Liar Liar

‘You think you’re confused?’ Rhett answers with a bark of a laugh. ‘That woman out there has travelled six thousand miles for a job to find she’s fucked her new boss, the same boss who’s been sending her creepy gifts—’

‘A coffee machine isn’t creepy.’ This is possibly not what I should’ve responded with. But I also suppose I should not be surprised he knows exactly what gifts I’ve sent. The why he can’t possibly understand because I’m not sure I understand it myself.

‘A coffee machine isn’t very sexy either.’

‘It wasn’t meant to be sexy.’ Especially now. ‘I was just showing my appreciation.’

‘Appreciation? Well, she’s out there now wondering if you’ve brought her here to gift her something else.’ As though there might be the slightest possibility I mistake his meaning, he palms his crotch.

‘I thought your right hand was your girlfriend, not your left.’

‘Better to fuck my hand than fuck my—’

‘I did not fuck Róisín Ryan,’ I retort angrily.

‘What do you call it? Keeping it in the family?’

11

Rose

‘Why do I need to see him?’

‘I do not ask.’ Alice throws this terse reply over her shoulder as she steps from the elevator onto, what is, I understand, the executive floor. ‘I only know, he says leap, I ask how high.’

‘And why did you call him petite loup?’ I ask, trying to keep up with her as she darts along the hallway as though escaping the police. ‘Loup is wolf, right?’ Remy wasn’t predatory, not as I recall. It can’t have been a cute name for his dick, not the size of that thing. Unless she means it ironically. I glance her way, and I decide she has no knowledge of Remy Durrand’s mighty baguette because if she did, she wouldn’t be looking so disconcerted.

‘His father was the wolf; he is the wolf cub. He is, la ruse . . . what is the word in English?’ she muses as we turn a corner. ‘Cunning! Le petite loup, the young wolf is cunning.’

Was it charm or cunning that led him to my bed?

I know which I’d like to think it was. I’m also not sure I’d be right, not after this morning.

We enter an airy reception, a verbal exchange taking place between Alice and a woman acting as sentry behind an imposing industrial design desk. With the hauteur of a queen, she gestures us to a butter-soft leather sofa where we wait. And wait.

An older man is admitted to the double doors, exiting a few minutes later without the paperwork he’d carried in. Another man leaves, but not before perching his ass on the corner of the older administrator’s desk and beginning to speak to her in French—French with a clearly British accent. A one-sided conversation too, as the woman just swats his arm with a folder, turning her attention back to her computer screen.

‘We won’t be long here, will we?’ I whisper to Alice.

‘Have you got somewhere to be?’ the man asks, amused.

My cheeks begin to sting, and I begin to stammer an answer as the older woman seems to take pity on me, gesturing us toward the imposing double doors.

One quick rap and Alice gingerly pushes the door open.

‘Entre,’ comes the commanding reply in a voice I still seem to summon in my dreams.

She pushes the door wider as I consider her earlier words about his bark being worse than his bite. If that’s the case, why does she look like she’s entering the wolf’s den and worried she’s about to have her head bitten off? Whatever, she might be the appetiser, but something tells me I’m about to be his entrée.

And not in the fun, sexy kind of way, either.

Remy Durrand not Durrant. Not so hard to confuse.

Maybe if I’d have paid more attention, I’d have googled him more successfully. And then I would’ve learned the job I’d been offered was working for the man I’d had the sexy times with.

What I still don’t understand is how he looked so surprised.

And so pissed.

And why the heck did he storm off instead of looking pleased his nefarious plan had come together?

Has jet lag made me lose my mind?

The first thing I notice is the size of the room. It’s huge, double height, and filled with light thanks to the wall of glass providing breathtaking views over a marina filled with million-dollar yachts and farther to the Mediterranean Sea. Would these be multimillion-dollar or billion-dollar views?

A dark table dominates one side of the room, a dozen classic white Swan chairs clustered around it. Blue marbled panels stand sentry behind an imposing modernist-era desk; the chair behind it unoccupied. The same for the black leather and chrome Le Corbusier lounge setting placed in the middle of the room. Despite the light and space, the room is decidedly masculine. Not least of which is the man standing on the far side of it, his broad shoulders framed by a sea of blue.