The waiter keeps his face clear of emotion as he’s been trained to.
“Get us a bottle of Château Margaux 2005.” If I have to eat, I want to do it with a damn good glass of wine.
Philippe shoots me a look of near horror. “We’re having raw meat, not absolution. Order something less dramatic.”
I ignore him. “Château Margaux, 2005,” I repeat. “Decanted.”
The waiter bows slightly and glides away.
Philippe leans back in his chair. “Only you,mon ami, would treat heartbreak with an expensive Bordeaux.”
“I’ve treated less with more,” I mutter.
Philippe pours me a glass of water. “Hydrate.” And when I do, he adds, “You look like hell.”
“Merci,” I mutter, sinking into the leather chair. “Giselle came by today.”
“And?”
“Shefired Tara.”
He studies me for a long moment. “On your say so?”
“No. Simone’s.”
His brows lift. “You let her.”
It’s not a question. It’s the truth. I didn’t stop Simone. I could have—shouldhave—but I didn’t because I was furious and humiliated and didn’t think about it.
“She also blacklisted her.”
“Merde!” Philippe slapped a hand on the table. “Do you really think Tara sent that photo to the tabloids?”
“She took that photograph,” I retort.
“Please! This has Simone written all over it.”
It isn’t like my mind didn’t go there. It did. “She wouldn’t put Aubert in jeopardy."
“Yes, she would,” he protests. “You know, Gustave, you never think when Simone’s involved. You react. And you do it poorly.”
Before I can answer, a voice interrupts—smooth, oily, familiar.
Benoit Clérisseau.
The publisher ofLe Monde du Luxe, the same publication that splashed Tara’s face across every newsstand in Paris.
“Comte de Valois,” he says, smiling with false charm. “I apologize for the problems caused by my newspaper.”
He’s gleeful!Le putain de connard?*!
“I have to say, you chose well,” he continues, ignoring the look of murderous rage I send his way. “Young and tender, that’s the way mistresses should be,non?”
I’m about to stand up and rearrange the man’s face when Philippe’s hand clamps around my wrist. “Don’t,” he warns under his breath.
I stare at the man, every muscle in my body coiled. “Fuck off, Clérisseau.”
“Now, now, de Valois?—”
