He didn’t need to accept the damn job. Did he even want to? And if he didn’t, why hadn’t he written off Oz’s offer already?
Oz, who’d understand more than anyone if he never showed up. Who already knew that Brick needed the sanity in his head more than the chalet in Whistler. Who, very obviously, comprehended the value of well-kept secrets…
Just as Brick was about to break down that thought—more specifically, how Ozias had kept his relationship preferences so thoroughly cloaked from him—a woman walked by, at once zapping all his senses like an electromagnetic pulse.
“Christ,” he croaked. “What the living f…”
He stopped as soon as she did. She pivoted quickly, as if peering out across the terrace for someone, and the EMP hit him again. Dismantling his cognition. Erasing his equilibrium. Funneling his focus.
Her profile…
It was nearly as jolting as her scent, which he hogged in his senses for a few seconds longer. It wasn’t often that he smelled amber and honey and fire and forest in the middle of a Paris cocktail bar. In the middle of anywhere.
But as he finally pulled in a new breath, he accepted the rarity of the sight in front of him too. The crazy coincidence of it…
Or was it?
Wasn’t this entire thing just like a classic Ozias stunt? Had that bastard yanked Fox along for the ride, sneaking behind Brick all afternoon just to set him up for this moment? This insane instant, realizing that the beauty was as familiar as she seemed.
That forehead, high and golden and smooth as a Mediterranean wave. Those long and decadent lashes. Her cheekbones, astonishing and bold. Her hair was different, which was what had thrown him off at first. The blunt pixie looked hand-chopped pixie, which actually made sense now. Her wardrobe didn’t contain any trendy pieces, though she still made the black, lace-trimmed tee and matching leggings look like ritzy designer wear. The stiletto boots likely added to his impression, but he credited most of his conclusion on her sure-shot tells. The way she approached the bar as if getting ready to leap over it. The nervous tap of her fingertips against her knee, even as she sat down instead. And her constant, continuing vigil of a stare—from those eyes too huge and luminous to hide.
Brick went to hooded mode with his own gaze not a second too soon, avoiding more than a passing glance from her. But years of surveillance experience served him well. He was still watching her—even as he ordered his pulse to cut itself in half and his blood to stop overheating as if he were gawking at bare tits for the first time.
But this was way more than that.
The decision that had damn near marched itself right into his lap.
But because of that, it felt…ordained. Destined. Yet still, goddammit, the hardest choice of his life.
Because as he watched, three larger guys got up from their table across the aisle from him—and sauntered their way toward the bar. Directly toward her.
Eyeing Jayd Cimarron like the main course of their next predatory meal.
Chapter Three
Anonymity was a bizarre feeling.
Not as freeing, or easy, as she had always imagined.
Instead, sitting here without a retinue of staff or a crowd of bowing subjects, Jayd felt naked. Vulnerable. Despite her basic cotton shirt and jeans, along with the recesses of her cushy chair, the discomfort was an incessant gnaw at her nerve endings.
“Bonsoir.”
The waiter’s cordial greeting had her snapping around. She gave him a prim smile and braced for the flash of recognition across his face. It was taking a while. A long while.
She reached to calm her nerves by twirling her hair. That was when she remembered: no hair to twirl. Or any makeup on her face. Or latest-news clothes on her body. To the young man who stood there so patiently, she was just another random customer, stopping in for an early Sunday cocktail. One who was now holding him up from serving others.
So she rushed out, sounding too clumsy about it, “Ermmm…bonsoir, monsieur.”
“What would you like to drink, mademoiselle?”
She smiled again, appreciating the man’s consideration. Though the last few days in the city had ensured her French was improving, her years at Stanford had ensured she maintained a distinctly American accent. He had switched over to English for her benefit.
But his query presented a new dilemma.
Never in her life had she ordered a cocktail for herself.
That felt as awkward as it sounded. But never in her life had she been in a position like this. Her entire life, food and drinks were always just brought or presented to her. Yes, even during the Stanford years. On the few occasions she could slip from her security detail and get out to a party, she had always been a known entity. Entirely too known. Someone was always there to serve, to suck up, to “help.” Nobody had ever seen her like this. As a simple girl in Paris, out on a simple Sunday evening, having a simple drink.
She wanted to embrace that. To love the freedom of it as much as she always imagined she would.
But she felt more naked than ever. More unsure.
“Well, there you are.”
Requiemme had never arrived at her side with better timing. She refrained from hauling the woman into a full death squeeze, just dragging Emme down into the chair next to hers. “Yes,” she finally said. “All of me. Right here.”
“Are you all right?” Emme leaned over, studying her. “What has happened, Highn—ummm…Hiiighlll-degard. Yes. Uhhh…are you quite all right, Hildegard?”
For some reason, it was just the medicine she needed. “Why, yes,” she returned past a small snicker. “Are you, Agathenia?”
“Agatheniwhat?”
The poor waiter cleared his throat with mounting impatience.
“Oh my,” she muttered. “Desonnum, sir. I—uh—I mean, we are truly sorry. Please bring us some…red wine, I suppose? Whatever you recommend.”
As soon as he nodded and departed, Emme scooted in closer. Her lips were pursed and her voice was taut. “Never ask what he recommends. It will always be the most expensive thing on the list.”
Jayd winced against the twinge in her stomach but perked before answering, “Well, we have been watching our funds carefully, yes? And we are certainly not here to drink the night away.”
“So we hope.”
She was not fond of the fresh twist that brought to her belly. “I assume that means you did not see LaBarre in the lobby?” The Particulier offered a few hotel suites as well as this notable bar. While she had come straight in here after they arrived, Emme had circled through the little lobby for the hotel just in case.
“Not a soul to be seen,” her maid relayed with a fresh frown. “So the man is now officially late.”
“We are also in France, my friend—where he has been living for twenty-four years and likely being fashionably tardy through all of it.”
“Hmph.” Emme absently traced some swirls along the top of the table. “Late is late.”
“And customs are customs. So please try to relax. Fidgeting like a raccoon on a ledge will not bring him here any sooner.”
“If he has the decency to show.”
“If you are so certain that he will not, perhaps we should just get up and go to his apartment now—”