Glass and stone. Open terraces. Low, sprawling lines that follow the slope of the land instead of fighting it. Warm light spills from within, golden against the dark, as if the jungle itself has decided this place may exist in its midst.
I swear under my breath.
“Wow,” Iris murmurs. “Your contacts are… eclectic.”
“That’s one word for it.”
I kill the engine. The silence rushes in, alive with insects and distant animal calls. Something moves in the underbrush.Something large enough to remind me that here, we are not at the top of the food chain.
I step out first, scanning automatically. The air smells like damp earth and flowering vines. A shadow moves behind a window. Someone’s watching us.
“I need you to stay close,” I tell her quietly. “Let me do the talking.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “You’re suddenly very bossy.”
I almost smile. Almost.
The front doors are already open when we reach them.
Lucien Moreau stands framed in the entryway like he’s been expecting us, which he probably has.
He hasn’t changed.
Still tall. Still lean in that deceptively relaxed way that makes men underestimate him right up until they’re bleeding. His dark hair is threaded with more silver than the last time I saw him, but his eyes are the same. Sharp, amused, measuring.
He’s dressed in linen trousers and a loose shirt, barefoot on polished stone, a glass of amber liquid in his hand like this is a dinner party and the capital isn’t imploding a few hours away.
“Julian,” he says, voice smooth, French accent curling around the syllables. “You’re early.”
“I didn’t call ahead,” I reply.
Lucien smiles. “You never do when it matters.”
His gaze slides past me to Iris, and interest sparks in his eyes. “A guest,” he observes, smiling at her. That smile pisses me off.
“She’s a friend,” I say flatly, but with a bite of warning in my tone.
Lucien’s smile deepens. “An exquisite friend.”
I feel something sharp twist in my chest. “Iris,” I say, “this is Lucien Moreau.”
She offers her hand and smiles. “Nice villa.”
Lucien laughs, genuine and warm. He takes her hand briefly, then releases it. “It’s less impressive when you’re running for your life, I imagine.”
Her eyes flick to me. Back to him. “You’re… a friend of Julian’s?”
Lucien and I speak at the same time.
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Lucien says.
He gestures us inside with a sweep of his hand. “Come. Someone will take care of the car.”
The villa is cool inside. The air stirred gently by slowing moving fans and convection through open walls, carrying jungle sounds with it. Everything is understated luxury: wood, stone, soft light. No ostentation. Nothing that screamssteal me.
Lucien moves like a man who belongs in this space. He pours another glass without asking and hands it to Iris.
