“Did you bring boob tape?”
“I don’t leave home without it.” She dug it out of her toiletry bag and tossed it across the room.
“I don’t want to know,” Chelsea announced.
They swished down the stairs and through the lobby to their waiting car. Instead of the limo, it was a sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows. The driver got out and opened the rear door.
“Our ride,” Poppy announced. “Something a bit more subdued.”
Marielle ended up sitting next to a window. She watched the city slide past in a blur of lights and shadows as they wound through the narrow streets, the driver navigating with practiced ease.
Marielle watched the pedestrians, the cyclists, the lovers strolling hand in hand along the Seine.
Normal people. Living normal lives. Unaware of the threats gathering in the shadows.
The car slowed, pulling up in front of a small, unassuming restaurant with a red awning.
“We’re here,” Poppy announced. “Best roast chicken in Paris. Prepare to have your minds blown.”
The maître d’ greeted Poppy like she was a favorite cousin, not a pop star.
“Poppy! Your table is ready. Come, come.”
He led them through the crowded dining room to a semi-private alcove in the back. And there, sitting at the table next to theirs, was Brad Hampton.
He was younger than Marielle expected. Mid-twenties, with his father’s square jaw but softer features. He looked up as they approached, and his face lit up when he saw Poppy.
“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he said, standing.
“Brad, imagine running into you here!” Poppy squealed.
And … action.
14
Dinner was everything Poppy promised. Perfectly roasted chicken, heavenly pommes frites, and buttery wines served up by a friendly server in a warm, unpretentious bistro.
And for entertainment, they got to witness Poppy working Brad Hampton. She giggled at his jokes, stroked his arm, touched her forehead to his. The works. To anyone watching, they were a beautiful couple enjoying a romantic evening in Paris.
But to Marielle and Olivia, who were listening, it was anything but romantic.
“My old man kicked me out of the house,” Brad confided. “That’s why I decided to fly over here. Ditched my detail, too. Screw them, and screw him.”
“He didn’t ask you to leave permanently, did he?” Poppy’s eyes were wide with concern.
“No. But he’s all uptight because he has a very important meeting coming up. All hush hush. And when I asked him if it was the Mahmouds, he got pissed off and told me to mind my business.” Brad drained his glass, and Olivia immediately refilled it from the carafe on the table.
“So you think it is Idris and his dad?” Poppy asked.
“No, because they’ve come to the house plenty of times and he hasn’t acted like such a dick. Maybe Mahmoud and the investors? I dunno.” He gulped his new glass of wine in two swallows.
Marielle put her hand over the carafe, signaling for Olivia to wait. They didn’t need him passing out.
The gesture caught his attention and he squinted at her. “Hey, aren’t you Margaux?”
Marielle blinked innocently. “You must have me confused with someone. My name is Elle.”
“Huh.” He turned back to Poppy. “Doesn’t she look like that chick from the yacht? The one who Hanna took off with?”
