“I’m sorry for my actions, too,” I say.
“What was I thinking?” Pursing his lips, he shakes his head. “It will never happen again.”
I mumble an acknowledgment of his promise, my heart sinking at “never again.” But I’m pleased I was able to say stop before we went too far.
Thunder rumbles, weak and distant now, and then silence stretches out between us.
“Good night, Lucie.” He turns around and retreats to his room.
I stumble back to mine, put on the bathrobe, grab the flashlight and head back to the bathroom.
I’m a mess. Confusion, regret, desire, and frustration fill my head as I brush my teeth.
What have we done?
How can I ever face him again? How will this affect our work relationship, the office dynamics? Will we be able to act natural, like nothing happened? And most damning of all, why do I get a distinct feeling that I won’t forget this mind-blowing kiss so easily? I know I’ll keep thinking about it even when my Parisian stint is over and I’m back in Lyon. It will haunt my nightly fantasies for many months—oh, what the hell, I can be honest inside my own head—for years.
On that sad realization, I trudge back to my room and climb between the sheets for what is promising to be a long, sleepless night.
12
MAX
Violette climbs the telescoping ladder and opens the attic hatch. Once she’s in, we make our way upstairs.
Lucie looks around. “Wow, it’s bigger and lighter than I remember as a kid playing hide and seek with my cousins.”
“We had a skylight installed.” Violette points out the rectangular insert of spotless azure. “I also decluttered a few years back.”
Ducking my head so I don’t bump my forehead into the low beams, I tread the painted floorboards that creak underfoot. The attic smells of dust and damp cardboard.
Lucie stops by a dressmaker’s dummy. “I remember this one! It was in your bedroom at one point, wasn’t it,Tata?”
“Yes,” her aunt confirms, chuckling. “I kept it there throughout my midlife crisis when I tried, and failed, to become an haute couture designer.”
Lucie runs her fingertips over the dummy’s shoulders. “Mom still wears the dresses you made. They’re the best.”
“Oh, it isn’t the talent or skill that I lacked,” Violette says. “It’s the business acumen.”
I glance at Lucie. She looks fresh and full of energy, despite the hint of dark circles under her eyes. Mine are a lot more pronounced. Both Violette and Dominique pointed it out at breakfast with feigned concern, barely hiding their amusement.
Ha, I wish it’d been like they think!Unfortunately, my sleepless night wasn’t caused by having sex with Lucie. It was caused by consciously forgoing that treat.
Now, I did mean what I said to her in the corridor. I am sorry I kissed her. We work together. I’m her boss. Even though I’ll take a sabbatical from MINDFUCH as soon as we’ve found the key, and our paths will never cross again, that doesn’t make kissing my current subordinate less inappropriate.
Have I been spoiled beyond redemption by the fact that no woman between Tokyo and Lisbon has ever rejected me? Has my being the most eligible bachelor in Mount Evor gone to my head? At every charity fundraiser when a dinner with me is the lottery prize, every female present buys a ticket, no matter how overpriced. Many fork out their life savings to purchase the maximum authorized number of tickets. Some try to cheat.
Last year, a skirmish broke out after the winner announcement. Eyes got blackened. Gowns got ripped. Nipples got flashed. Local tabloids had a field day. The organizers were mortified. Mother was furious. The head of Royal Protocol handed in his resignation letter, which the prime minister refused. “Something about those magnetic eyes of his,” the implicated ladies all claimed later to justify their inexplicable loss of self-restraint.
It’s decided, then.
As soon as we’re back in Paris, I’ll have my private secretary inform the organizing committee of the next scheduled charity ball that I’ll waltz with the first twentyticket holders; no coaxing needed this time. They’ll be thrilled as will the female guests. I’ll take the prettiest of them out to dinner the next day, which, as always, will lead to a one-off or a fling.
That should blot out the memory of last night’s kiss and make me stop craving this spirited young woman.
Besides, she isn’t just any woman. She’s the Key to the first key.
Violette leads us past Christmas decorations, old strollers, baby furniture, and various memorabilia. She halts by a dozen boxes stacked precariously and sealed with masking tape. “Emma” is written on the sides in black marker. I’m assuming that’s Lucie’s late grandmother.
