against the original site that posted it—it had spent far too long online before he’d become aware of the situation and had it handled. Millions of viewers had seen it.
Merde.
And millions were still talking about it, if the current search results from blogs and gossip sites were any indication. Luca didn’t doubt the internet was rife with illegal copies that could still be viewed somewhere. The whole situation was a nightmare—one that felt impossible to contain. Some sadistic need to punish himself had him opening the original copy of the video and hitting the Play button. The video was dark and amateurish—because when he and Anika had made it, it was for their eyes only—but her face was clearly distinguishable. As was his as he tied her up, spread-eagled, to the bed. An act that took ultimate trust had been corrupted by exposure to the public.
Luca rubbed his forehead before exiting the video. He returned to the search results online and clicked on the first hit, then scrolled to the comments beneath the article. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. More figurative self-flagellation.
What an asshole.
Luca Legrand can tie me up anytime.
Anika deserves better than that sadistic pig.
He should be thrown in jail...
With a growl, he snapped the laptop lid closed, pushed the computer back onto the coffee table, got to his feet and paced the length of the small living room. What his surfing had confirmed for him was that he could not afford another scandal. He needed to get rid of the American woman first thing without her or anyone else finding out about his involvement.
He could drop her at the embassy—but she had no money and no one to vouch for her.
He could take her back to the street where the shop was to see if she would remember anything. Maybe her bag was still at the shop. Or, more likely, it was at the police station.
He opened the French doors onto the small balcony and went to stand at the rail, breathing in the night air, considering his options. The woman’s memory was faulty and she didn’t know his real name. Even if
