He opens his mouth. Just then, his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He takes it out and checks the caller ID.
“I’m so sorry,” he says to me with an apologetic look. “I have to take this first.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
LAURA
The bathroom is still steamy when I turn the water off. Exhaustion threatens to tug me under, albeit less than before the shower. I step into the fluffy white slippers, wrap myself in a hotel bathrobe, and brush my teeth with the complimentary toothpaste and toothbrush.
While I dry my hair, my mind scrambles to piece together the fragmented events of the day. Antoine is still on the phone. His voice drifts in through the closed bathroom door—low and urgent. I wonder what he’s handling…. And who he really is… And, above all, what he’s going to tell me when we finally talk.
After I’m finished in the bathroom, I beeline to the bed and drop onto it. Antoine hangs up at last. But instead of sitting down by my side, he flashes me a smile and steps into the bathroom.
Patience, Laura. Soon.
I look around for something to occupy my mind and hands. Spotting a branded notepad and a pencil on the nightstand, I grab them and begin to sketch. My lines are imprecise, mirroring the thoughts that swirl in my head.
Fifteen minutes later, Antoine comes out of the bathroom. His dark hair is damp and slicked back. Like me, he’s changedinto the hotel’s fluffy robe and slippers. It is funny how normal the two of us look right now, just a regular married couple unwinding after a long day.
He settles on the bed next to me.
I put down the pencil and notepad. “I’m listening.”
Antoine exhales deeply. “What I’m going to tell you may sound strange.”
“Try me.”
“My name is Antoine de Bellay. I’m a viscount,” he says, a hint of pride in his tone. “I’m the CEO of the Bellay Enterprises, which consists of three successful companies owned by my family.”
“Is one of them a tattoo parlor in the 18th arrondissement?”
He gives me a guilty little smile. “Confession number two: I’m not just uniquely talentless as a tattoo artist—I’m no tattoo artist at all.”
“Color me surprised,” I say with a smirk.
“But if we look at the assets column, I’ve been successful in tracking down the seventh Montevor key, as prophesied by our oracle, Princess Felicia.”
“The seventh what now?” I blink at him, certain I’ve misheard. “You’re messing with me, right? Is this some elaborate joke?”
“It is not a joke, Laura.”
I narrow my eyes. “So, you’re a real-life viscount.”
“It’s a courtesy title, as a matter of fact,” he explains. “In the Evorian peerage, as in the British, the oldest son bears his father’s lesser titles.”
“Um, I see…”…diddly-squat.
“My father,” he tries again, “the Count de Bellay, also holds a viscountcy. So.”
“Of course,” I say. “It’s all clear as day to me now.”
He smiles. “Frankly, it’s the least important part, so let’s move on, shall we? We can revisit it later.”
I nod.
“My country is called Mount Evor,” he begins. “It’s a tiny and very prosperous principality in the Alps, between France, Italy and Switzerland.”
“Something like Monaco?”
