Thoroughly Whipped

“Dad, this is Faith Parisi. She works at Visage.”

“Really?” he said politely, but the tone was anything but. “Very good. A sound publication.” He turned to Harry. “I’m sorry to tear you away, but we have some people to meet, son. Business calls.”

“Of course.” Harry bowed his head to me like a true gent. “Miss Parisi, it was lovely chatting with you.”

“You too,” I said, feeling my heart deflate at his lack of affection in front of his father. As Harry walked away, he glanced over his shoulder, apology in his eyes. I guessed he just wasn’t ready for the meet-the-dad milestone yet. Taking a deep breath, I moved back into the ballroom and found my friends. I gave them a rundown on King’s frosty behavior and grabbed a few more drinks.

Suitably tipsy, we took our seats for the meal. Sage sat beside me, eyes fixed on Nicholas as he cut through the room to sit beside Harry at the head table, where King Sinclair held court.

“I’m in love.” Sage tipped his head back dramatically. “That accent. That fucking accent.” He turned to me. “How did you resist it for so long, Faith? It’s like hypnotic or some shit. Forget love potions, they just need to bottle a hot guy speaking with a British accent and it’ll have people falling at their feet.”

“So what you’re trying to say is that you like Nicholas?” I asked sarcastically.

“He’s perfect.” Sage sighed. “Now we just need him to move to New York, and we can run off into the sunset, get married, and live happily ever after.”

“That’s all?” Amelia said dryly. “A cake walk!”

“How’s Harry?” Sage asked. I filled him in on Alcove-gate.

“Nicholas didn’t say much but hinted at the fact that King is pretty hard on Harry.” My eyes drifted across the room, only to collide with Harry’s. He gave me a secret smile and took a drink of his champagne.

Just as our food began to arrive, a man approached Harry from a table near the champagne fountain. He was the same height and build, but he had light brown hair as opposed to Harry’s chocolate waves. God, that viscount was so perfect, I could just eat him up.

Harry got to his feet and embraced the man. From our table I could hear the low hum of their voices, then… “Are they speaking French?” I asked, my glass frozen in midair, hearing the language pass so fluidly from Harry’s mouth.

My friends listened closely. “Yeah,” Amelia said, and my heart kicked into a sprint so fast I was pretty sure it rivaled an Olympic sprinter.

“I didn’t know Harry spoke French,” Novah said. “Then again, he went to an expensive boarding school, it was probably part of the curriculum.”

I was stuck on Harry speaking in fluent French to this mystery man. “Who is that?”

Novah narrowed her eyes on the man, waiting for him to turn. When he did, taking his place at his table, Novah said, “Ah. I recognize him now. That’s Pierre Dubois…” Novah’s voice trailed off; then she met my eyes. I’d stopped breathing and was dangerously close to falling off my chair and slamming to the wooden floor. “He’s French,” Novah said, clearly on the same page as I was.

“Dubois,” I said. “Like the bank?” A friggin’ massive bank that had offices worldwide.

“Like the bank,” Novah said. She shuffled her chair closer. “Faith, you think he’s—”

“Maître,” I whispered.

Sage and Amelia whipped their heads to Pierre, suddenly invested in Novah’s and my conversation.

“He’s gorgeous,” Amelia said; then she looked at me. “And he seems to be good friends with Harry.” She paled. “Oh. He seems to be really good friends with Harry. How awkward.”

“Is it hot in here?” I said, destroying a napkin that had been folded into a swan and wafting it before my face, trying to grab some much-needed air. Harry and Pierre were friends. A man who was possibly Maître and Harry, who I had been sleeping with for a week. Friends. Of course they were. Pierre, who I was pretty sure had tied me up in every way imaginable and screwed me in every position in the Kama Sutra and beyond.

“I’m not feeling so good,” I said and got to my feet.

“Faith? You okay?” Novah asked.

“I just need some air.” I staggered toward the exit, my vision tunneling as I passed by Maître’s table. I felt myself swaying to the left, reaching out for something on which to find purchase. And find purchase I did, right on the champagne fountain.

My hand sliced through the central tier, bringing the entire thing crashing to the floor. I slipped on spilt champagne, landing on my ass, as the smashing glasses created a symphony around the room.

Of course this is happening to me right now!

Getting on all fours I tried to pull myself up, but I kept slipping on the wet floor, repeatedly landing on my ass, which, it turned out, was nothing at all like being spanked.