I shot Ava a look, and she snapped her gum in my face. “He likes the ladies, but worry not. His son puts him on a leash.”
Hours ticked by, hoovering the minutes and sucking them into an entire sun-deprived day. I spent them researching the many disturbing ways you can freeze, melt, and scrub cellulite to death. When the clock hit three, the elevator dinged chirpily. But that was the only chipper thing about the occasion. Time stopped. So did the clicking of keyboards, and the radio stations blasting over the floor along with the general chitchat. By the way the air hung and dangled like a sword above my neck, I guessed that Mr. Laurent, the owner of Couture and LBC, had arrived.
Grayson pushed off his desk and motioned for Ava and me to get out of our cubicle. I wiped the cold sweat on my palms over my dress.
“Main attraction’s here. Let’s hope Laurent Senior doesn’t grope anyone and Laurent Junior doesn’t fire us all because he’s on his period.” He catwalked to the main lobby of the floor, hips swaying.
I chuckled. So the infamous New York royals, the Laurents, were a pain in the butt. Hardly made any difference to me. I very much doubted they worked on this floor or that I’d see much of them. I knew of Mathias Laurent, the French mogul. He sounded too important to hang with us mortals on the fifth floor, crunching numbers or trying samples of new, gluten-free perfumes.
The minute we stepped into the already-full reception area, my jaw slacked. It fell to the floor, and my tongue rolled out like a red carpet, cartoon-style.
Jesus Christ.
I could practically hear Jesus in my head, waving his fist. “Stop using my name in vain every time you remember a sin you’ve committed.” He had a valid point. At this rate, I needed to say so many Hail Marys, I wasn’t going to be done until my thirtieth birthday.
Standing in front of me was the hot French tourist who’d done unholy things to my body three weeks ago, looking no less god-like than he had that night, with one exception—now he looked a whole lot scarier.
Célian wore pale gray slacks that seemed like they’d been sewn directly onto his body, a white tailored shirt, and a formidable scowl. He looked ready to behead Kyla and feed her limbs to the crowd of people who’d gathered around him. Beside him was a white-haired man an inch shorter than he was.
Mathias Laurent had small, black, vacant eyes—the opposite of his son’s deep indigos. But they had the same disapproving frown that made you feel like the dirt under their Bolvaint shoes.
And probably the same amount of authority to fire yours truly.
“Let’s cut to the chase. Technically, this is an issue for accounting, but we’ve decided to throw Couture into the mix since you guys are a money pit deeper than Kidd Mine,” Célian began, the icicles he called irises still focused on his phone screen.
My eyes rolled inside their sockets as my knees threatened to buckle.
He had an American accent. Not French. American. Smooth. Familiar. Ordinary. He fired out sentences at the speed of light. I heard him, but I couldn’t listen. Shock gripped my body as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. My dirty one-night stand was my boss. My lying, American boss. And now I had to deal with that—hopefully for a very long time, because I desperately needed this job.
Someone snapped their fingers, and my gaze shot from Célian’s face to Grayson.
His forehead had crumpled into a frown. “You look like you’re trying hard not to cry or having a really intense orgasm. I’m hoping for you that it’s the latter and some kind of a weird-slash-awesome condition. You okay?”
I nodded, scraping up a smile. “Sorry. Zero orgasms happening under this dress. I just zoned out for a second.” Lies. I was about to orgasm just remembering how good Célian had felt parting my thighs with his big, callused hands and dipping his tongue into my slit.
Then words stopped streaming down on everyone’s heads like a scalding shower, and I realized that indeed there was something worse than hearing Célian speak in his perfect American English. And that was not hearing him speak at all. Because now the icicles were pointed at me like a cocked gun.
I glanced up to meet his gaze. He stared at me for exactly one second before his focus snapped to Grayson. “Am I understood, Gregory?” he asked.
Gregory?
“Crystal clear, sir,” Grayson bowed, his voice trembling at the edges.
Célian jerked his chin toward me. “Your cover girl material is going downhill.”
God. Damn. Bastard.
He recognized me, and I knew it. His eyes had kindled, melting the ice and growing darker the minute our gazes mingled. He remembered, and maybe it killed him that I was here in the same way it buried me.
I want my iPod back, my gaze told him. I had over three thousand songs on that thing, and they were all too good to be wasted on that jerk.
“Jude Humphry. Junior reporter. It’s her first day,” Grayson highlighted, almost pleadingly. He shifted in my direction, as if he might need to physically protect me from the sharp-tongued, suited monster.
I suppressed a smile when I realized I’d told Célian my last name was Spears. Well, he certainly wasn’t a Timberlake. He was a Laurent. An American monarch through and through. A billionaire, a powerful force, and judging by our one and only encounter—a raging playboy.
This man was inside you, I internally shrieked. And not just once. His cock was buried so deep in you, you screamed. You can still taste the salty, earthy flavor of his cum. You know he has a freckle on his lower back. You know what sound he makes when he empties inside a woman.
I internally thanked my mind for ruining my panties in public, and nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” I offered him my hand, my face flushing with embarrassment at my choice of words.
Everyone was looking at us, and there were at least fifty people in the room. Célian—if that was even his name—ignored my outreached hand. Instead, he turned his face to the man beside him. “Mathias, any other words of wisdom?”
Mathias? Wasn’t that his father? Just how cold was the man with the icy blue eyes?
“I think you touched everything,” said the big boss—and he did have a heavy French accent, so at least the lie had a seed. Mathias stared at me placidly, like he could read the secret his son and I shared on my face.
Célian spun toward me, uncuffing his cufflinks and rolling his sleeves up his veiny forearms. “Accounting can go back to their unfortunate line of work. Couture is excused from this meeting—though not forgiven for their horrid blog. Miss Humphry?” He snapped his fingers impatiently.
He was already waltzing down the narrow hallway, knowing I’d chase him like a puppy, and no doubt taking pleasure in that fact.
“I have a bone to pick with you.”
Bone, boner—same difference, right?
I shot Grayson a please-save-my-butt look. His eyes said, I would but I still have a life to live.
I followed Célian down the hall, my Chucks slapping the floor in a hurry. He sliced through the throng of accountants, then stopped at a corner office, opened the door, barked “Out!” to the man inside, and tilted his head for me to go in. I did. He closed the door, and it was just the two of us.
Two feet of empty space between us.
His eyes said war.
Which didn’t bode well for me, since he had bombs, and I barely had sticks.
“Where’d your accent disappear to?” I asked through a painted smile.
“Where’d my fucking cash disappear to?” He answered in the same light tone, but the smirk on him was different. Sinful.
I felt my expression fall. I was so disoriented by seeing him here, I’d forgotten that had happened, too.
“I took it.” I swallowed hard.
“Well, I faked it.” He meant the accent.