Her words are crisp with an undertone of fury.
Around us, the party continues—laughter rising as a cluster of men toast with champagne, the clink of crystal punctuating her accusation.
“What are you after?” I sneer.
She takes a step back, away from me…not like that night when she was holding me close.
“After?” She says the word like she’s tasting it for the first time.
“Mon Dieu! Will you keep repeating what I say or get to the fucking point?” I bite out. “How much do you want to keep quiet…about that night?”
Her brown eyes flash pure rage.
I regret my words. Almost.
“How about you get your head out of your ass?” She flings at me. “That will be payment enough.”
I close my eyes for a moment and run a hand through my hair. I can’t afford to be reckless—not with the de Valois’ name on the line, with Aubert facing the brunt of tabloid bullshit.
“Did you take any pictures that night?” I ask.
I have to.
“Yes, I did.” Her words are dripping with sarcasm. “Hell, I made a sex video. I’m going to share it with all my followers…allzeroof them.”
I swallow. It won’t do to antagonize her. “Look?—”
“No. I don’t know what kind of people you’re usedto…or rather, I can guess based on how you’re talking to me, but I’m not remotely interested in announcing my private life to the world. And I’m not even freaking royalty.” She has her hands on her waist, and her chin is pointing at me.
I remember how those hands had touched me—the best fucking night of my life.
“I can’t afford a misstep.” The words are more for me than for her.
“You think I’m a misstep?” Her eyes flash, hurt and furious. “You think Iplannedthis? I didn’t even know your last name until five minutes ago.”
I want to believe her. God help me, I want to. But paranoia whispers louder. Simone taught me well. The tabloids taught me better.
“Forget we met that night,” I say softly.
Her mouth tightens. The bangles on her wrist jangle as she retreats…away from me, and for a moment, I remember them tangled in the sheets.
Merde!
“Giselle Durand speaks highly of your skills as an art restorer,Mademoiselle?* Gayarre,” I say finally, cold as stone. “Thank you for your efforts.”
I turn, leave her standing there, and slip back into the glow of the crowd, ensconced by silk gowns and champagneflutes.
My heart is still pounding when my name is called out, arresting my escape.
“Gustave.”
My ex-wife’s manicured hand lands on my arm like a jeweled claw. “Where have you been? Ambassador Perez is looking for you. They’re interested in the de Valois investment in AI.”
For one wild moment, I want to shake her off and stride back to Tara—ask her to come with me, to vanish into the night and forget this circus. But even if she were willing—which she won’t be after the debacle of a conversation we just had—I can’t afford it. Men like me don’t indulge—not openly. They hide their affairs, tucking their mistresses behind the velvet curtain. Discretion is survival. And sleeping with a woman employed on a de Valois commission is neither wise nor discreet.
“Of course.” I paste on a smile.
No one looking at us would ever suspect Simone once hurled two Ming vases against the wall the night I told her I wanted a divorce. No one would imagine the months of lawyers, and the venom whispered through clenched teeth. They see only a polished tableau: the Count and his ex, arm-in-arm, moving smoothly through Parisian society. We are the outward definition of an amicable divorce—despite the rumors and the times that Simone let her public mask slip.
