I nudged Matteo as we arrived at the steps of the private plane. “What’s wrong with Placido?” I whispered. “Is he sick?”
He wasn’t walking straight, and his hair was barely combed. He was—as they all were—usually in impeccable shape, down to the hair. He wore dark glasses, but I could tell by the furrow of his brows that he was squinting at the bright light, even with the tint of his lenses. Maybe he’d had too much to drink?
Damn.I wasn’t sure if that was allowed. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it? But a sly grin came across Matteo’s face, and it made me turn to him.
“What?” I asked.
He could barely keep a straight face. “That woman from last night.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “The ice queen.”
Matteo nodded. “That’s her.”
“What about her?”
“She demanded payment.”
We stared at each other, then my mouth popped open with understanding.
“Payment,” I repeated. “The currency being male flesh?”
“Yeah.”
“You…you…you…” I stuttered, unable to even finish at first. “You offered Placido up to her!”
Matteo quieted me by leaning in and kissing me. “Shh, baby,” he said, laughing against my lips. “The screws in his head might be a little loose today.”
“Seriously. Why couldn’t anyone saynoto her? Is she that much of a princess? And what did she want payment for? Standing around?!” I glanced at poor Placido, who groaned as he walked up the stairs. “This is so fucked up. I told you she was trouble! She wanted you so—” Pieces started to click into place, changing the direction of my tirade. “That’s it! She wanted you, and since you said you were off the market, you had to offer her a tribute!”
Matteo exploded with laughter. I hit his chest. He grabbed my hand and kissed it.
“Come,” he said, a smile lingering on his face. “You are about to be inducted into a club.”
I had no idea what he’d meant, but on the short ride over, I figured it out. I was a mile-high member, Matteo Fausti as my sponsor. He inducted me so good, I felt like Placido as my husband helped me down the steps of the plane and onto French ground.
Then, in a rush of men and cars, we were in Paris, the city of light. And my husband could speak better French than most of the Parisians, it seemed. He was fluent in so many languages, it was almost unbelievable.
“Show off,” I said to him the next day when he ordered us breakfast in French at a little bistro I’d noticed on the drive to our rented apartment.
Saverio and Matteo had rented Chloe’s old apartment and kept it under her name. I could see the Eiffel Tower from her balcony, and the cityscape of Paris. It took hours to get me inside after I’d found it. I loved the view and, despite what had happened to me there, the city.
He lifted my hand and kissed it. “Tell me, are you impressed,la mia stella?”
“Impressed enough to be turned on? Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
At the rate we were going, we’d never leave the apartment, but Matteo said it was on my bucket list to explore the city, so that was what we did. We explored on foot and by car; we visited museums and ate at fancy French restaurants (some not so fancy). I even asked him to take me to Pigalle. We drove it by car, not to tempt fate too much. The Nemours had a few places there. We walked along the Seine, my arm in his, with gelati we got from an Italian shop. Matteo told me stories as we walked.
One, though, stood out the most.
How his dad had sent his mom to Paris to dance while he left for the Coast Guard.
I stopped walking, and so did he.
“Brando left Scarlett?” I asked, the unhinged tone of my voice not escaping either of us. Then I remembered…the break she mentioned the morning she’d told me about losing their first Matteo.
Matteo leaned in and kissed the tart raspberry flavor from my lips. “Yeah, he did. But—” he pointed to his chest “—Matteo vows not to leave Stella.”
“That…” I had to catch my breath from the way he’d licked it off my lips, and the fact that, once upon a time, his dad had left his mom. “That must have been so hard for her.”
