The Boss (Chateau 3)

My arms covered my chest, and I disappeared into the seat, watching the world fly past us so quickly, it was just a blur. The trees, the grass, the sky, it was all a streak of color. “You might get pulled over…” If I asked him to slow down, he wouldn’t, even if I was scared.

He glanced at me, one hand on the wheel while the other relaxed on the center console. He gave that slight smile, like he knew something I didn’t, and then focused on the road again.

Hours later, we were in Paris.

I couldn’t believe it.

My visit had been short, but the beauty had been so profound, the culture potent, the food exquisite, that it felt like home now. It was the last time I was normal—so it held a special place in my heart.

There wasn’t snow on the ground here, but a light rain dotted the front windshield. People walked on the sidewalks with umbrellas over their heads, a hot coffee usually in their other hand. We took a bunch of smaller streets and maneuvered around roundabouts until we headed away from Paris, into the countryside, into a landscape as beautiful as the city—just in a different way.

Then we approached tall, iron gates that immediately opened as we got closer. Armed men were on the inside, and they stepped aside when they recognized Fender’s car. The view of the property had been obstructed by high walls made of stone, green ivy growing over the surface with resilient white flowers drinking the drops of rain.

A long road wrapped around the property and approached a three-story palace.

Palace might not be the right word, but that was how it looked to me.

A pond was in the center with a fountain, and large lily pads floated over the surface, raindrops making indentations in the smooth water like bullet holes. Fender slowed down as we took the car around the pond and approached the grand front entrance to his home.

Was home even the right word?

He brought the car to a stop but left the engine on.

I looked through the raindrops on my passenger window and saw a man standing underneath the front portico in a tuxedo. Another man in a suit immediately went around the front of the car as Fender went around the back, like he was the valet. I opened the door and stepped into the rain, my hair immediately losing volume from the moisture on my scalp. I walked up the stone steps and underneath the portico roof, approaching the man in the tuxedo.

He gave a slight bow. “C’est merveilleux de vous revoir, Sire.”

Uh…what?

Fender barely gave him a glance over before he nodded to me. “English. Melanie doesn’t speak French.”

The butler turned to look at me, and his greeting was not warm or kind. He pressed his lips tightly together and looked at me like a wet cat that had shown up on his doorstep. He sucked on the inside of his lip before he met my gaze again. “I see.”

Fender stepped through the grand doorway. “She’s the lady of the house. Service her the way you service me.” He disappeared farther into the house until he was gone from view.

I stayed outside like I needed approval from his butler to step inside.

Based on the look he gave me, I wouldn’t get that anytime soon.

He crossed his arms over his chest and rested two fingers against his temple. Like he had a migraine, he gave a long and drawn-out sigh. “His Highness did not tell me he was bringing a guest. I’m quite unprepared for—” he pointed down at my clothing “—this.”

I dropped my gaze, feeling embarrassed by my appearance. I’d gotten used to it during the course of my captivity and didn’t think twice about it. But out here in the real world, I really did appear homeless. Wasn’t sure what Fender’s fascination was if his butler didn’t even want me in the house. “You want me to take off my shoes?”

He gave a nod. “That’s a good start, yes.” He stood there and watched me remove my muddy boots, pure disgust on his face. “We need to get you some clothes…” He released another annoyed sigh. “Immediately.”

Gilbert escorted me to my bedroom on the second floor.

But it wasn’t really a bedroom as much as private quarters. A four-poster bed made of gold was against the wall, with a blush-pink duvet and ivory sheets. A mass of decorated pillows were on top, and a nightstand was on either side, matching the bed. Curtains of the same material as the duvet covered the windows, and floral wallpaper was on the walls. A private living room had a tea set on the coffee table, which didn’t have a speck of dust even though Gilbert hadn’t expected me to occupy this room. There was a TV, a shelf of old books, and a grand bathroom with a bathtub the size of a small swimming pool.