I breathed out. My best friend knew me well.
And then what? I typed.
Mer: Then we’ll figure out your next step. Together. Love you
Love you too.
I closed the apps on my phone to save battery life and gathered my things as we pulled into the train station.
What had I been thinking? There should be a rule to never make life altering decisions after a traumatic day followed by three gin cocktails.
This job had disaster written all over it.
Chapter Six
I stepped off the train and walked through one of the ornate green double doors into the Nice Ville train station. The building was old and gorgeous, the main vestibule only about the size of a basketball court, but with ornate details on the walls and a roof dome of paneled glass that spoke of a bygone era. I stopped, and stared upwards, not realizing I’d come to a complete standstill with my mouth open until someone bumped into me with a muttered grunt.
“S-sorry.” Nervousness pinched my belly, and I made my feet move. I wasn’t sure if I was expecting someone holding a sign, but as I looked left and right, trying to stay out of the way of the stream of passengers coming after me, I saw no one who looked like they were here for me.
Someone jostled into me again. “Excusez-moi.”
“Sorry,” I muttered and headed toward a small stand that sold newspapers, candy, and cigarettes so I could get out of the way. I should at least buy a bottle of water while I waited and figured out my next move in case no one showed up. I pursed my lips together and dug in my purse for my sunglasses and slipped them on my face. I pointed to a bottle of water and handed over some of my Euros I’d managed to get out of an ATM at the Paris airport.
The sound of small feet running caught my attention. A small girl, dressed in a pink dress and Mary Jane shoes, and tangled honey-colored hair floating wild about her face flew around the corner of the newsstand and stopped dead when she saw me.
I squatted and pushed my sunglasses up to my hair, frowning. “Are you okay?”
“Dauphine!” A man’s voice boomed across the station, the sound panicked.
“Dauphine!” The man rushed past, then whirled as he saw us. He dropped to a crouch, yanking the small girl into his arms. He held her tight, his head falling into her shoulder like he was inhaling her desperately.
Oh my God. It was him. Xavier whatever. Monsieur Pascale. I could tell from the brief flash of his face before I was confronted with that incredible thick dark hair. And of course, the name of his daughter suddenly clicked into place. Expensive denim stretched tight over his strong thighs, and his white linen shirt and navy blazer, that screamed custom-made, dressed a torso that didn’t seem to have an ounce of expendable fat.
I stood slowly and stepped backward to give them some space.
My hands itched to drop my sunglasses back over my eyes as protection, but I resisted.
After Monsieur Pascale had given his daughter enough of a hug, he set her at arm’s length and gave her a shake, his face thunderous, and his mouth sputtering all sorts of things I didn’t understand. I figured he’d thought he lost his daughter and now his fear was catching up. Christ, the man was attractive. Far more attractive than the French tabloid link Mer had sent me had managed to capture. His presence alone was like a vortex.
I made myself step back farther as the little girl pointed at me.
But then the world slowed down. In the time it took for his eyes to trek slowly upward, from my feet to my face, I lived eons. I had moments where I wondered if I should step forward and introduce myself and moments where I wished I’d evaporate back onto the train before we locked eyes. Before I could decide to introduce myself, his eyes locked with mine, and the world snapped back into real time.
I felt the attraction like a punch in my solar plexus.
A tiny breath huffed out of me.
Shit.
There was nothing soft about him. His blue eyes darkened and his jaw tensed. His features were hard and angular, but slightly imperfect, in a way that took them from pretty and perfect to dangerously sexy. He was elegant with a sharp and jagged edge that made him lethal. In a flash, the look in his eyes—whatever it had been when he first looked at me—was gone. In fact, his whole mood seemed to travel at light-speed from desperate relief at his daughter’s safety, to annoyance, to whatever it was he’d thought when he looked at me, and then to some kind of cold control that swept over him. All in a matter of seconds. It was actually impressive.
My throat closed as I tried to swallow under his scrutiny. I wondered what he was a billionaire of. I could imagine peons and minions quaking and quailing under this stare.
I dragged my gaze from him to his daughter who stared at me curiously. “H-hello,” I stammered.
Her father watched me from his crouched position. He must have thighs of steel to crouch that long.
I stepped forward, holding out my hand, and looked her father square in the eye.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Josie Marin.”
Monsieur Pascale unfolded his body with the lithe grace of a panther until he stood, towering over me. He took my hand in a brief perfunctory shake, dropping it as quickly as it began.
His eyes assessed me coolly. “Xavier Pascale,” he announced. “This is my daughter, Dauphine.” His accent was like a drizzle of rich chocolate sauce that made me want to lick my lips.
I glanced down at Dauphine and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
She shook it. “Vous parlez Francais?”
Shaking my head, I adopted what I hoped was an apologetic look. “Not very well, no.” I understood she was asking me if I spoke French, but beyond anything more than these basic questions I knew I’d be clueless. At least until my high school French clicked back into place, and even then, I knew I’d be woefully inadequate.
She smiled. “Bon.”
Good?
She fired something in rapid French up to her father, and then walked away. I expected her father to go immediately after her again based on the scare he’d just had, but Xavier Pascale didn’t move. And he didn’t strike me as someone who simply followed without good reason.
Dauphine walked up to a man hovering ten feet away from us. He was about my age with dark blond hair, wearing light colored but official looking pants and blazer, and an earpiece. He reached for Dauphine’s hand. In his other, he held a sign dangling by his side that had my name written on it. I must not have seen him. He shot me a warm and welcoming smile.
I nervously returned it.
The man in front of me hadn’t moved when I looked back at him. He studied me with a startling intensity. Nothing about it was warm and inviting. In fact, it was more like an arctic breeze. I guess this was the interview, then. In the train station. I hoped he’d buy my fare home, otherwise I was shit out of luck. But that was becoming the theme of my life.
“You are not what I expected,” he said, his voice deep and accented, articulating each word.
You either, buddy. I frowned. “In what way?”
His gaze swept over me, and he muttered something in French I didn’t understand.
My arms instinctively crossed over my chest, and I bristled.
Seemingly coming to his senses he shook his head. “Désolé. I’m … sorry. Merci … uh. Thank you for coming with much on short …”