“Dinner with Dora.” His voice is casual as he fills a plate, but I detect an underlying strain.
“Fine,” I say, but my face must tell a different story.
“That bad?” Judging by his tone, I’d guess he understands exactly what dining with the family is like.
I use the tiny fork to take some cheese. “There were some strange moments.” I avoid eye contact as I gloss over the truth, but when I look up, Noah is studying me.
“Okay.” I sigh. “Let’s just say I understand your warning about Ric.”
He tenses, a glower tightening his face. “What did he do?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “Nothing too bad. But I can tell he’s used to getting what he wants.” A diplomatic answer. Better than saying Ric’s a leering, hand-wandering perv.
Noah’s expression remains dark. “I’m sorry. He’s a real . . . piece of work.” Switching to a more polite description, he nods. But I can tell another word was on his tongue.
“Ric always thought a lot of himself, even when we were kids. He wants to be next in line to rule Maison Marteau, even before Victor.”
“His own father?”
Noah shrugs and shakes his head.
Smearing butter on my croissant, I paste a pleasant expression on my face and shift the conversation away from Ric. “Did you visit here much when you were younger?”
He takes a moment, then finally says, “My mother and I stayed away for a long time. She’s from the States, so after my father died, we didn’t have much reason to return.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”
“No, it’s fine.” He waves away my concern. “My aunt and uncle live in California. They’re good people, and we stayed close.”
Good people. The phrase sits oddly. As if he needs to separate them from the rest of the Marteaus.
“I can’t imagine living somewhere else when you’ve got a literal mansion in Paris.” I try to make my tone light and playful, but Noah remains pensive.
“Family life here can be complicated, especially if you’re like me.” He meets my eyes. “Not the rightbloodline.”
He puts emphasis on the word, as if he’s heard it from someone else. My bet would be Dora.
He angles his head toward my apartment. “My aunt and uncle in California are the ones who own your unit.”
“Do they rent it out often?” I keep trying to avoid negative topics, but as soon as I ask the question, I think of Rose.
I didn’t mean to open this particular door, wasn’t planning to interrogate Noah.
But now I’m on edge, waiting to hear what he says.
Staring over my head, he sips his coffee and squints in thought. “They used to rent it more, but it’s been a while.”
I stir the scrambled eggs on my plate and scoop some up. “Such a beautiful place to sit empty. I’m lucky my agent could get me in. She has connections and, apparently, one of them led to your aunt.” I hold my fork but don’t take a bite.
I’m too busy phrasing my next question, following the natural path of the conversation. “Was the last person who stayed in the apartment family, or a family friend?”
The eggs wobble on my fork as I hold my breath.
“I’m not sure. I was away on business a lot during that time, but I did speak to the last tenant once. I remember she was a Brit.”
My skin prickles.
Rose.
