Page 39 of Clock Strikes Paradise

As I sipped the rich wine, I let my gaze wander around the room. The joyous energy was infectious, and my worry about Clay eased from my mind. My eyes settled on a corner table, and I blinked in surprise. Camille sat deep in conversation with Monica, the yoga instructor.

I hadn't realized they knew each other. They were clearly having a great time, heads close together, punctuating their conversation with bursts of laughter. For a moment, I considered joining them, but they looked so engrossed in their chat that I decided not to interrupt.

Instead, I turned my attention to the band. The lead singer's voice was sultry and smooth, weaving through the instrumental beats like silk. My foot tapped along to the rhythm, and a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.

I took another sip of wine, savoring the flavors as they danced across my tongue. The rich, heady notes seemed to harmonize with the music, creating a perfect sensory melody. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the lively atmosphere envelop me.

The band had just finished a particularly lively number when I felt a presence at my elbow. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up before I even turned to look.

“Well, well. If it isn't Clay Harmon’s little... assistant.”

I knew that voice. Smooth as silk and twice as slippery. Laurent DuBois.

I turned slowly, steeling myself. His cream-colored linen suit was pressed and impeccable, his hair artfully slicked back, and he held a snifter of cognac in one manicured hand. His lips were curved in what I suppose he thought was a charming smile, but to me, it looked more like a predator baring its teeth.

“Good evening, Mr. DuBois,” I said, proud of howsteady my voice sounded, and hoping the formal address would send him on his way.

He tsked, wagging a finger. “Come now, we're all friends now. Call me Laurent.” He leaned in, his expensive cologne drifting over me. “I must say, I'm surprised to see you here alone. Trouble in paradise already?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Only that I never expected you to let Clay out of your clutches.” He arched a brow. “When I saw you two earlier, I noticed he had his arm around you, and naturally assumed the mighty billionaire found someone new to play with.”

My heart stuttered to a stop. “Excuse me?”

His eyes glittered with something I couldn't quite name. Malice? Amusement? “I wonder, my dear, if you truly understand the... nature of your relationship with our dear Clay.”

My grip tightened on my glass. “I don’t see how any of this is your concern.”

Laurent chuckled, the sound grating on my nerves. “Oh, come now. Surely you don't think... No, you're a smart girl. You must know that men like Clay Harmon don't fall for little nobodies.” He waved his hand dismissively. “You're a distraction, nothing more. A pretty little toy to pass the time.”

His words hit me like a physical blow, voicing every insecurity I'd been battling. Reinforcing every statement my inner voice had been screaming at me. I opened my mouth to respond, but he continued, his tone dripping with false sympathy.

“Don't take it personally,chérie. It is simply the way of things. When this deal is done, he'll move on to the next shiny object that catches his eye. Best to enjoy it while it lasts,non?”

I wanted to argue, to defend myself and Clay. But Laurent's words had found purchase in the cracks of my confidence, widening them into chasms of doubt. I sat there, speechless and my mouth agape, as he raised his glass in a mocking toast.

“To fleeting fancies,” he said with a wink, before sauntering away and leaving me alone with the bitter taste of insecurity on my tongue.

The music continued to play, the crowd continued to laugh and dance, but suddenly, I felt completely and utterly alone.

I stared into my half-empty wine glass, Laurent's words echoing in my mind. The bar's cheerful atmosphere now felt like mockery. I was considering jumping in the ocean fully clothed when a gentle hand touched my arm.

“Elise? Are you okay?”

I glanced up at Camille, her face etched with concern. I tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

“I'm fine,” I lied, my voice coming out in a waver.

Camille's eyes narrowed. “Bullshit,” she said flatly. “Nate pointed that guy out to me—the Frenchman. Said to watch out for him. And from what Monica and I just saw, he looked about as charming as a shark with a toothache.”

A surprised laugh escaped me at her description, breaking through the fog of my distress.

“Come on,” Camille said, tugging gently at my arm. “Monica and I have a table. Join us.”

Part of me wanted to decline, to retreat and lick my wounds in private. But Camille's warmth was like a lifeline, and I found myself following her to the corner table.

Monica greeted me with both a smile and a creased brow, but her calm presence still eased my frazzled nerves.Camille signaled a waiter, ordering a round of drinks I didn't catch the name of.