Playing Dirty-A Second-Chance - Alix Nichols(ang.)

PLAYING DIRTY A PLAYING TO WIN ROMANCE

ALIX NICHOLS

CONTENTS

Foreword Books by Alix Nichols Part I 1.

Julien

2.

Noemi

3.

Julien

4.

Noemi

5.

Julien

6.

Noemi

7.

Julien

8.

Noemi

Part II 9.

Julien

10. Noemi 11. Julien 12. Noemi 13. Julien 14. Noemi 15. Julien Epilogue Author’s Note Books by Alix Nichols

About the Author

FOREWORD

Thank you for picking up PLAYING DIRTY, a rollercoaster love story in which love and revenge collide.

In his pimply teens, Julien was led on, played and publicly humiliated by Noemi. But time has been kind to him. Now a heartthrob and formidable water polo defender, Julien has no trouble with the ladies. That means, he can finally get back at Noemi.

Only… he hadn’t expected her to have grown from a shallow girl to a caring woman. A woman with feelings. Nor had he anticipated the bitter aftertaste of his revenge, or how empty his bed—and his life— would be without her. Might she still have his heart? While Julien ponders the question, Noemi sets out on her own quest for payback…

PLAYING DIRTY is a standalone contemporary romance within the Playing to Win series.

BOOKS BY ALIX NICHOLS

The Darcy Brothers Find You in Paris Raphael’s Fling The Perfect Catch

Clarissa and the Cowboy

Playing to Win Playing with Fire Playing for Keeps Playing Dirty

La Bohème Winter’s Gift What If It’s Love? Falling for Emma Under My Skin Amanda’s Guide to Love

Copyright © 2017 Alix Nichols All Rights Reserved.

Details can be found at the end of the book.

PART I

“The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.” William Faulkner

1

JULIEN

I

drop down on one knee. “Will you marry me?” Noemi’s eyes widen as she stares at the little black case with a big shiny rock I’m holding up. I wait, trying to focus on the warm breeze against my face and the soothing murmur of the water around us. Inhale. Exhale. This will be over soon. Noemi blinks and shifts her gaze from the ring to my face. But she doesn’t utter a word. What if she says no? What if she hasn’t fallen in love with me as I was hoping she would? What if she’s just been leading me on for the past three months, playing one of those cruel games she excels at? Calm down, man. Breathe. Remember who you

are now. She’ll say yes. I’m no longer that pathetic pimple-faced nerd in an oversized T-shirt who deserved to be taught a lesson. We’re no longer in high school. I’m a medal-winning athlete on the national water polo team. I’m hard-bodied, impeccably dressed, and self-confident. Women beg me for a date and send me naked pics and sex tapes. Men glare at me in envy. She’ll say yes. She’s just too dumbfounded to speak. Our fellow passengers have formed a small crowd around us—some with looks of concern, others grin optimistically, and some women dab their eyes. The guy from the cabin next door has my phone and snaps pictures, which—if everything goes to plan—will be shared to Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and whatever other social media accounts Noemi and I have. They’d be the kind of pics that crash the Internet. The sun setting over the dark expanse of the water, the deck railing of a magnificent cruise ship, and a stunning woman in a shimmery cocktail dress saying yes to her tall, handsome boyfriend… That is, provided Noemi says yes. If she says no, I’m in for another public humiliation despite my looks, medals, and self-

confidence. As the seconds tick by, said self-confidence shrinks at an alarming rate, to put it mildly. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have listened to Roland. I should’ve proposed in private. Or not proposed at all. “Oh my God, Julien, I didn’t… I didn’t expect this at all!” Noemi finally says. I do my best to keep my cool. “So, what’s your answer?” “Are you sure about this?” she whispers, her eyes darting to the onlookers. “We’ve been dating for only three months.” “But we’ve known each other for eight years. That counts for something.” She nods. I force a smile, bracing myself for something like “I can’t marry you because deep inside you’re still as pathetic as you were in high school.” “Yes,” she murmurs. It’s my turn to blink. She grins. “You look surprised.” “Can you say it again?” “Yes,” she says louder. “I’ll marry you.” My shoulders sag with relief. Noemi’s beautiful face expands into a big, toothy smile. I would’ve bet anything it was genuine if I didn’t know better. People around us clap and cheer.

“Dude, this is the part where you put the ring on her finger,” someone in the crowd prompts. My hand shakes as I slip the diamond ring on Noemi’s delicate finger. The rock cost me a small fortune, but I didn’t hesitate for a second when I purchased it. Just like I didn’t hesitate when I booked us in the most expensive cabin on this luxurious cruise ship. Knowing what I know about my sweetheart, the slightest suspicion on her part that I’m still a loser would’ve sent my three months of hard work out the window. Forget three months—try eight years. I wasn’t taking any chances. Noemi lifts her hand to her face and gazes at the ring. “It’s gorgeous.” “I’m glad you like it.” I stand up. “You make me very happy.” Her eyes water. “You make me happier than I’ve ever been.” “Kiss her, genius!” my self-appointed prompter says, chuckling. The crowd begins to chant, “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!” I pull Noemi close and brush my lips against hers. There’s no need to go full French in front of an audience. After we kiss, bow to the crowd to signal that the show is over and take a bunch of selfies, I grab Noemi’s hand and lead her to our cabin.

Once inside, she claps her palm to her mouth. The space has been transformed into something out of a tacky romance movie. Rose petals litter the room, soft music plays, and a fine vintage champagne sticks its long neck out of the ice bucket. If she had said no, I was going to spend the night in an armchair in one of the lounges rather than rush here and un-decorate. But luckily for me —and unluckily for my betrothed—there’s no need for either of those unpleasant options. I can enter the cabin with my head high and a smug grin on my lips. Roland will be pleased to hear that the first stage of my Payback Plan went without a hitch. I pop the bubbly and move on to stage two. “To our future,” I say, raising my flute. Noemi smiles and touches her glass to mine. “To our happiness.” We drink. “Want to sit on the balcony?” she asks. I grab the ice bucket, and we step out on our private balcony just big enough for two chairs. But that’s as good as it gets on a boat. Setting the bucket on one of the chairs, I sit down on the other and pat my lap. “Come to daddy.” I should’ve said, “Come here, my love,” but there are limits to the amount of kitsch a man can

handle in one day. Besides, if there’s one thing I won’t do even if it ends up raising Noemi’s suspicions and ruining my perfect plan is utter the word “love.” That word is a taboo, given our history. Noemi seems to get it, because she hasn’t said it either, not once since we started dating. Nor has she asked me if I love her. Smart girl. She lowers herself onto my lap and turns her head toward the purple sky. “So beautiful.” “Not as beautiful as you,” I say, recovering my romantic groove. She glances at me, shaking her head in feigned reproof. “There’s no need to go over the top.” “Sweetheart, less than an hour ago, you had me on my knees, begging you to marry me.” I arch an eyebrow. “There’s no bigger proof of a man’s sincerity.” She smiles. Is it tenderness I discern in her eyes? It can’t be. The Noemi I had the misfortune of falling in love with eight years ago is incapable of such emotions. Besides, if I’m being honest, I don’t want her to have them. Because if she’s changed, if she isn’t faking it, this proposal—and what I plan to do in a few weeks—becomes even more vicious. Fair and deserved, but vicious. Despite Roland’s protests, I’ve taken to calling

it “the deed of darkness.” It doesn’t make me feel good about myself. But, I’m used to not feeling good about myself. Noemi runs her hand down the side of my neck to the collar of my dress shirt. As her delicate fingers undo a button and then another one, the affection in her eyes gives way to something different. Desire. A sigh of relief escapes me. I must have dreamed up the tenderness. Just like my fevered eighteen-year-old brain had imagined all those little signs that Noemi liked me back in high school. They were nothing but self-delusion. But this—this is the real Noemi. My Noemi. The girl I’ve been obsessed with ever since I laid my eyes on her when we were seventeen. The princess I thought I’d never have the privilege of touching except in my fantasies, but who is now my fiancée. The woman I’m about to fuck. “I want you,” she murmurs against my mouth as her hand slides under my shirt. In reply, I grip the back of her head and claim her mouth in a wet, languorous kiss. Our tongues dance together, stroking and teasing, a brief prelude to the ravenous sex that will follow. Her taste invades my senses, making my need to fill her

deeper, stronger. I fight it, like I’ve been fighting it for three months now, letting her take the lead, letting her decide when, in what position, and for how long we do it. I believe letting Noemi be in charge has been the key that softened her heart of stone just enough to let me in. Not that I don’t enjoy this kind of sex —I’ll probably enjoy any kind of sex if Noemi is involved—but I do wish I could let my dominant side out every now and then. Nothing crazy, just… take her a little harder. A little rougher. Deviate from “the missionary” on occasion. Explore and penetrate more of her. But I keep a tight rein on those urges. Can’t risk losing her now that I’m so close. She draws back to catch her breath and slides off my lap. With a seductive smile, she moves inside the cabin and crooks her index finger to invite me to follow her. I do. The next hour is filled with kissing and stroking; buttons, cufflinks, and clasps popping open; zippers lowering; Noemi’s fingers digging into my back, and my cock thrusting into her heat. I’ll miss this when “the deed of darkness” is done. But it needs to be done. I need closure, so I can forget this woman, forget what she did to me, and move on. “So beautiful,” I murmur as I roll off her, spent.

I mean it, just as I mean every word of what I’m about to say. “Eight years, and not a day went by when I didn’t look—at least briefly—at your face. It never fails to take my breath away.” She frowns. “What do you mean? We were apart most of those eight years. I didn’t even know where on earth you’d gone after your family moved abroad.” I reach over and pull my phone from the pocket of my jacket. “See this?” I point at a photo of her in a red Tshirt. “I took it at the teacher appreciation picnic when we started our final year of high school.” She tilts her head to the side. “Are you saying you looked at this pic daily for eight years?” I nod. She rolls her eyes. “Please.” “You don’t have to believe me, but I did, every fucking day.” I shrug. “Guess I never tired of your beauty.” What a shame the world’s prettiest girl has its ugliest soul! That same comment, word for word, was how I’d started my long-winded suicide note. I didn’t keep it, and I remember only part of the sad ramblings of an eighteen-year-old desperate enough to hang himself. I begged Mom and Dad to forgive me and make sure they didn’t raise Flo to be a pathetic loser like

their older son. “Hurt his feelings, betray his trust, teach him that nobody loves anyone,” I’d counseled them. “Tell him that if he gives his heart to someone, they’ll walk all over it with muddy boots until it’s just a pile of stinky, bloody gunk.” Stinky, bloody gunk, huh? Mom and Dad shouldn’t have allowed me to watch so many zombie apocalypse movies. Anyway, the letter went on and on over several pages, imparting teenage wisdom mixed with gallows humor. In conclusion, I warned my parents that if they tried to make another kid, and it was a girl, she’d better be plain. That would diminish her destructive capacity and maybe save a man’s life. What a drama queen! I smirk and run my hand through Noemi’s honey-colored hair. Here I am, the boy who almost succeeded in taking his life because of her unique cruelty. The boy who would’ve broken his parents’ hearts and never had a chance to become a man. The boy who spent the last eight years plotting how to make the beauty in his arms pay for what she’d done.

2

NOEMI

A

morning lark for as long as I can remember, I wake up at dawn and beam happily the moment I find my bearings. Life is good. Unable to stop grinning, I lift my left hand and stare at my gorgeous engagement ring. If the size of the rock reflects the depth of Julien’s feelings, then I’m a lucky girl. He must love me, even if he hasn’t uttered those words since his disastrous declaration back in high school. Can’t blame him. In his place, I would probably be wary, too. Besides, men are known to have trouble voicing their feelings. They express them through gifts and tokens of their commitment instead. Since Julien and I started dating, he’s taken me to the most expensive restaurants, bought me costly trinkets, and paid for this pricey cruise.

He’s asked me to be his wife. As he said, what more proof do I need? Turning quietly to my side, so I don’t wake him up, I survey my fiancé. Even up close, it’s hard to spot a trace of the ills that blighted him in high school. Today, Julien is a magnificent man with a gracefully muscled body you’d expect in a pro swimmer. As for his face, apart from a few faint scars on his cheeks, it’s spotless. Who knew the ugly duckling of Lycée Molière would attain this level of hotness in his midtwenties? The only thing he had going for him in those days was his height. And even that… I remember how he suddenly lengthened in a violent growth spurt that neither he nor his mom, who still bought his clothes, were prepared for. Julien’s response was to stoop. He never seemed to know what to do with his long limbs—with his whole body. Come to think of it, being tall only made things worse for him. In addition to his teenage clumsiness, he was saddled with metal braces. But the thing that made him truly stand out— not in a good way—was his acne. God, it was awful. Oversized red zits all over his face, neck, and shoulders. He was painful to look at. “Hey, Julien, do you ever wash?” Lise asked

him once. He gave her a wounded look and turned away. Lise, Tanya, and Irene burst out laughing. I did, too, proud to be part of the school’s in-crowd, “the Cats.” I should’ve known better than to delude myself into thinking those girls liked me and were my friends. But I was stupid. And I did something truly mean to Julien in my eagerness to be part of Lise’s gang. A fat lot of good it did me in the end. As quietly as I can so I don’t wake up Julien, I slip out of bed, wrap a bathrobe around me, and head out of the cabin. The hallway is empty. Treading softly, I climb up to the deck where Julien proposed yesterday. The boards are darker and wetter than usual, but I’ve never come up so early just after the deck was hosed down. The clinking of tableware from the buffet area draws my attention to the restaurant staff, who are preparing the tables for early risers like myself. I smile to them. They smile back. I turn away and lean on the railing. My timing is impeccable. The sun is cresting halfway on the horizon, bejeweling the sea and the sky—the whole world— with magic. The weather is as balmy as you’d expect for mid-September in the southern Mediterranean. I smell salt and watch a flock of remarkably silent gulls. A sense of wonder and awe

fills me at the splendor of the sunrise unfolding in front of my eyes. It makes me feel small—but also a part of something big and beautiful. My heart swells with the honor of living on planet Earth with its cycles of day and night, summer and winter, life and death. And the gift of love she’s given to its babies. As I return to our cabin and crawl back between the sheets, I wonder if Julien remembers Lise’s spiteful put-down or any of the other taunts the Cats and I subjected him to. One day, when we’re older and when that drama-filled final school year is truly water under the bridge, I’ll ask him. Or maybe not. Because if I do and if we start talking about that year, there’s no way he won’t mention my eighteenth birthday party. The one I invited him to… and made him the laughing stock of the entire school. I’ve been working on erasing that episode from my memory ever since. Good thing Julien is mature enough to see it for what it was—an ill-advised childish prank. The one time we came close to broaching the topic, he smiled and said he’d gotten over it by the time he’d recovered from his pneumonia. Thank God. If someone had done to me what the Cats and I did to Julien, I would’ve needed therapy to get over

it. What went down at my birthday party was awful for Julien, but the part I’m least proud of took place a couple of weeks earlier. “I think Julien has the hots for me,” I announced as Lise, Tanya, Irene, and I perused Tanya’s copy of Elle. “I think he’s going to make a move any day now.” Beats me why I said those things. The only explanation I can give is that Julien’s and my mutual staring was becoming too obvious and I feared the Cats would suspect me of returning Julien’s feelings. The ignominy! The mortification! I couldn’t allow that. “You can’t be serious.” Lise looked up from the fashion pages she was studying. “You guys barely talk to each other.” I smoothed my hair back. “That was true last year. But this year, we’ve done quite a bit of talking.” Lise arched an eyebrow. “In September,” I said, “he and I were on the same debate team. In October, Madame Fonteneau put us on the same chemistry project. And last month, we spent three afternoons together preparing a World War 2 presentation for Monsieur Narboni.” Lise nodded. “I see.” “Is he so stupid he doesn’t see how far out of

his league you are?” Tanya said. I shrugged. Lise shut the magazine. “It makes me so angry.” I turned to her. “What exactly?” “That boys like him dare to fancy girls like us.” She sighed. “It’s like they believe they deserve us, you know?” “Er…” I wasn’t sure I did. “I do!” Irene cried out, giddy in her obsequiousness. “I know exactly what you mean!” “Will you please explain it to Noemi here?” Lise pointed to me, an angelical smile on her face. “When boys like Julien dare to pursue one of us,” Irene said, aping Lise’s smile, “it lowers us to their level. It cheapens us.” “Let’s teach him a lesson,” Lise said. Tanya clapped her hands and Irene squealed with delight. I tried to look appropriately thrilled. “What do you have in mind?” Lise laid out her idea. It was surprisingly well thought out and uniquely cruel. “Oh, come on.” She nudged me with her elbow, seeing my hesitation. “It’ll be fun. And it’ll send the right message to all other losers who might be thinking of trying something like that with one of us.”

Tanya raised her hand. “I’m in!” “Let’s do it!” Irene said. The three of them trained their eyes on me. “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

I N THE MIDDLE of my recollections, Julien opens his eyes and stretches before giving me a dazzling smile. “Did you sleep well, sweetie?” If I were wearing underwear, it would’ve melted at the seams. “Better than ever,” I say. “You?” He nods. “I ordered us some breakfast. It should be here any minute.” “Ooh, you don’t do anything by halves, do you?” He slips a hand between my legs and cups me. “Actually, that was a mistake. I thought we’d be famished when we woke up, but now I’m hungrier for you than for food.” There’s a knock on the door, and I scoot away from him. Julien pulls on his boxers and heads for the door. I watch his broad well-muscled back. At this distance, you can’t see the tiny spots and scars left by the tattoo he had removed from his upper back.

One day, I’ll ask him when he removed it and how —laser, most likely—and if having it burned off his skin hurt as much as having it needled in. One day, when I’m ready. But right now, we’re about to feast on a delicious breakfast of eggs, ham, smoked salmon, buttered toasts, croissants, orange juice, and three kinds of jam. Mmm. As I pick up the coffee pot to fill our cups, I notice a small note behind it.

Mademoiselle Dray and Monsieur Boitel,

May I have the honor of your company at my table tonight?

Please RSVP.

I lift my eyes from the note. “It’s signed by the ship’s captain!” Julien grins. “I always thought his table was reserved for his personal friends and VIPs,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “Guess it wasn’t.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Is this your doing?” “I plead innocent!” He claps his hand to his

chest before bunching his eyebrows. “Come to think of it, maybe, indirectly.” “Because you booked one of the most expensive suites?” “Could be.” He butters his croissant. “Or because we treated the guests to a heartwarming show last night.” “I should’ve said no,” I say, chuckling. “Just for kicks.” My grin fades when I see the expression in his eyes. Stung, angry—like a wounded beast. Stupid cow! I, of all people, should know it’s no joking matter for Julien, not after that horrible birthday party. So what that he’d told me he was over the whole thing? That doesn’t mean it’s an open invitation to rub salt in his wound. “I’m sorry, baby,” I say, touching his hand. “I shouldn’t joke about that.” He plasters a smile on his face. “Nonsense. Of course, you can joke about that and anything else you want to joke about. It’s my problem if I can’t handle it.” We spend most of the day off the boat, enjoying a guided tour of Rome. In the evening, we dress up—Julien dons a chic suit and me, an evening gown—and join today’s crop of the lucky guests gathered for pre-dinner cocktails in the lounge. We’re quite a mismatched

group of different ages and nationalities, but it only takes a complimentary cocktail or two for the conversation to flow. It never halts once we join the captain at his table, and he treats us to a couple of colorful tales to match the superior quality of the wine poured by white-gloved servers. It turns out that one of our tablemates used to play handball in college. One of the women was a decent tennis player, and—lo and behold—our captain played water polo in his youth. Quickly, Julien becomes the center of attention with everyone curious to know what it’s like to be an athlete on the national team, how he prepares for the Olympic Games, and what exotic places he gets to travel to. Usually discreet, my fiancé regales the company with hilarious stories and witty quips, all while stroking my thigh under the table. “You’re so lucky to have snagged a man like that,” a retired career woman on my right whispers in my ear. “I know,” I mouth to her, unable to wipe the smug grin off my face. After dessert, everyone poses for a group photo. “You are all invited to a tour of the bridge tomorrow,” the captain says before wishing us good night. “I’m so looking forward to that,” Julien says to

me as we stroll to our cabin. “Can’t think of a better way to finish this amazing cruise.” I sigh. “I wish it were longer.” “What?” he asks in feigned surprise. “You aren’t eager to go back to work?” I roll my eyes. “Unlike some people present, my job consists of fattening my ass and wearing down my brain so I can help the rich partners of my law firm get even richer.” The fake surprise in Julien’s eyes turns real, and I regret my words immediately. What’s wrong with me today? The only thing Julien had heard about my job until now was how much I loved it. And I do. How can I not? Being an associate in a big law firm is a dream come true. The job is demanding, but I know if I work hard enough, network harder and lick my boss’s bespoke Italian shoes harder still, one day I’ll be promoted to partner. Yay, right? Exhaling a heavy breath, I wave my hand. “I didn’t mean what I just said. Decidedly, my tongue is full of poison.” “Your tongue is full of honey,” he says, flashing me one of his devastatingly sexy smiles. Only this time, it misses its mark, and my panties stay firmly sewn together. Whether it’s because my distress served as a shield against his charm or Julien’s eyes didn’t truly

partake in his smile remains to be seen.

3

JULIEN

I

sn’t it ironic that the run-down McDonald’s where Noemi and I sealed my fate eight years ago is just three blocks from the swimming pool where I’ve trained for the last two years? When we were eighteen, Noemi lived farther down the street. My parents’ apartment was spitting distance from hers, and our school was no more than ten minutes away. After my failed suicide attempt, we moved to Belgium, and I never set foot in this neighborhood until I returned to Paris and joined Lucas’s up-andcoming club. And now I pass this calamitous spot every day except Sundays or when we travel. That must add up to something like four or five hundred occasions to recall a certain windy December afternoon and shake my head at my incredible naïveté.

Today is no different. I park my car in the first available spot, grab my duffel bag, and hoof it to the pool. As I pass the McDonald’s, I forget I’m a self-assured twenty-sixyear-old athlete admired by thousands of fans and rid of my aggressive cystic acne for five years. I’m eighteen again, sitting across the table from an angel in skinny jeans and white sweater at this very McDonald’s. I’d planned to take Noemi somewhere nicer, but she said she didn’t have time, what with today’s homework, the papers to finish and hand in before the Christmas break, and the exams to prepare for. “So, what is it you wanted to tell me?” she says, glancing at her watch. “Make it snappy.” I’d prepared a speech filled with pearls of eloquence from the “Top 10 Most Romantic Love Declarations No Woman Can Resist” article from the Internet. I’d learned it by rote. But I can’t remember a word of it to save my life. Noemi taps her fingertips on the table. “So?” “I’m in love with you,” I say. She sighs and stares out the window. Her expression tells me she expected me to say something like that. Small wonder, with all the yearning looks exchanged between us since September. True, I’ve done most of the looking and, especially, the yearning. But she did return

quite a few of my stares, especially when we worked on that history presentation in her room. I would’ve never dared to do what I’m doing now if she hadn’t. With my gaze trained on my Christmas blend, I wait and lose hope with every passing second. I’m so screwed. She must be searching for words to break it to me gently. She’s going to say she’s sorry but she doesn’t feel the same way about me. Given the way I look these days, who can blame her? “Are you sure what you’re feeling is love, and not… you know… hormones?” Noemi asks. I look up from my paper cup, flabbergasted. She didn’t say no. She’s trying to gauge the depth of my feelings. Could that mean… Noemi cocks her head, prompting me to answer her question. “Yes, I’m sure,” I say. “Are you willing to prove it?” “Of course. How?” She shrugs. “I don’t know… Do something that will leave no doubt in my heart that you’re truly in love.” “I’ll do anything,” I say. “Name it, and I’ll do it.” She gives me a mischievous smile. “Will you dye your hair bright green?” I smirk. “As if I didn’t look vile enough with

my zits… But yes, sure.” “Will you go out in yellow briefs?” “Sure.” “And nothing else.” I picture myself walking the streets of Paris in my underwear. “Can I have my sneakers on?” She nods. “Will you get a tattoo on your back?” “Absolutely. Anything specific?” She describes what she has in mind and surveys me for a long moment. “Will you write me a love letter?” “Already have.” I reach for my jacket to pull the folded sheet with my “speech,” but she catches my hand. “Don’t give it to me now.” My mind draws a blank, and all I can think of is her hand on my wrist. This is our first time touching. It feels like heaven. “Did you swipe it from the Internet?” she asks. I smile apologetically. “Writing isn’t my strong suit.” “I don’t care if your letter isn’t elegant,” she says. “But I want your words to come from the heart. They have to be sincere.” I stare at her hand on top of mine. “OK… I’ll write it in my own words. Then what?” “I’ll invite you to my birthday party next Saturday,” Noemi says, shifting her hand ever so slightly.

Was that a caress? My eyes drill into hers, looking for a clue. She holds my gaze and shifts her hand again, this time applying more pressure, stroking my hand. My lids drop, and my cock stirs against my thigh. “You’ll come in yellow undies,” she says, “with green hair and the tat on your back, and you’ll bring your love letter. We’ll go to my room once my parents are out and everyone is dancing, and you’ll read it to me. If I find your letter heartfelt and passionate enough, I will…” She blushes and looks at our hands on the table. Emboldened, I reach over and touch her cheek. “Noemi…” “I’ll kiss you,” she says, leaning her head into my touch. “And… more.” Holy. Cow. This is so much more than what I could have hoped for that a part of me wants to jump on top of the table and yell my joy for the whole world to hear. The other part wants to lean forward and kiss the hell out of Noemi. But I do neither of those things. She has stated her terms. I’m not enchanted with them, but clearly, they mean a lot to her. So, I’m going to play by her rules and hold my end of the deal. And she’ll hold hers. Except, she didn’t. She had never meant to.

The whole thing had been intended as a lesson: How dare you hope a girl like me would want anything to do with a loser like you! As I step into the locker room, my teammates attack me with confetti guns. “Congratulations on your engagement!” “Woot! Woot!” “When’s the wedding?” News travels fast. Jean-Michel shakes his head. “Lucky bastard, snagging a girl like that. I was hoping she’d dump you and go out with me…” “Luckily for Julien, his girl is too smart to fall for a horndog like you,” Valentin says. Zach, our hole-set and team captain, pats my shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man.” I feel bad because I know Zach means it. He always means what he says. Recently married himself—and happily so, judging by the way he and Uma dote on each other—he’s thirty-three. That makes him the oldest player and the only “veteran” on the team. But the club’s longest in the tooth is our coach Lucas, who could’ve still played at thirty-seven if it wasn’t for his injuries and all the other shit he went through a few years back. Everyone else is in their twenties, which means a couple of Olympic Games and at least half a dozen seasons to look forward to.

Today’s workout begins with weight lifting and stomach exercises before we jump into the tank for leg conditioning. In this game, everything comes down to strength and endurance. After my attempted suicide, I set out to harden myself mentally and physically. I did tons of research on various sports. Water polo looked like the toughest of them all, so I chose it. I’ve never regretted my choice. What happens above the water is bad enough, but the real effort—and the real fight—takes place beneath the surface where the public and the refs on their walkways can’t see. We tread water all the time—even during timeouts—to keep ourselves afloat since we aren’t allowed to touch the bottom of the pool. We position ourselves so we can make plays on offense or defense with one arm out of the water at all times and ready to handle the ball. No one gets to rest if they’re in the game. Even in peaceful moments when players are “just” swimming across the pool, things are not what they seem. Suddenly, two or three guys come up from underwater, and there’s blood everywhere. Only no one rolls on the grass screaming and weeping like those clowns do in soccer. We take our lumps and carry on. As the team’s hole-defender, I tend to end up with more lumps than any other player on the

squad. While Zach must focus on scoring, my main job is to prevent the opposing team’s hole-set from shooting. The way I do it is by jostling, hurtling myself into the guy, jabbing him, pulling, hanging on him, and doing just about anything short of stabbing to shut him down. Considering the average hole-set’s size and skill, defending the hole is a job from hell. Good thing I’m just as big as Zach. And twice as mean. The only other guy meaner than me in the field —and in life—is Jean-Michel. We could’ve been besties if I’d had for him a fraction of the respect I have for Zach. Zach’s lack of meanness aside, I truly admire our hole-set. He’s honorable, and he trains like a beast, which is why he’s in top form. Last year, he was named France’s top scorer, and became the first Nageurs de Paris player to be selected for the national team. Our goalie Noah was the second and, once Lucas took over as the national team’s coach, he picked me to be the hole-defender on the main squad and Jean-Michel as a substitute holeset. Aside from the fact that it’s an honor to represent France in international competitions, my pay doubled, and I quit my part-time job at my parents’ accounting firm. Mom was OK with that, but Dad wasn’t happy. I had to promise I’d join

again when my days as an athlete are over. What I failed to mention is that I plan to become the longest-playing water poloist in the world. After the workout, we go for drinks. This time, coach takes us to a fancier place than our usual post-workout brasserie and orders champagne to celebrate my engagement. I had expected this to happen, so I asked my fiancée and my best friend to join us. Noemi had to work late, researching some messy case for her boss, but Roland said he’d come. True to his word, he did. “Congratulations!” Roland gives me a shamelessly fake smile and clinks his champagne glass to mine. “Everything on track?” While my teammates and coach are here to wish me joy and happiness, Roland is asking about the progress of my plan. What with being my best friend since childhood, he’s the only person who knows about it. “Oh, yeah.” I flash a bright smile that competes with Roland’s in its falseness. “The paperwork is done and submitted to the mairie, and we have a date.” “When?” “November 22.” “That’s two months from now.” Roland frowns. “Will you survive?”

“Are you abstaining until marriage?” JeanMichel asks, widening his eyes. I hadn’t noticed him sit next to us. I rub the bridge of my nose, scrambling for a plausible explanation. “That’s not what he meant.” “I meant it in the sense that Julien here is way too eager to call Noemi his wife,” Roland says. “Aww. How sweet.” Jean-Michel gives me a you-poor-lovesick-sod smile. “So, will you survive?” He wouldn’t be smiling if he knew the real meaning behind Roland’s question. My friend was asking if I can keep up the act for two more months. I can. I will. Even if it’s getting harder by the day.

4

NOEMI

“W

here’s that darned memo?” Melissa inquires of the universe for the umpteenth time. With a panicked expression, she flips over the neatly stacked contents of her outbox and spreads them across her desk. As Bertrand’s PA, it’s Melissa’s job to be organized. And she was, until recently. But her longtime boyfriend took off with a bimbo half his age, leaving her and their toddler in a mortgaged house she couldn’t afford on her own. So, the house was sold to pay the debts, and Melissa moved in with her mom. Quiet by nature, the poor woman’s level of confidence took a huge hit after that debacle. For a split second, I consider saying something kind and supportive to Melissa. Then I think again.

In this company—and in this life—it’s every man for himself. Melissa shouldn’t have let her personal issues affect her work. She should’ve stayed on top of things at the office, regardless of what’s been going on at home. Now she only has herself to blame for her downward spiral. Bertrand, who used to be satisfied with her performance, has started shaming her in public at every staff meeting over the last month. He also reams her out between staff meetings, “in private”, but loudly enough for everyone to hear. Almost every time he crawls out of his office, he asks Melissa a seemingly innocuous question. She answers with a quiver in her voice, and before you know it, he’s yelling at her. She’s become his PB—Punching Bag—as much as his PA. If I didn’t know my devious boss better, I’d think he’s developed a sudden and passionate hatred for his assistant of two years. But Bertrand doesn’t do emotions, and even hatred is an emotion. There must be something that motivates him to prey on Melissa during her rough patch— pushing her down instead of pulling her up. Ingrid sashays to Melissa’s desk. “Do you need help looking for that memo?” Melissa shakes her head. In her place, I wouldn’t accept Ingrid’s help either. The twenty-one-year-old is a secretarial

intern in our firm, recruited personally by Bertrand. There’s speculation in the office as to whether she’s his mistress, a distant relation, or a friend’s daughter. She could also be a mistress’s daughter or a friend’s mistress. The possibilities are endless. But whoever she is, she wasn’t hired in response to a need. Lawyers and legal associates recruit their own interns, generally law students, to help with the workload. As for the administrative side of things, we have a top-notch hyper-efficient office manager who’s more important to the firm than any of the lawyers. She picks her own temps and interns whom she puts through a rigorous evaluation test before hiring. She wasn’t involved in or even aware of Ingrid’s recruitment. Suddenly, everything clicks into place. Bertrand is harassing Melissa in the hopes she’ll resign so he can offer her job to Ingrid. If Melissa wasn’t one of the two staffers hired by the other partner on an open-end contract, I’m sure Bertrand would’ve sacked her by now. He still can if he gathers sufficient proof of her incompetence. Seeing Melissa’s escalating forgetfulness, it won’t take him long. Which would be a shame, because the woman is… nice. Unlike the ruthless baby sharks the corporate world teems with, Melissa has always

refused to get involved in backstabbing and intrigues. She’s honest and unguarded, and at thirty-two, she still doesn’t understand what others figured out by the time they finished school: You can’t survive without soul armor. If you refuse to grow it because it makes you ugly on the inside, someday someone will put a spear through your heart. I’ve known that since my last year of high school, and not just because of what my friends and I did to Julien. Two months before graduation, I had a spear driven through my own heart. After the Cats and I taught Julien a “lesson in humility,” as we liked to call the public disgrace we inflicted, he came down with pneumonia. Our teachers told us it was so bad he had to go to the hospital and then recover at home for a month. By the end of that month, his family moved to Belgium. That meant I didn’t get to see Julien again until we bumped into each other in June. I like to think that if he’d returned to our school after his illness, I would’ve apologized and made it up to him somehow. That said, I doubt I would’ve gone as far as admitting I had a secret crush on him. Yes, that’s right—one of the school’s most popular girls fancied one of its most pathetic losers. The very guy she’d humiliated in front of everyone for daring to fall in love with her. I couldn’t bear

the mortification of such an admission. But I would’ve tried my best to convince him I was truly sorry and hadn’t realized how cruel my little joke would turn out to be. Man, I regretted it once he was gone and I found myself missing him so much my heart had crazy spasms in my chest. “Juvenile tachycardia,” the doctors proclaimed, no doubt caused by the stress of upcoming exams. “Not to worry, it’ll pass soon enough,” they said. That convenient diagnosis fooled my parents, teachers, and friends. But not me. I knew what was wrong with my heart. It wasn’t tachycardia. It was first love. Why, oh why, couldn’t I keep that knowledge to myself? Pre-armor unworldliness, I guess. One warm Saturday afternoon in May, when Lise and I hung out in the Galeries Lafayette, I spilled the beans. The silly cow that I was, I confessed to the Number One Mean Girl of the Lycée Molière that I was pining for Julien. At first, she thought I was messing with her. But then I showed her the diary I carried around in my school bag, so my mom won’t have a chance to lay her hands on it at home. Lise read a few entries and handed the diary back. “Wow.” That was all she offered as feedback. No words

of comfort, no scolding me for being so undiscerning in my affections. Just “wow.” That should’ve raised a red flag. But, as I said, those were my pre-armor days. So it didn’t. The next day, Lise filched the diary from my bag and showed it to the other Cats, who kindly shared it with the rest of the class before I could recover it. And, just like that, I became the school’s new pariah, succeeding Julien who’d moved away. I guess that’s why, just like him, I’m wary of confessions and why I’ve never spoken of love to him. What a screwed up couple we make! I swallow the rest of my cold coffee and massage my temples to focus my attention back on work. For the next three hours, I wade through the murky waters of digital copyright, reading dozens of cases, legal texts, and expert commentaries so I can give Bertrand the arguments he needs to win this litigation for our client. I toil until everyone has left and the office has grown almost spookily quiet. When I run out of reference material piled on and around my desk, I haul my ass out of my cubicle and head to the bookshelves to dig up a few additional binders. Bertrand emerges from his lair. Weird. He never works so late. He surveys the empty cubicles and marches to

Melissa’s desk. The overhead lights are still on since the cleaning staff hasn’t been to our floor yet. I have an unobstructed view of Bertrand through the gap on the shelf created by the binder I just pulled out. He sifts through the letters and other official documents in Melissa’s outbox. Glancing around again, he picks out two and sticks them in his briefcase. Then, his lips pursed hard, as if he was trying to crack a nut between them, Bertrand arranges the papers into a neat stack. Carefully, he sets the stack back in the outbox, and strides out the door.

I RECOUNT this incident to Julien over dinner. “So, your boss is resorting to black hat tacks to get rid of his PA, huh?” he says. “It isn’t right.” I sigh. “And it isn’t fair.” He gives me a funny look as if he’s surprised at my words or didn’t expect me to care about what Bertrand is doing to Melissa or the unfairness of it. The doubt I’ve been suppressing since Julien and I went on our first date rears its head again. Does he really love me? Is it possible to love someone who showed no compassion in the past? Someone who was mean to

you? Who was mean, period? Is it possible to love someone who used to act like a coldhearted bitch? Julien strokes my hand. “Will you tell Melissa about what you saw?” “Not yet,” I say. “But I will once I have proof.” There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m going to help Melissa by any means possible. I’m prepared to stick my neck out for her. But if I do it now by telling everyone what I saw, it’s my word against Bertrand’s. I have no proof of his machinations. I’ll get fired, and I won’t save Melissa’s job. But if I’m clever about this, Melissa can talk to him from a position of force. Julien surveys my face. “You’ve changed since high school.” My eyes bore into his. I have changed. The old Noemi would’ve done nothing so she could stay in Bertrand’s good graces and make sure her contract is renewed next year. The new Noemi believes that by doing nothing, she’ll help Bertrand frame Melissa. Aside from the fact that the poor woman doesn’t deserve it, it’s just plain wrong. Julien doesn’t add anything to his observation, but there’s enough approval in his eyes to forgo words. I guess that’s it—the answer to my doubts. Julien is giving me a second chance. He still loves me. A man who feels nothing for a woman can’t

look at her the way Julien looks at me. He wouldn’t make love to her so tenderly, so reverently. He wouldn’t propose to her just to give her a comeuppance for a childish prank. That’s it! No more questioning his feelings. No more poisoning our relationship—and our future marriage—with my doubts. I’m going to trust him the way he trusts me. Who knows, maybe he doesn’t even think I was such a bad person in my teens. After all, I didn’t break the law, mistreat a dog, or kill anyone. All I did was to play a stupid joke that hurt his ego. A joke he got over within a month.

5

JULIEN

H

as she really changed? Is she capable of it? Or is the whole Melissa story just another ruse, one of the many tricks in my fiancée’s duping toolbox? Something she made up to show herself in a better light? How I wish I could read her mind! As we watch Noemi’s favorite show before going to bed, memories race through my mind. I recall the worst day of my life. Jeez, I was dumb at eighteen! The day of the “life-changing” McDonald’s conversation with Noemi, I booked appointments at the barbershop and a tattoo parlor on my way home. Later that evening, I ordered the lemoncolored underwear from an online retailer and wrote the love letter.

I completely rewrote it three or four times over the next few days, baring increasingly more of my soul with each rewrite. Noemi wanted it to be heartfelt. It had to be sincere. No crutches in the form of song quotes, no swiping sugary samples from the Internet, no shielding myself with humor. I had one shot at winning the girl of my dreams, and I was giving it all I had. On the evening of Noemi’s birthday party, I arrived at her place in yellow briefs, my hair dyed a flashy shade of green, and an enormous double rose drawn on my acne covered back. The tattoo was still fresh and covered with scabs. A line of text cut through it between my shoulder blades. It read, I love you, Noemi Dray. There’d been a considerable amount of pain associated with that tattoo, but I’d welcomed it as a tribute to the gods for my chance to be with the woman I loved. Everyone fell silent and stared at me. The girls whispered and giggled, and a few of the boys said things like, “You’re a nut job, dude.” If Roland were there, he would’ve done something to make it easier for me, but he hadn’t been invited. Noemi emerged from the crowd, took my hand, and led me to her room. Once we were inside, she pulled the door shut. “I didn’t think you’d have the balls to actually do this.”

“Yet, here I am,” I said. “Green and yellow as requested.” She smiled. I itched to add that if she’d allowed me to wear a blue T-shirt, I could pass for a Brazilian soccer fan, but I bit my tongue. No humor, remember? Just feelings. I handed her my letter. “Will you read it for me?” she asked. Uh-oh. I’d been hoping she’d read it herself, silently, in my presence. Or—even better—after the party. I wasn’t prepared to voice the raw emotion I’d poured into my words. She thrust the folded sheets back into my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Please?” Oh well. I’d come this far… “All right,” I said. “Sure. I’ll read it to you.” I unfolded the three handwritten pages and began to read.

Darling Noemi,

I saw you for the first time in Madame Foucault’s class exactly one year, three months and five days ago. You’d just transferred to our school.

That day you rocked my world. I thought you were the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. I thought you were a blessing. A gift from heaven.

Something hatched in my heart that day, and that thing has been growing ever since. It gets bigger every time I look at you. It doesn’t stop growing when I can’t see you like in the evenings, on weekends, and holidays. At night, when I make love to you in my fantasies and dreams, it doubles in size.

You are so incredibly amazing.

If I was granted one wish, it would be to experience your love, even for a day. To have you want me like I want you, to take you in my arms, to kiss you, and to make love to you because you need it. Because you love me. After that, I could bite the dust, no problem. I would die a happy man.

Sometimes I think you’re too flawless to be real. Or to be human. Sometimes I wonder if you’re an angel or an alien or an android from the future. For the record, I don’t care what planet or time you are

from. What matters is this: You are Perfection.

Sometimes, I try to picture you old with your curves gone, your hair white, wrinkles all over your face, and brown spots on your hands. And you know what? Even in those fantasies, you are still perfect.

Noemi, I had to tell you how I feel because if I didn’t, my love was going to burst like a supernova and end the universe. OK, maybe not the whole universe, but my universe. In other words, my existence.

I would do anything for you. Anything. If you want me to strip naked and jump into an icy lake, I will. If you ask me to drop out of school and join the Foreign Legion, I’ll do it. I would eat your poop if for some reason you wanted me to.

I want you to know there are no limits to what I would do for you.

If you allow me to protect and cherish you, I will do it from this day until my last breath. I would give my life to keep you safe, and it would be an honor.

I will love you always.

I looked up at Noemi as I said those words. Her eyes glistened with tears. Emboldened, I took a step toward her. She took a step back. What happened next was something my brain failed to understand at first. She grabbed a small cactus-like plant from the shelf behind her and ran out. I followed her. When I entered the main room, just a few steps behind Noemi, there was an eerie silence. Then the booing, catcalls, and laughter started. Someone threw food at my face. “Anyone needs to go to potty anytime soon?” Noemi’s friend Lise asked. “Be sure to wrap your crap for our very own gourmet!” The room roared. That’s when I noticed the huge flat screen on the wall with a video that had been paused. The still image showed me in Noemi’s room, mouth gaping, as I stared at Noemi when she grabbed the plant and bolted. Lise took it from Noemi’s hands. “This is a nanny cam, you dimwit.” “What a show!” Noemi’s second crony, Tanya,

said. “You went above and beyond in ridiculing yourself.” Irene, Noemi’s third friend, shook her head in fake sympathy. “How will you ever recover from this?” Dropping my head low, I ran to the door, bumping into chests and shoulders, stumbling over feet trying to trip me, and jostling guys who blocked my way. The pain of my humiliation was staggering, but what shook me to the core was the depth of Noemi’s betrayal. Recovering from it wasn’t something I planned on at that point. I got home, found a piece rope in the broom closet, and hung myself from the hook on the door of my room. But luckily, once the rope tightened around my neck, I started thrashing. The noise drew Mom into my room. She cut me down and drove me—dizzy but still conscious—to the ER. The doc there examined me without doing any scans and discharged me into my parents’ care. A few days later, I began to show signs of aspiration pneumonia and acute respiratory distress —both rare but potentially fatal consequences of near hangings. Those delayed effects came close to killing me a second time. But I lived. And strangely, I’ve never envisioned suicide again.

Seeing the Grim Reaper up close twice within the space of one week made certain I didn’t attempt a third encounter anytime soon. My survival instinct woke up, and my brain shifted from wishing to flee to wanting to fight. While I was in the hospital, Mom vowed she’d take her own life if I ever took mine. Dad pledged he’d toughen me up, if I let him. I promised him my full cooperation. Flo just cried. Roland made me swear on my parents’ and Flo’s lives—since I obviously didn’t hold my own in high regard—that I’d make Noemi pay. And that’s what I’m doing now. Noemi scoots closer to me on the couch and fingers a button on my shirt. I blink and glance at the TV screen. Her show is over. “How about we make love on the sofa tonight?” she purrs. I smile, as I try to drive away the image of eighteen-year-old me hovering between life and death in the intensive care unit with a breathing tube and an IV needle sticking out of me and a ligature mark still visible across my neck. “Sure.” “I’d like to try something new,” she murmurs. “Be my guest.” Before I have time to guess what she has in mind, Noemi slides to the floor in front of me and unbuckles the belt of my jeans. Really?

Princess Noemi intends to service her “knight” with a blowjob. How shockingly un-princesslike. How… tantalizing. I lean back and let her take control. In a moment, she’ll discover I’m not as hard as she’s used to finding me at the slightest mention of sex. Not my problem. She can use this rare opportunity to hone her seduction skills. They’ll come in handy with her next man.

6

NOEMI

I

free Julien’s penis, which is only half-hard, and stroke it gently. He must have some worries he’s hiding from me because his shaft has never been anything but rock hard before. I suspected as much, what with the deep crease that had settled between his eyebrows at some point during the show and never left until I kneeled before him. In the three months we’ve been dating, I’ve never gone down on Julien. He hasn’t gone down on me either. We’ve had lots of sex, to be sure, but it’s been… what some would describe as “plain vanilla.” Not that I didn’t enjoy it. I loved it—loved Julien’s tenderness and the care he took with me. So gentle, so considerate. And yet… It’s starting to feel a little forced as if he feels kid gloves are in

order because I’m such a delicate flower. And because I’m the woman he chose to be his wife. The mother of his future children. I say, screw that. If only I had the guts to tell him the mother of his future children can be fucked harder and in many positions far less demure than the missionary! But it’s too difficult to utter those words. So I’m going to show him instead. Sitting on my heels between his widespread knees, I shove my thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and push them down. He lifts his ass for a moment so I can pull them off, together with his boxers. I wrap both my hands around his flesh and pump him. With every stroke, his member grows bigger, harder, hotter. I shift one hand to his sac. My other hand continues to press and rub, and after a few moments, my thumb can no longer touch the tip of my middle finger. My breath hitches as I gaze at his now fully erect shaft throbbing against my palm. With a quick glance at his eager face, I bend down and take him in my mouth. Julien groans through clenched teeth, and his head falls back against the sofa. I push lower, feeling him bump against the roof of my mouth, the inside of my cheeks, the back of my throat. And then I push more. Julien gasps loudly and threads his hands

through my hair. Spurred by his reaction, I give my caress everything I’ve got, moving up and down his length, my tongue circling him, my fingers pressing at the base. Faster, harder, greedier. His breathing becomes shallow. “Jesus, woman!” He fists his hands in my hair, pulls me back until only the crown is inside, and then drives in. I’ve had oral sex before, but it’s never felt so erotic, so heady, empowering even. And when he comes, I drink him in. I wonder how he’ll qualify my initiative once his orgasm has waned. Will he praise me and say I should do that again, or will he admit he’s disappointed to see how slutty his fiancée really is? But before I have time to envision the full implications of the latter scenario, Julien picks me up, lays me back on the couch, and spreads my legs. “Need to taste you,” he explains, yanking off my skirt and panties. Do I dare to interpret his remark as a sign that he doesn’t mind my sluttishness? Perhaps, he even approves of it. Should I ask him? But there’s no time because in the next second, Julien buries his head between my thighs and presses an open-mouthed kiss to my center. My lids flutter shut.

Sweet Lord, I needed this. “You taste like paradise for bad boys,” he mutters before his mouth comes down on me again. As he tongues, kisses and sucks me, pressure builds. I begin to writhe and to buck up to his mouth. But suddenly it’s all too much. I use my hands push him away so I can get a respite. “Don’t fight it, sweetie.” He captures my wrists. “Ride it.” And so I do. When I peak—shaking as if I were having a fit —Julien growls his approval and licks me clean. I had no idea he could be like this. Desire darkening his gaze, he yanks his shirt off, removes my sweater, and scoops me up. He carries me to the bedroom, but unlike previous times, he lowers me to the floor instead of the bed. Picking up a condom from the top of my night table, he sheathes himself. And then he pushes me to the wall and cages me with his body. I put my hands on his hard chest. “Kiss me.” He doesn’t make me ask twice. As he plunges his tongue between my parted lips, I suck it, tasting myself and Julien, the mixture of the two tastes is incredibly hot. My hand reaches down between us and I palm him, my body singing with desire. Julien dips two fingers into me, then out, only to

be replaced by his shaft as he lifts me against the wall. Sweet pleasure shoots through every part, every cell of my body. I shut my eyes, my whole being focused on Julien thrusting deeper and deeper into me. I can’t move. I’m filled and pinned to the wall with my feet not even reaching the floor. There’s nothing I can do to regain a measure of control, nothing I can hold on to, except the man who’s impaling me. I grip his neck and wrap my legs around him, allowing him to drive into me deeper still. My muscles clench and throb around him, the pleasure building, building, building. He squeezes my ass, pushing up. I push down, meeting him. Our flesh slaps together with every pump. Julien’s face contorts into a mask of pleasure and pain, sweat breaking on his forehead. He dips his head and sucks on the side of my neck, just above the arch of my collarbone. I moan his name. He slams into me with more force, his breaths jerky and his eyes blind. “Come… for me.” Whether it’s his words or the frantic tempo of his thrusts, I come. A few thrusts later, he does, too. Afterward as we cuddle under the covers, I wonder if what happened tonight will change things between us. I wonder if the change will be for better or for worse.

Will he still admire and respect me, knowing this about me, knowing how much I enjoyed the rougher, rawer sex we had tonight? I didn’t just enjoy it—I freaking loved every hot, sultry moment of it. All the orgasms I’ve ever had before pale compared to the ones he wrung from me tonight. As if reading my thoughts, Julien pulls me to him and kisses my lips. I grow dizzy as his tongue caresses mine in slow, powerful strokes. His hand tight on my nape, he devours my mouth in a way that’s new, more passionate, and more demanding than before. But there’s something else to his kiss, an emotion I can’t quite pinpoint… Then it suddenly hits me. Desperation.

7

JULIEN

S

omeone, please tell me how a mean, spoiled brat can make herself as vulnerable as Noemi did tonight. She gave herself to me completely, and it was genuine. I’m sure of it. She couldn’t have faked the flush on her cheeks, the red blotches on her breasts, or her engorged, stiff nipples. Nor could she force her pupils to dilate like that, turning her hazel eyes black when she looked up at me with her lips around my cock. And how could she have produced all that creamy, delicious nectar I licked off her? Has she truly changed? Or has she always been this person, underneath the bitch? It would explain why I’d fallen for her in the first place. I must know. It’s vital that I know.

“You seemed to enjoy yourself more than usual tonight,” I say. She stares at my mouth for a long moment and then shifts her gaze to my eyes. “I did.” I peer at her. “I’m going to be brave and make a confession,” Noemi says. “You deserve it.” I wait. She takes a ragged breath. “Once, years back, you took a huge risk when you showed up at my birthday party with a love declaration tattooed on your back and a letter in your hands. And you took an even bigger risk two weeks ago when you proposed on the boat.” “Please, you shouldn’t feel you owe me—” She cups my cheek. “But I do.” I shut my mouth. “It isn’t just to reward your courage,” Noemi says. “It’s also because for the first time in my life, I’m starting to understand who I really am.” A sense of foreboding washes over me. In my gut, in my heart, I know she’s being honest now. She’s pushing herself to open up and tell me things she might regret later—things that I might use against her. I should be gleeful. But instead, my hand burns to cover her mouth to stop her from saying more. I don’t want her to. I can’t let her. Given my plans for her, how will I live with myself if I do?

“So, here’s the weird thing,” she says. “I’ve always gone out of my way to be what my parents, my so-called friends, and now my boss expect of me.” “And what’s that?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. “Being guarded and calculating.” She peers into my eyes as if trying to gauge my reaction. I hold her gaze. “I’m through with that.” She nods to reinforce her words. “Starting tonight, I’m brave enough to tell them they can shove their guidance.” A glimmer of hope illuminates the abyss I’ve been sinking into. Maybe Noemi’s confession has nothing to do with me, or with her feelings for me. Maybe it’s just about her finally growing up and emancipating herself from the dictates of others. “I’m happy to hear that,” I say, forcing a smile. “Nobody bosses my Noemi around!” “You mistook my meaning. What I really want to say is…” She shuts her eyes for a moment. “God, it’s hard!” “Then don’t say it,” I murmur. “I don’t expect you to strip your soul bare. I don’t need it, Noemi.” Her eyes fly open. “But I do.” She rolls on her back, then on her side, and faces the wall. “Noemi?” I touch her shoulder. “Are you OK?”

“Yes. It’s just… It’s hard to say these things facing you, so…” “Please, baby—” I begin in a last attempt to stop her. “I’ve always played a part,” she says. “The part of a woman without vulnerabilities, beyond reproach, a woman who would never do anything weird, unbefitting, or anything to be ridiculed for. Both in bed and out of it.” Something strange happens as she says this. I no longer want her to stop talking. Tough shit if I won’t be able to live with myself afterward. What she’s saying is too important to walk away from. It’s impossible to walk away from. “I think that’s why you never dared to push me harder before,” she says. “Why you never really claimed me, despite the ring. But tonight, you did. And I loved it. For the first time, I feel I am truly yours—and you, mine—without holding anything back. It was amazing.” My blood pounds in my ears. “I trust you with my body and soul.” Noemi reaches behind her and finds my hand, which she brings to her lips. “And I won’t let my insecurities and overblown fear of ridicule undermine our relationship.” We remain in that position for the longest time, until Noemi’s breathing becomes deeper.

She’s fallen asleep. But me, I’m reeling too hard to sack out. Did she mean what she said? Is it possible she’s no longer the devious bitch who humiliates people for fun? Can you wake up one day and decide to be good? Bam! Just like that. Or is it yet another brilliant scheme in which savvy Noemi plays loser Julien like a fiddle? Need a cig. In the seven years since I quit smoking, I haven’t craved a cigarette more than I do now.

8

NOEMI

O

nce Melissa and I are on the rooftop, we unwrap our sandwiches and spend a few moments eating. The view over the mainly five- and six-storied buildings of Paris from up here would’ve been breathtaking if other highrise office buildings did not obstruct it. You can’t have everything, as they say. Like this rooftop, for instance. It would’ve been a perfect lunch break terrace if it had a few chairs and tables, and a scattering of potted plants to offset its slate-gray functionality. But the powers that be don’t want that or don’t care. Which suits me fine today because the rooftop’s stark barrenness ensures that I can have a tête-à-tête with Melissa. “You wanted to have a chat,” she says, apprehension making her avoid eye contact.

With all the shit she’s endured over the last few months, the poor thing has learned to expect the worst. I pull my cell phone from my bag. “Have a look.” While Melissa watches the video of Bertrand swiping a document from her desk, I watch her face. At first, her expression is bleak, then her jaw slackens, and then her eyes narrow in anger. She looks at me. “How did you come by this?” “Recorded it myself,” I say not without pride. She blinks. I smile. “Remember the fake cactus I put on your shelf last week?” “The one you said would bring me luck?” “The very same.” My smile widens. “It’s a nanny cam.” “What?” “I’ve had it for a long time, and I must confess that once, long ago, I used it in a way I’m still ashamed of. But now I got a chance to use it for a good cause.” And my residual inner bitch got a chance to redeem herself. Hope flickers in her eyes but gives way to doubt. “Is it legal?” “No.” I shrug. “But who cares? Which option do you think Bertrand would choose: sue me, after I send this vid to everyone in the firm, including

clients, or stop the funny business and let you do your job?” Melissa’s hands begin to shake. “I don’t have the guts to confront him. I’ll faint the moment I step into his office with that video.” “I don’t expect you to confront him,” I say. “Recording him was my decision. It’s up to me to do the confronting.” “You’re taking a huge risk.” I shrug. “No big deal.” “Noemi, listen to me.” She grabs my arm. “What you just offered means the world to me. It really does. But I refuse to let you ruin your career for me.” I drop the phone back into my bag. “And I refuse to look the other way while that scumbag ruins your life.” She lets go of my arm and begins to chew her nails. “It’s simple,” I say. “Do you need this job or not?” “Of course, I do!” “I’ll make sure you keep it.” We finish our sandwiches and take the elevator back to our floor. As soon as Bertrand returns from lunch, I invite myself into his office and show him the video. “Melissa and I have copies tucked away safely,” I say.

He gives me a black look. “What do you want?” “Justice.” Bertrand smirks. “As a lawyer, you should know that justice is a myth.” “Can I use that in my signature? I’ll attribute the quote, of course.” His eyes become slits. “Little bitch.” Coming from him, the insult feels like a compliment. An acknowledgment that he’s dealing with a worthy adversary who is a force to be reckoned with. I’m OK with being that sort of bitch. “What do you want?” Bertrand asks again. “You stop harassing Melissa immediately and irrevocably.” “Is that all?” His gaze bores into my eyes. “How do I know you won’t come back next week asking for a promotion?” “I won’t. But you’re right, you can’t know that.” Blackmailing Bertrand for a promotion hadn’t even occurred to me. What did occur, many times, is to take on more cases as a public defender and apply for a job in a legal aid center. My salary would nose-dive, but I think I’d be happier. In time, I might even start my own nonprofit. It would be called “Bitches for Social Justice.” “OK,” Bertrand says. “I’ll leave Melissa in

peace. But you’d better uphold your end of the deal.” I nod and march out. As I pass Melissa, she looks like she’s about to faint with anxiety, so I grin and give her the V sign. She slides down in her chair with relief. When Bertrand leaves—and something tells me he won’t linger tonight—I know she’ll rush to my cubicle for details. There won’t be much to tell, but I’ll take pleasure in describing every sweet second of Bertrand’s inglorious retreat and capitulation. I’ll squeeze the scene for more joy when I reenact it for Julien next week. He’ll be proud of me, and I’m sure he won’t mind that I used the same nanny cam from my birthday party eight years ago. He’s completely over that silly episode. I have it from the horse’s mouth. What a bummer recounting my heroics to Julien will have to wait until he’s back from Belgrade! He left this morning straight from my place —our place until we buy something together—and he won’t be back until next Tuesday. As I ride the crowded métro home, I wonder what Julien will think of my short-term plan to find a new job and my long-term plan to start a nonprofit. Will he laugh at the fanciful name I’ve come up with? And then there’s the motto: “Only a reformed bitch will fight for your rights tooth and nail!”

I’m grinning at my own cleverness as I step inside my apartment. But my smile fades even before my brain has fully registered all the little things that are wrong with it. They all boil down to one big thing. All of Julien’s stuff is gone. His shoes and jackets no longer rub elbows with mine on the rack in the entryway. The laptop that he rarely uses has disappeared from the dining table that had become his desk. So have his books and papers. I dash into the bedroom and open the closet. No single suit, shirt, or underclothes of his is in sight. The bathroom has been cleared of his toiletries. The only thing he’s left is the spare set of keys to my apartment. The one I gave him on our fifth date, with a tiny yellow water polo ball attached to the key ring. It sits on the entryway table atop a white envelope with my name on it. With clammy hands, I open the envelope. Noemi, By the time you find this letter, you’ll know I’ve left you. But you won’t know why. Remember the “joke” you played on me years back? I lied when I told you I’d gotten over it. Call me petty and vengeful, but after all this time, I still haven’t forgotten the pain of your betrayal and your gratuitous cruelty. So yes, the dating and proposing was a sham.

My end game had been to jilt you at the altar. But the loser that I still am couldn’t go through with it. So, I’m breaking up with you now. You won’t see it that way, but I’m doing you a kindness. By dumping you now, I’m sparing you public humiliation, which was the whole point of my revenge. Please, feel free to sell the ring I gave you. Unlike my proposal, it’s real. Julien I reread the note four more times, hoping the letters and words in it will rearrange themselves into a different message because the current one is too hard to wrap my mind around. Too brutal. Utterly incomprehensible. Julien never loved me. He sought revenge. He had carefully plotted his retaliation and served it to me nice and cold on a pretty platter. He had charmed me, seduced me, moved in with me. He’d proposed, for Christ’s sake! But the aim of his proposal was to make sure I would suffer maximum damage and pain once he dumped me. Like those assholes who build dirty bombs and blow them up in crowded places. There are no words to describe how deeply he’d hurt me. And over what? A prank I played on him when we were

eighteen.

PART II

“Feelings that come back are feelings that never left.” Anonymous

9

JULIEN

I

regretted the self-righteous tone of my letter on the flight to Belgrade. The letter itself didn’t strike me as an immature and ill-considered act until I got back to Paris five days later. Three weeks after I’d penned the unfortunate missive, I had trouble seeing why it had been so necessary that I dump Noemi. Since I’d given up on the end game, anyway, I could’ve come clean instead and suggested we cancel the engagement. But not the nightly sex. Or our weekends and vacation together. Or the living under the same roof. Fact is I miss her. I miss Noemi in my arms, against my chest, impaled on my cock, kissing me, moaning, and digging her fingers into my back. Sex aside, I also

miss her conversation, the smell of her, the shape of her… To be honest, there isn’t a thing about Noemi that I don’t miss. To be even more honest, this past month without her has been shit. I park the car and run the few blocks to the pool in a rainstorm that soaks my clothes. We’ve had this weather for a couple of weeks now, which is unusual for early November. Being drenched doesn’t matter right now, since I’m headed for the pool, but getting into damp clothes after the workout isn’t something I look forward to. Not that I’ve looked forward to anything of late. The realization hits me, and I halt in the middle of the lobby, bumping into and apologizing to a group of teenagers heading out after their session. A month is thirty days. Thirty. Fucking. Days. Nonstop games and travel notwithstanding, I didn’t need thirty days to own the monumental failure of the whole revenge operation. Nor did I need thirty days to admit what I’ve known in my gut since my first date with Noemi back in June. Life without her sucks. So what if I haven’t completely forgiven her for her so-called “joke”? I may never get over it, resentful bastard that I am. So what if she isn’t the flawless, perfect human being I’d imagined her to

be? She may never come anywhere near perfection, no matter how hard she fights her natural meanness. But what matters is that she is fighting it. And what matters, even more, is that no other woman has ever fascinated or aroused me like she does. I want her back. Clasping my hands around the nape of my neck, I squeeze my head between my elbows and take a long, deep breath. Permission to surrender. I’m going to suck up my pride and ask Noemi to take me back. Beg her, if necessary. Hell, I’ll grovel at her feet if that’s what it takes. The weight that falls off my shoulders is so big I gasp. Ooh, the relief! Now I know why Lucas has been sending me to extra massage sessions lately. I’m surprised I could play at all with that load on my back. “You’re smiling,” Zach says as I enter the locker room. “It’s good to see you smile again.” My teammates obviously know about the “breakup,” but they don’t know who dumped whom. I didn’t offer any detail or explanation when I announced it was over between Noemi and me. They didn’t ask. There’s something to be said for male discretion about matters of the heart. In the pool, we start the warm-up routine, while

waiting for Lucas to arrive. He’s been busier than ever this season. He coaches the club’s men’s team, and the national men’s team, and now he also manages the women’s team for the club. Because, as of September of this year, Nageurs de Paris has a professional women’s team. The girls are a vivacious and highly motivated bunch, all of whom he handpicked and began to train last year. Now they have their own coach, Leanne, a fifty-year-old veteran who won several European championships with an Italian club in her day. Lucas stole Leanne from Nice, offering her better pay and a “virgin” team to mold and shape as she pleases. We also have a new publicist now, Isabelle, who may or may not be Lucas’s girlfriend. He fired our previous—and first ever—PR guy, Martin, at the end of last season over a misdemeanor that’s never been explained to us. Naturally, everyone is curious. At some point, JeanMichel circulated one or two outrageous rumors, but Zach shut him up. Nobody really regrets Martin’s exit, because he was sleazy, and because he made us pose for a calendar in our birthday suits with only a water polo ball to cover the privates. That calendar sold like hotcakes, fetching the club some welcome cash. Triumphant, Martin began to talk about doing the same with the women’s team, until they

impressed on Lucas how profoundly they abhorred the idea. Lucas heard them, and Martin never made a calendar with the girls. As we lift weights, Jean-Michel gives me a funny look. I must admit he’s my least favorite person on the team. Even Martin had more redeeming qualities than this guy. They’re both skirt-chasers, but Martin was less of a jerk than Jean-Michel. He never tried to hit on another man’s girlfriend or wife. Jean-Michel hit on Noemi several times while she and I dated. I forget my unpleasant recollections as soon as Lucas arrives and orders us into the pool. We train like there’s no tomorrow. The stakes are high for everyone this season whether they’re on the national team or not. In December, the team will go after the elusive gold in the first division French league games, the Pro A Championnat de France. We came in second two years straight, so now we really want it. And in January Zach, Noah, Jean-Michel, and I will go to the world championships with the national team. When the workout and scrimmages are over, I don my damp clothes and head out for the traditional beer with the rest of the team. Noemi is rarely home from work before eight, so I have time

for a beer and a bit of mental conditioning before I show up on her doorstep. When we enter the brasserie, a painfully familiar figure stands up from the stool at the bar and moves toward us. Holy cow! It’s Noemi. Did she read my mind? Or has she simply realized she’s too miserable without me and she wants me back? With a bit of luck, I might not need to grovel. I beam. “Hi there.” “Hi, you,” she says, smiling. Only her words and her smile aren’t addressed to me. Her eyes are on Jean-Michel as he goes up to her and plants a long, unambiguous kiss on her lips. When they’re done exchanging saliva, he turns toward the guys. “You remember Noemi, don’t you? She recently put her qualms aside and made the right choice.” He winks and points both his index fingers at himself. “So I suggest you get used to seeing her around again.” My hands ball into fists. Jean-Michel stares me in the eye before adding, “I repeat for those who need it spelled out: Get. Used to. Seeing her. With me.”

10

NOEMI

“Y

our first time in Montpellier?” Zach’s wife Uma asks me. She and her stepson are on my right in the premium seating area of the town’s aquatics center. They are wearing blue jerseys, caps, and Nageurs de Paris team jackets. To top it off, Uma is armed with pompoms, and the little boy, a foam hand and a bag of confetti. What adorable fans they make! “Yep, first time,” I say before turning to the boy. “Your name’s Sam, right?” He holds out his little hand. “Samuel Monin.” “We’ve met before,” I say, shaking it. “I’m Noemi.” He shrugs as if to say he doesn’t remember me. That’s a relief. It means I won’t have to explain to this six-year-old that I’m no longer Julien’s fiancée,

but Jean-Michel’s date. I picture myself saying to him, Aww, don’t look so flummoxed, young man. Grown-ups do worse things to each other. All. The. Time. Shooting Uma a sidelong glance, I wonder if she knows about my recent “transfer.” “Julien is extra combative today, huh?” she says, pointing her chin to the pool. So, she doesn’t know. “If by ‘combative’ you mean brutal and aggressive,” I say, “then yes, he is.” Uma’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly, before she collects herself. For a few minutes, we watch the game without saying anything. It’s a rough one, the players of both teams pushing, grabbing, tugging, and shoving each other above the water. I don’t even dare to imagine what goes on under the surface where the referees can’t see. Towering above Montpellier’s hole-set—who is by no means a small guy—Julien does more grabbing and shoving than any other player in the tank. More than I’ve ever seen him do even in a match that Paris was losing. He thrashes and wrestles with the hole-set, and wraps his arm around the guy’s neck, before both disappear under water. I panic for a moment when they don’t resurface. But they do. The hole-set coughs up water and flails his limbs while Julien looks in control. Just as ferocious as before the

mutual sinking. And just as magnificent. Stop right there! Rewind. Delete the last part. “Predatory” is a much better qualifier than “magnificent” for who my ex-fiancé has become. The former dork morphed into a mean son of a bitch who spent years plotting revenge over a teenage prank. He’s become a dirty-playing asshole who didn’t turn his nose up at proposing marriage to the object of his obsession—because let’s face it, he is obsessed with me—even as he planned to jilt me at the altar. A man who got a woman to fall for him even though he had no intention of catching her. And that’s why he deserves to watch me hook up with Jean-Michel, the team’s resident jerk, a man he despises. I exhale a ragged breath. OK, back to the dilemma at hand. Should I inform Uma without warning or preamble like I did last week in Paris when I ran into the goalie’s wife, and she asked about Julien? “We’re not together anymore,” I said matter-offactly. “I’m with Jean-Michel now.” To her credit, she didn’t blink. Even if she thought I was a slut, she didn’t show it. Not that I care what Julien and Jean-Michel’s teammates or their wives think. I don’t envision a future with either man. “Paris has had five straight wins and appears

hungrier than ever for the Pro A league gold,” the commentator says. I refocus on the game. Instinctively, my eyes find Julien. In the middle of yet another nasty-looking tussle, he dominates the other team’s hole-set in every way. Part of it is thanks to his speed of reaction and movement. But the main reason is his disregard for injuries and pain, be it the opponent’s or his own. With Julien neutralizing Montpellier’s scorer so completely, the rest of the Paris team play with a level of precision and efficiency I’ve never seen before. Noah guards the cage like a lioness protecting her cub. The driver and perimeter players sprint up and down the tank, passing the ball to their own hole-set, Zach. Uma’s hubby, helped by another player, manages to fight off the other team’s defenders and shoot every two or three minutes, widening the gap between the two teams. “Nageurs’ hole-set Zach Monin is amazing this season,” the commentator says. “He keeps rewarding us with the kind of play we’ve come to expect from the country’s top scorer.” I glance at Uma and Sam, both of whom look like they just learned they’d won 10 million euros. “But it’s Paris’s stalwart hole-D Julien Boitel,” the commentator goes on, “who sets the pace of today’s semifinal. The defender is on fire,

smothering hole-set Serge Luciano’s every single attempt to shoot. Actually, Boitel’s coverage is so aggressive one wonders why he isn’t getting called for more fouls.” One does, eh? If you ask me, it’s because the bastard is skilled enough to do it in a way that looks like he isn’t breaking the rules. From the refs’ vantage point, he’s just cutting off passes and wrestling a bit. But if you watch him more closely, you’ll notice he also shoves, jostles, and even headbutts Montpellier’s scorer. In fact, he’s so rough with that Luciano guy, I wouldn’t be surprised if punches have been dealt. It is safe to assume the commentator wouldn’t be surprised, either. “Boitel’s play today reminds me of the infamous Russian defender Aleksandr Dolgushin,” he says. “Dolgushin was so savage in the field that Italian players, followed by everyone else, dubbed him assassino.” Toward the end of the game, one of the refs begins to pay closer attention to my ex. He ends up awarding Julien a penalty foul and two major fouls that send him to the ejection corner. Except that doesn’t really help Montpellier, what with water polo exclusions lasting only twenty seconds. As for penalties, the southern squad would need a dozen of them at this point, all successfully converted, for a chance to win.

Which, obviously, isn’t going to happen. As the final seconds disappear on the clock and the horn signals the end of the game, Uma and Sam scream in celebration. They throw confetti all around them—including on me—and do a wave routine. “Paris just got very close to their coveted trophy with a 15-6 demolition of the Montpellier team,” the commentator says. “They are ready for the finals. They’ve been ready since this season began.” Uma and Sam finish their thing and sit down. “Julien won this game,” she says, beaming at me. Now is a good time to break the news to her. “I’m not here to support Julien.” She blinks. “I’m with Jean-Michel now,” I say. “The substitute hole-set.” “Oh.” She blinks once more, turns to Sam, and smooths his hair. To say I’ve astounded her would be an understatement. “Are you coming to the dinner tonight?” Uma asks, avoiding my eyes. “Rain check,” I say. “Have a stomach bug.” The truth is that spending two celebratory evenings within the same week in the company of my ex-fiancé and wannabe boyfriend, as well as the

rest of their team and their spouses is too much, even for a thick-skinned bitch like myself. I need a breather. After texting Jean-Michel that I’m not feeling well, I sneak out of the aquatics center and head to the hotel. Once in my room, I read, watch some TV and order room service. Someone knocks just as I’m finishing my salad. With a sigh, I head to the door. Must be JeanMichel hoping to convince me to spend the night with him. When I told him on our first date ten days ago that I was still recovering from Julien’s betrayal and would need time, he was all sympathy and understanding. “Of course,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m not the insensitive lech some people paint me to be. Take as much time as you need.” That was a lot of bull as it turned out. Jean-Michel began to pressure me to “give it a shot” as early as our second date, and it’s been getting worse. What was it he said yesterday…? Ah, yes. “I’ve been patient enough, babes, and you aren’t an underage virgin.” So, yeah, he is an insensitive lech. Then again, I’m in no position to trash him since I have no intention of having sex with him. “Yes?” I say at the door. “Will you let me in?” It isn’t Jean-Michel—it’s Julien. “We need to talk,” he says.

“I have nothing to say to you.” “Oh, I think you have plenty to say to me.” The cheek of him! “Go away.” “Tell me,” he says, “why did you book a separate room if you’re here with Jean-Michel?” “It’s none of your business.” “That’s not how I see it. The way I see it, you’re using him to win me back.” “What? No!” I swing the door open. “You’re so wrong about that!” “Am I?” He cocks his head and smiles. That infuriates me so much I almost spit in his smug face. “So. Very. Wrong.” “Really?” He marches past me into the room. “That’s a shame. As it happens, I do want us to get back together.” Huh? I spin around and stare at him. “I miss you, Noemi,” he says, all trace of smugness gone from his face. “Very much.” I blink, processing his words. Julien’s gaze rakes over my face and body, and caresses me, hungry and hot. “It’s ironic,” he says. “Twisted even. But here’s the thing—we belong together.” Yeah, right. “Can you forgive me?” he asks, a plea in his eyes. “Can we start over?” I furrow my brow. This was too easy, suspiciously easy. And sort

of anticlimactic. But, hey, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I’m going to deliver my punch line and enjoy my revenge. And get this whole stupid, obsessive, and unhealthy thing between Julien and me done and over with. “No,” I say, stepping toward him so he can see the determination in my eyes. “As in, not in a million years.”

11

JULIEN

I

touch her hand. “Sweetie, please—” “Don’t call me that, you jerk!” She yanks her hand away. “You lost the right to call me that when you dumped me. Did you really expect me to forgive you just because you asked nicely?” “No,” I say. “I didn’t expect to you to forgive me straightaway. I expected you to call me names —which I deserve—and get all steamed up until this part—” I grip her nape and press my lips to hers. Damn, how I missed this! How I need this. Noemi’s scent and the feel of her soft lips beneath mine wreak havoc on my senses. They make me tremble with desire. I suck on her bottom lip, nip lightly, and pull it into my mouth. Her lids flutter shut, and she moans softly.

I jerk her closer. She opens her eyes, plants her palms on my chest, and pushes. In response, I tighten my grip on her nape and stroke, massaging the back of her head with the pads of my fingers. She loves it when I do this. Noemi’s lids fall again, and she stops pushing me away. That’s it, sweetie, don’t fight it. Let your body decide. Let me give it what it craves. I sweep my tongue over her lips, coaxing her to open her mouth. When she does, I push my tongue inside. Yesss. As I reacquaint myself with the sweet depths of her mouth, she begins to kiss me back. Her body melts into mine just the way it used to. Emboldened, I slide my other hand down her side and over to her ass. Cupping her buttock, I squeeze lightly, and she moans again, telling me what I hope to hear. What I know in my heart. She’s starving for me just as much as I’m starving for her. “Noemi,” I breathe into her mouth. She catches my tongue and suckles it, an expression of bliss and abandon on her beautiful face. My sweetheart! Tearing my mouth from hers for a moment, I take in her deliciously flushed cheeks and her swollen lips. I lean in and grind my

hard-on against her tummy, making her remember it, nudging her to hunger for it as she used to. She’s mine. I relax my hold, my mind aflame with all the exquisitely intimate, hot things I will do to her— and she to me—once I shut the door. But I don’t get a chance. She draws back, stomps in frustration, and jabs my chest with her finger. “Get out of my room!” “Noemi, please don’t—” Jean-Michel’s voice comes from the doorway. “Do it.” I turn toward him, moving deliberately, slowly. “Or else?” “Or else I’ll crack your skull open,” he says. “I’ve been burning to do that ever since you joined the club.” Jean-Michel is a former MMA fighter and the biggest guy on the team—bigger even than Zach. He always arrives early to work out so he can spend twice as much time as everyone else lifting weights. Which he never reracks when he’s done, by the way. Jean-Michel stretches his neck and balls his hands into fists. Seriously? In two big strides, I’m in the doorway, shoving his shoulder. If he has an ounce of sense in his bird-sized

brain, he’ll step back. A fight between two teammates, so close to the finals, isn’t something Lucas will appreciate. But Jean-Michel doesn’t budge. “What do you think you’re doing here, huh?” “Talking with Noemi,” I say as calmly as I can. He glares at me. “You piece of shit, just because they chanted your name in the arena today, you think you can do anything now?” Ah. This isn’t so much about Noemi as about him being a substitute hole-set, while I’m the main holeD. That’s why he’s hated my guts since the day I joined the club. “Listen,” I say. “Why don’t you let me finish my conversation with Noemi, and then you and I can go have a beer and a chat?” If we end up fighting, at least it will be in an alley outside a bar and not in the hotel where the entire team can witness our lack of discipline. Something flashes in Jean-Michel’s eyes. Could it be hesitation? I hope it is. And I hope Noemi approves of the restraint and moderation that I’m using with her fake boyfriend. I glance at her. She’s chewing on her bottom lip as she always does when she’s nervous. Suddenly, her eyes widen, and she yells, “No!” Jean-Michel’s fist slams into my face before I

have time to dodge it. Sharp pain zings through my head. All goes dark. When it clears, I feel blood trickling from my nose and on my lips. It tastes of metal and rage. I square my shoulders. “You, fucker!” Lunging forward, I ram a fist into Jean-Michel’s stomach. He growls, shooting me a hateful look. A right jab lands on my midsection. He swings again, but I catch his fist in my hand. For the next few minutes we punch, block, sidestep, kick and grapple—two massive brutes stripped of civility and common sense. “Stop it, you morons!” Noemi screams at the top of her lungs. Zach and Lucas and a couple of other guys rush in and throw themselves at Jean-Michel and me, prying us apart.

12

NOEMI

T

he two idiots resist, thrashing and spitting profanities, but their teammates outnumber them. A uniformed hotel employee comes running, and Lucas takes him aside, no doubt to explain that the situation is under control. When he returns to my still-fuming “suitors,” Lucas’s jaw is set. “Consider this a warning. Brawl or even argue again, and I’ll suspend both of you for a month, regardless of what that would do to our chances in the finals.” The effect on Julien and Jean-Michel is rather spectacular. They stop thrashing and shut up. The tension that was palpable around them only a minute ago dissipates. Their teammates are still holding them, but they have relaxed their stances and their faces. “To your rooms now,” Lucas commands, his

voice steely. “Take an Advil. Get some sleep. I want you sober and nonviolent at breakfast tomorrow morning. Understood?” “Understood,” Julien says. Jean-Michel nods. “Yes, Coach.” Zach, Denis, and the others cautiously let go of the two rivals who are remarkably subdued after Lucas’s intervention. Julien begins to turn around when his eyes glaze over, and he sways a tiny bit. It lasts only a second, and no one else seems to notice his momentary faintness. A wave of panic constricts my chest. Julien might’ve suffered a concussion, and that must be taken seriously. My little brother had one when he was a kid. He ended up spending several days in the hospital. A concussion may even be fatal if it causes bleeding of the brain, and the person doesn’t get immediate help. “We need to call a doctor,” I say. Julien wipes the blood running down his nose with the back of his hand. “We don’t.” Lucas turns to me. “I’ll have both checked tomorrow morning.” He turns back to Julien and Jean-Michel. “Chop, chop.” Thirty seconds later everyone has retreated to their rooms, and the hallway is quiet once again. Spookily quiet.

I begin to pace my room as my mind serves up images of Julien collapsed on the floor next to the bed, unconscious. I wish the hotel wasn’t a sponsor of the French Swimming Federation and hadn’t given everyone a private room! The notion that Julien will spend the next ten hours alone with no one to call an ambulance if he passes out is so scary it makes my stomach flip. When my imagination concocts a scenario in which he falls and hits his head against the sink, suffering a second concussion, I reach the tipping point. With a sigh of exasperation and defeat, I grab my purse and head straight to Julien’s room. I’d spotted it when he plodded there after the fight. Putting my ear to the door, I listen. Not a sound. Please, let him be all right! Or at least alive. I’ll take care of him. I’ll make sure he pulls through. With my heart hammering in my chest, I knock. Quietly at first, then louder. I hear steps behind the door, and then Julien opens it. He’s holding a cool gel pack in his hand. “I just wanted to—” I begin. He points his chin toward the room. “Come in. Just give me a minute, and then we can talk.” Slowly, I step inside. He pulls the door closed behind me and heads to the bed, where he reclines,

leans against a heap of pillows, and presses the cool pack to his swollen nose. I survey him. He’s showered and changed into the hotel’s pristine bathrobe. His nosebleed seems to have stopped. But he still looks awful with the swelling and those big purple bruises under his eyes. “You might have suffered a concussion,” I say, standing next to him. “That’s unlikely.” He moves the pack a little to the side so he can look at me with one eye. “I don’t have any of the telltale symptoms.” I frown, still unconvinced. “But the dickhead might’ve broken my nose,” he says. “Does it hurt when you touch it?” “Yeah.” “So, it’s possible you have both—a concussion and a broken nose.” Smiling, he removes the cool pack from his face and sticks it in the minibar. He returns to the bed and sits down on the right side, stretching his legs. His nose is red and swollen, for sure, but it doesn’t look deformed. I guess that’s a good sign. Julien pushes half of the pillows to the left side and pats the bed. “Come sit here.” I hesitate. Wrinkling his brow, he squints at me. “Please?”

“All right.” I plonk myself as close to the edge as possible. “But don’t read too much into this. And don’t kiss me again.” He shakes his head, pointing at his nose. “With this face?” I relax and sit back against the pillows. “There’s something I need to tell you about me,” he says, peering into my eyes. “About what happened after your eighteenth birthday party. I should’ve told you this long ago.” Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. Because nothing he can say will change the way we are, the way we can’t stop hurting each other. If there ever was an us, it was shattered into too many pieces to glue back together. And no revelation about the past will change that. “Please don’t,” I say. He bunches his eyebrows. “Hold on to your secret, Julien.” I smirk. “You know me. Can’t promise I won’t use it against you one day.” His expression darkens. I force myself to smile. “It’s not like such a thing would be out of character, eh?” He looks away for a while and then turns back to me. “OK, no confessions. Let’s just do some small talk before you go back to your room. Would that be agreeable?” I nod.

“How’s work?” he asks. “Still toiling away for your nasty boss?” “Not anymore.” “Oh?” “I resigned three weeks ago.” “Good for you.” He nods. “Were you able to find another job?” “I’m starting my own practice.” “Really?” “Yup. As a member of the Paris Bar, nothing prevents me from becoming an attorney despite my young age.” “What kind of attorney?” “Defense.” He stares at me and tips an imaginary hat. “My parents lent me a bit of money to get started, which helped a lot.” “When do you expect to win your first case?” “Hold your horses.” I grin. “I just found an office space, and my website went up two days ago. I have yet to acquire my first client.” “Right.” “I mean, my first private client,” I add. “I’ve been doing some part-time work for a legal aid center.” “Do they pay well?” “Nope, but that’s not the point when you take legal aid assignments, is it? Some of what I do is actually pro bono.”

“What happened to your colleague Melissa?” he asks. “The one your former boss was framing?” I tell him about my nanny cam stint but not without apprehension. Julien doesn’t exactly have good memories associated with that object. But, to my surprise, he doesn’t blink an eye. “So she got to keep her job?” I nod. “When I’m earning enough to be able to afford an assistant, I plan to hire her myself.” He surveys me without saying a word for a long, long moment before he takes my hand in both his. I draw my brows together but, since his gesture doesn’t imply anything erotic, I don’t pull my hand away. “You need to dump Jean-Michel,” he says. I arch an eyebrow. “Because you said so?” “Because he doesn’t deserve you.” Julien’s eyes bore into mine. “As recently as tonight in the bar where we were celebrating our win, he bought a drink for another woman.” I shrug. “So what?” “Noemi, I saw him flirt with her.” Julien shakes his head. “That’s the kind of guy he is. You don’t want him near you. Regardless of how things go between you and me, I won’t let him near you.” I sigh. “If you want to know the truth, I’m breaking up with him tomorrow.” His shoulders sag with relief.

“And if you want to know the whole truth,” I say. “I’m dumping him because he’s served his purpose.” Julien smirks. “So, I was right about you using him.” “As far as that part is concerned, yes. But not about my goal.” He arches an eyebrow. “You weren’t trying to make me jealous?” I huff. “I was, but not to win you back.” “Why then?” “As a retaliation. So that I could send you to hell when you came groveling.” Before the last word tumbles out of my mouth, I realize that admitting to how premeditated the whole scheme was sort of defeats the purpose. But it’s too late. I can’t take those words back anymore. “Did it feel good?” Julien asks. “Sending me to hell?” I nod. Did it, really? “You’re luckier than me.” He gives me a half smile. “I felt like shit when I wrote that breakup letter. And I felt even worse later that day when I regretted it.” “Liar.” “I’m not lying, Noemi. I regretted that stupid letter just a few hours after I wrote it. But I was on a plane, and there was nothing I could do to make it

disappear.” “If that is true,”—I narrow my eyes at him —“why didn’t you call me as soon as you got back to Paris? It’s been a month now.” “I know…” He gives my hand the tiniest stroke, shifting the pad of his thumb against my knuckles. Can I still qualify his touch as non-erotic? Yes, I can. And I will. “In the beginning,” he says. “I thought like you, that we couldn’t be together. Because we couldn’t forgive and trust each other. So, I tried to forget you. I really fought it.” “What did you do?” He gives me a lopsided smile. “You want all the sordid details? “No… But maybe we can swap some tips.” “I don’t have any tips to give you,” he says. “I failed miserably.” “Me, too,” I murmur with a heavy sigh. He presses my hand to his lips. “You’re mine, Noemi. And I’m yours. Twisted or not, we belong together.” I stare at him, refusing to nod. “Admit it,” he rasps. Shockingly and utterly incomprehensibly, I want to. My lips ache to form those words. My heart craves the sound of them.

I’m yours. That would be my verdict. Only yours. My final ruling. Always yours. My life sentence. I shake my head. “Can’t.” “I get it.” Julien’s stare scalds me. “Then say you’re mine tonight.” As he presses his lips to my hand once again, I close my eyes and savor the bittersweet joy of his touch. “I’m yours tonight,” I murmur, opening my eyes and turning to Julien. “Just tonight.”

13

JULIEN

T

onight will do. For now. I pull her to me and bracket her face between my hands. “Are you going to kiss me?” she asks, laughing. “With that face?” “Do you mind awfully?” “As long as we don’t rub noses…” She grins. “Wouldn’t want you to yelp in pain in the middle of a kiss.” “No nose rubbing,” I promise before my mouth descends on hers. I kiss her, drinking her in, slipping my hands under her tee and stroking her tummy, her hips, and sides. She yanks her top off, revealing a lacy bra and creamy, smooth skin. My heart picks up as I cup her breasts and fondle them.

When I unclasp and remove her bra, I draw back and spend a few long moments just staring at her stiff nipples. They beg for my touch. I pinch them gently while trailing my tongue up and down the elegant curve of her throat, tasting her skin. Then I lick her lovely collarbones. When my mouth closes over one of her scrumptious buds, a deep, low growl escapes my lips. Noemi whimpers. “Mine,” I say again, my voice hoarse. Unzipping her pants, I shove my hand between her legs. She’s wet. Eager. Aching for me to fill her. I’d wanted to give her long, tender preliminaries, but that would have to wait until the morning. Right now, my need is too raw, too urgent to allow anything that would delay my cock from plunging into her tight, hungry heat. As if to eliminate my last doubts, Noemi opens my bathrobe and stares at me. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips. Jesus. I take her hand and guide it to touch me. She does more than touch. She wraps her fingers around my erection and strokes it with a firm, possessive grip. When she trails her thumb from the base to the center of the crown, my head tips back with the pleasure of her touch. It must be now. “Give me a sec.” I dash to my duffel bag and return with a condom in my hand. She snatches it from me and works it onto my

cock. I shrug out of my bathrobe, pull the rest of her clothing off, and a moment later, I’m inside her. The bliss. This is where I’d like to spend the rest of my life. Propping myself up on my forearms, I push my tongue into her mouth in time with my thrusts. Deeper, harder. She moans, gripping my neck, digging her fingernails into my back, squeezing me with her inner muscles. To tease her, I withdraw completely and hover over her, the tip of my erection barely touching her folds. “Please,” she begs. “Please what?” “Get back in there.” I position myself at her entrance and slam in. She gasps, clinging to me. I pound into her, my thrusts sharp enough to give her what she craves, but measured, so I can keep my own pleasure in check. Her whimpering picks up in intensity, and she spurs me with her heels against my ass. Breaking the kiss, I grab her ankles and push her legs even higher, so that I can penetrate her deeper, touch her more fully, take more from her, and give her more. Noemi lifts her head and kisses my chest, my throat, my chin. “Baby, I’m so close.” Me too, sweetie, me too.

I release her left ankle and grab her ass, pinning her to me, just as I pump into her with all I have. Again, and again, and again. She bucks, her eyes rolling in her head and her mouth gaping in ecstasy as she comes. I thrust again. Her inner muscles contract. Her entire body trembles. And then she arches her back and cries out her release. That’s my girl. A few more jerky thrusts and I erupt, shuddering and spurting hot fluid. When my tremors calm down, I slump on top of her. She runs her hands over my back, strokes everywhere she can reach—my neck, shoulders, spine, ass—and whispers tender words against my disfigured face. Carefully avoiding my nose, she rains soft kisses on my cheeks, mouth, and chin. When her lips touch mine, I open and delve my tongue into the welcoming sweetness of her mouth. We stay like that for a while, stroking and kissing each other. When I pull out and roll to my side, she looks bereft. She won’t be able to see it on my messy face right now, but bereft is exactly how I feel, too, moving away from her. While she’s in the bathroom, I dispose of the condom and apply the cool pack again. After she returns to my side, we fall asleep, our fingers interlaced and our limbs entwined. In the morning when I wake up next to her, I know I’ll never have this kind of sex—this kind of

connection—with another woman. Noemi jumps out of the bed and fetches my cool pack. “You look better than last night, so I guess this thing works.” Dutifully, I sit up and hold it to my nose. She settles next to me and strokes my shoulder. “Did it hurt when you had the tattoo removed?” She’s never asked me about the tattoo before. We’ve never even mentioned it. It’s as if it hadn’t existed. I nod. “Laser?” I nod again. “Several endless sessions. Felt like having my back roasted on a defective grill.” She squirms. “That unpleasant?” “Still, it had nothing on having the tat inked in.” “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Jeez, I was so stupid back then!” “Isn’t everyone at that age?” She squeezes her eyes shut. “When I asked you to go under the needle—and not just for a small tat, but a huge tacky thing across your back—it didn’t occur to me how painful and… permanent it would be. I’m really sorry, Julien.” “You were very young.” I shrug. “And so was I.” She gives me a weak smile. I glance at my watch. “I need to be downstairs in fifteen, or else Lucas will kill me.”

“Of course!” She points to the bathroom. “Hit the shower. I’ll see myself out once your teammates join you for breakfast.” I touch her cheek. “I want you to know I’m not giving up on us.” She sighs. “How can we ever trust each other after the things we’ve done? A relationship without trust is doomed.” “I trust you,” I say. “I would trust you with my life.” She keeps silent. I guess that means she doesn’t trust me. Can’t blame her. What I did to her only a month ago was too harsh. Way too harsh. “There’s been too much…”—she hesitates as if looking for the right word—“nastiness, too much bad blood between us. We’ll be deluding ourselves to think we can just turn the page and start over.” I shake my head in silent disagreement. She draws away. “Go. Your coach is waiting.”

14

NOEMI

W

hen I emerge from the métro station, it’s already dark. And cold. But unlike a couple of weeks ago, evenings are a lot less depressing now. It’s late November, which means only a month to go until my favorite time of year. A few days ago, the Mayor of Paris switched on the illuminations on the Champs-Elysées, and the city donned its festive attire. Bright garlands zigzag between buildings, shop windows compete to offer the most beautiful displays, and tree branches sparkle with tiny leaves of light. As I marvel at the fairy-tale-like feel of my neighborhood, the cynic in me rolls her eyes and argues that Christmas is the most commercialized holiday of the year. The bright lights? They are there to make us spend more on gifts and

entertainment. But my inner Disney princess pouts and begins to sing, There’s magic in the air! The cynic pulls a face and crawls back into her joyless den. After stopping at the sushi place near the station to order my usual takeout, I hurry home. The final match of the Pro A league begins in ten minutes. I don’t want to miss a minute of it. A week after I got back from Montpellier, Julien sent me a ticket to today’s game which the Nageurs are playing in Paris. I texted that I wouldn’t go. He texted back asking if I would at least watch the game streamed live on the Internet. I wrote back that I would. And I intend to keep my promise. This match is the Nageurs’ chance to win the gold they’ve been vying for two years now. I cross my fingers on both hands. Please, let them win! By the time I fire up my laptop, the game has already begun. Placing my food in front of me on the table, I peer at the screen. As I scan the pool for Julien, I wonder if his nose has healed by now. When I spot him, my jaw drops. He has a white mask on his face that makes him look like a hockey goalie or an unsung comic book hero.

I guess his nose had been broken, after all, and the doc forced him to wear that contraption to protect it from further injury. On the bright side, the doc wouldn’t have allowed Julien to play again so soon if he’d had a concussion. So, no concussion. “The man in the mask,” the commentator says, “is Paris’s hole-D Julien Boitel. His nose got broken two weeks ago, during the match with Montpellier. Boitel claims he can’t remember how or when exactly it happened.” The camera shifts to the action near the goalie’s cage, and for a few minutes, I can’t see Julien. The game seems to be less brutal than the one in Montpellier, but there’s still too much wrestling, shoving, and jostling for my liking. Julien should’ve sat this match out, like he did for the first playoff game last week. But of course he couldn’t, not with the gold medal in the balance. Finally, the players in the pool sprint to the other side and the camera zooms in on Julien, defending the hole. When the two grappling men turn so that Julien’s back is toward me, I clap my hand to my mouth and stare. Between his shoulder blades is a huge double rose with a line of text in the middle. Can it be…? Has he lost his mind?

“Oh, wow,” the commentator says. “Nageurs’ hole-D has made sure his back stands out as much as his face today. That tattoo is spectacular.” When the camera zooms in tighter, I can just make out the writing.

I love you, Noemi Dray.

It’s the exact same tattoo he’d had inked in eight years ago. The mistake he later went through pain and tears to erase. One of the reasons he wanted revenge. The rest of the game—an hour or so, including time-outs and overtimes—is a blur. I just sit in my chair, oblivious to my empty stomach, the progress of the game, the score, and the whole world. At some point, I taste salt in my mouth and realize I’m crying. My heart is so full I’m afraid it will burst. Part of the overflowing emotion is defeat. An admission that my rational mind and sense of self-preservation have lost the battle to things that are more primal. Illogical. Hardly defensible in court. Desire is one of those things. An unfounded optimism that everything will be all right is another.

But the biggest winner is the inexplicable certainty that this pigheaded, crazy man is my future, my other half. Despite what I’ve done to him. Despite what he’s done to me. How can a defeat feel so sweet, so liberating? One minute I’m taking care of myself, all grown up and sensible—and the next I’m jumping for joy at the prospect of inviting the man who humiliated and dumped me a month ago back into my bed, and back into my life. So, this is what love is like. I tune back in when the horn sounds the end of the game. “Nageurs de Paris win the Pro A League Championship. They are officially the best water polo club in France,” the commentator says. Julien must be pumped now. I grab my phone and send him a message that consists of four little words:

I love you too.

15

JULIEN

W

hen I knock on Noemi’s door, she opens it immediately. I step in. She takes my coat and shuts the door behind

me. I gather her to me, and for a long moment, we stand in the entryway, adjusting to the novelty of being together like this. Shields down. Hearts exposed. No hidden agendas. No duplicity of any kind. Just love. Hers, confessed in a text message. Mine, declared somewhat more ostentatiously via the flashy ink art on my back. “Is that tattoo real or one of those temporary things that come off after a week?” Noemi asks, looking up. “Please tell me it’s the latter! I can’t

bear the thought of you going through all that pain again just to get me to pay attention.” “First,” I say, my lips curling up. “What kind of man would declare real feelings with a fake tattoo? Second, I did get you to pay attention, didn’t I?” She smiles. “I would’ve come around on my own in a week or two.” “Would you?” She sighs and nods. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” “I’m not.” My expression grows more serious. “There was another reason I did it.” She gives me a quizzical look. “Atonement,” I say. “Or maybe catharsis. Or both. I needed to cleanse myself for our fresh start.” “Perhaps I should do the same…” “God, no!” I widen my eyes in exaggerated horror. “Why not?” “My back is loud enough for both of us.” I stare into her hazel eyes as I slide my hand from her back to her belly. “And even for three or four or five of us later.” “I love you, Julien Boitel,” she says. “If you don’t want me to write it on my body, then you’re going to hear me say those words every day.” “Promise?” She nods.

I kiss her brow. She strokes the side of my face. “I half expected you to show up here still wearing that white mask you had on during the game.” “The doc fitted it to my face to protect my nose from getting punched again,” I say, smiling. “He wasn’t going to let me play otherwise.” “So it’s broken?” “Yes. But fortunately, not in a way that requires surgery. It’ll heal on its own.” “I’m glad to hear it.” She motions me in. I take a few steps toward the sofa in her TV room, then stop. For some reason I prefer to stand while I recount the part of our “origin story” she doesn’t know. The part where I hung myself. Was saved by my mom. Almost died again a week later. She listens without interrupting as I tell her all of this. When I’m done, she clasps her hands over her head. “And here I was, calling it a ‘prank’ and a ‘joke’… You must’ve been so bitter! Why didn’t you say anything to me earlier?” I shrug. “I guess I was ashamed. I guess I felt that telling you about the full effect your prank had on me would make me look like an even bigger loser.” She shakes her head, smiling sadly. “If there’s a loser in this room, it’s me.”

“Why would you say that?” “You’ll know in a sec.” She goes to the bedroom and returns a couple of minutes later with an old notebook. Thumbing through it, she finds a page. “Read from here.” The notebook is a diary written in a neat, pretty handwriting. The way Noemi used to write at school. The entry she’s opened begins by summarizing her day and then talks about me. I glance at her, a question in my eyes. She nods. “It’s OK, read on.” I do, and I can hardly believe what I’m reading.

I miss him so much! … Why did his stupid parents have to move? … How I wish he hadn’t blocked me from all his social media, so I could tell him that I’m sorry. And that I’m in love with him.

“How is this—” I stare at her, flabbergasted. “How is this possible? I had no idea!” “I paid a price for those confessions. Remember ‘the Cats’? They stole this diary from my schoolbag and…” She expels a ragged breath. “They stole it and—” “It’s OK, sweetie, you don’t need to give me

the details.” “I do,” she says with a faint smile. “I want to. But I’ll do it another time, when I’m feeling a little less emotional.” Taking a step toward her, I pull her to my chest. “Will you marry me, for real?” She looks up. “I know it’s too soon to ask,” I say, stroking her hair. “Please don’t feel like you have to say yes just because you said you love me.” Noemi tips her head back and draws in a deep breath as if bracing herself to say something difficult. Damn my impatience! “I’m getting ahead of myself,” I say quickly. “You want me to earn your trust first, to prove that—” “I still have your ring,” she says. I peer into her eyes. “Does that mean…” “Yes.” She grins. “It means yes. But no big wedding.” I frown. “Not that I don’t trust you to show up—I do— but I’d rather not go through the motions again.” “Got it,” I say. “It’ll be just you, me, and the mayor.” She smiles. “Our parents and siblings can come, too, if they want to. And your friend Roland. I might even invite Melissa.”

“That’s almost a crowd.” She gives me a mischievous smile. “May I see your tat? I wonder if it’s as impressive up close as it was on the screen.” I yank off my sweater and T-shirt and turn around. She trails her fingers along the outlines of the petals, the leaves, and the words on my back. “Still impressed?” I ask teasingly. “More than impressed,” she says. “I’m awed at how similar it is to the one you had eight years ago.” I spin around. “I went to the same parlor and picked an identical pattern for the double rose.” “Of course.” She steps back and pulls her sweater off. I admire her pretty bra for a half second before I free her yummy breasts. My eyes, hands, and mouth have been deprived of them for two weeks. And a month before that. Much too long. Not happening ever again. My eyelids grow heavy as I fill my palms with her soft flesh. “I have another, more mystical explanation to the tat. Are you up for it?” “Try me.” “It isn’t actually similar, or even identical to the old one,” I say. “What do you mean?” “It’s the same tattoo.”

Her eyes bore into mine, searching. “It was there all these years, gone into hiding so it wouldn’t confound our rational minds. But it hadn’t been erased. It couldn’t be erased as long as its message remained true.” She reaches up for a kiss, her eyes watering with emotion. My eyes threaten to follow suit as I encase her face with my hands and voice that indelible message. “I love you, Noemi Dray.” < <<>> >

EPILOGUE NOEMI

A Year Later

“I

still can’t believe you’ve never been to a Christmas market!” I shake my head at Melissa as we climb the stairs of the Concorde métro station toward the bright lights of the Champs-Elysées. She arches an eyebrow. “Why is that so hard to believe?” “Christmas markets are just such an institution…” “We didn’t have them in Paris growing up,” she says. “They’re a recent institution.” “Really?” She nods. “And, besides, I just… I don’t like Christmas.”

Coming out of the mouth of the métro, I draw in a breath of crispy late-afternoon air and give Melissa an incredulous look. “Before you call me a monster,” she says, “I’ve never let my strained relationship with Christmas ruin Ben’s holiday.” “Oh good! You had me worried for a moment there.” I point to the wooden chalets lining the sidewalk all the way from Concorde to the Champs-Elysées Roundabout. “Meet the best marché de Noel of the capital.” “Pleasure.” Melissa sticks both thumbs up theatrically and bares her teeth. “Charmed.” I ignore her hints at impending martyrdom. “It’s going to be fun. Besides, you could find a present for Ben or your mom.” “I buy their Christmas presents in the summer.” She gives me a sly smile. “Online.” As we reach the first set of booths, a cheerful tune drifting from the vendor’s sound system lifts my slightly dampened spirits. Four or five chalets away, a food stall fills the air with delicious scents of fresh coffee, waffles, and mulled wine. Too bad there’s no snow! But a white Christmas is a rare occurrence in Paris, so the artificial snow on chalet roofs is what we have, and what we’ll work with. Melissa halts in front of a costume jewelry stand and begins to sort through a collection of

funky rings. “They’re cute!” She buys one with a big blue flower, not unlike the ring she’s been wearing lately. I scan the booths around us until I spot the unforgettable pashmina stand from last year. Woohoo! When we get there, I begin to finger the soft wool wraps on display. The astute vendor sees my picks and then pulls out another pashmina wrap from a shelf and unfolds it for me. It’s perfect. I turn to Melissa. “Look at this one! Touch it. What do you think?” “It’s gorgeous.” She strokes the intricate reddish patterns on the azure blue wrap. “And it’s soothing to the touch.” Even though I know for a fact she loves big wraps and this particular color combo, I still hesitate. She could have said those things just to be polite. I steal a look at her face. It never lies. One of the many reasons I hired her four months ago. At present, Melissa’s face tells me she really likes the wrap. “Pure cashmere wool from India,” the vendor says. “It’s my most expensive pashmina, but it’s worth the price!” I pay him, and hand the garment over to Melissa. “Merry Christmas!” “What? No! You shouldn’t have! And…

and…” She gives me a panicked look. “You’re my boss!” “I am, and this is my first ever Christmas present to my first ever employee.” I give her a bigeyed Puss-in-Boots look. “I wanted it to be memorable.” Her expression changing at once, she gives me a bear hug. “I love it. Thank you!” “You’re welcome.” I turn away quickly to hide my self-satisfied smile. Noemi Dray hasn’t lost her cunning. Yep, still got the touch. As crafty as ever. The Forces of Good are lucky to have me, if I say so myself. “Come on, I’m buying you a treat,” Melissa says, pointing to the food booth I’ve been eyeing since we got here. The cinnamony smells wafting from it are too mouthwatering to ignore. Melissa and I spend another hour at the market, sipping vin chaud from paper cups and nibbling gingerbread cookies, as we stroll in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe. Melissa often stops in front of handmade accessories, crafts, and regional food specialties. Looks like online shopping doesn’t cut it on its own after all.

As we get nearer to the roundabout, I glance at my watch to see if it’s time to head to the 9th arrondissement. As if on cue, Melissa pulls out her phone and makes a phone call. “Everything OK, Mom? Is Ben on his best behavior?” she inquires. Her mom seems to answer both in the affirmative. I can tell from Melissa’s follow-up questions that she’s trying to find a reason to skip the second part of today’s program, and go home. Except, it sounds like her mom is telling her to relax and enjoy herself. Enjoying herself is something Melissa has yet to learn to do. When she hangs up, I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t even think of bailing this time!” “I wasn’t…” She gives me a pleading look. “It’s just… I don’t know anyone except you and Julien.” I put my hands on my hips in mock reprimand. “And why is that? Huh?” “Because I always find an excuse to stay home,” she admits with a sigh. I peer into her eyes. “You said the other day that you missed dating, and sex.” “I do.” “There will be seven or eight single hunks at the party tonight.”

She studies her feet. “They’re younger than me.” “Only by a few years. It’s nothing!” She looks up. “OK.” “That’s my girl!” “Where’s the place again?” “In the 9th. It’s a bistro suggested by the team’s main sponsor, so obviously, no one dared come up with an alternative venue.” I check my watch again. “We better get going.” Melissa tugs off her gray scarf, shoves it into her tote bag, and wraps her new pashmina around her neck. “I’m ready. Let’s do this!”

W HEN WE ENTER the charming little bistro, Julien and the team are already there. To my great relief, Jean-Michel—my third least favorite person after Hitler and Bertrand—is absent. Fingers crossed he doesn’t show tonight. I introduce Melissa to the guys and their plusones, and then to Nageurs’ main sponsor, Sebastian Darcy, and his wife Diane. “You’re the goalie’s oldest brother, right?” I ask him after we exchange cheek kisses. He nods. “Just out of curiosity,” I say, “what’s your

connection with this bistro?” “The owner, Jeanne, is a good friend.” Diane answers for him. “Come on, you’ve got to meet her!” She marches to the bar area. Melissa and I follow her with Julien and Sebastian in tow. Behind the counter, a perky young woman is chatting with Lucas, Valentin—the smiley Nageurs singleton I particularly wanted Melissa to meet tonight—and with another guy who turns out to be Jeanne’s hubby. When I hear what Lucas is saying, my heart sings with joy. Jean-Michel called him this morning to announce he’ll be joining another club starting January. I glance at Julien who looks as if Lucas just announced he had irrefutable proof of Santa’s existence. This Christmas season just got even better. A short time later, the group around the counter has swelled to over a dozen people. We’re talking about the club, and about the new changes Lucas will have to make. Like recruiting someone to replace JeanMichel, for starters. He also needs to find a new hole-set who’s as capable as Zach. The club’s captain recently

announced his plan to retire at the end of the season so that he can focus on his business and spend more time with his family. In addition, Lucas must find a new publicist to fill Isabelle’s shoes. The mother of his adorable twins went to work for a media company after her maternity leave, despite Lucas’s and the team’s pleas to stay with the club. With a Kir Royale sparkler in her hand, Isabelle points out, for the umpteenth time, that she was ready for a new challenge. Except no one’s buying it. “You just don’t want to call your husband ‘boss’,” I say, voicing the general consensus. The tiniest of smiles curves her mouth before she lifts her Kir to her lips and takes a slo-mo sip. While we’re discussing all of that, I catch Valentin staring at Melissa. In fact, he’s doing more than just stare. Having discreetly edged to stand by her side, he bends his head toward her every now and then to whisper a funny comment in her ear. She giggles and whispers back. Her cheeks are flushed, and so are his. I can’t vouch for their future together, but Melissa’s prolonged dating hiatus might come to an end before New Year’s Eve. “So, you guys specialize in providing legal aid to those who can’t afford a lawyer, right?” Valentin looks at Melissa, then at me, and then at Melissa

again, admiration in his eyes. “Yes.” She flashes him a proud smile. “But we do more than that, seeing as Noemi is a brilliant defense attorney!” I wave her complement off, but I can’t help blushing a little. “We represented three whistle-blowers this year,” Melissa said excitedly. “Their companies had fired them in retaliation.” Valentin offers her a stuffed olive on a toothpick. “And?” “Noemi won all three cases,” Melissa says, taking it from his hand. He turns to me and drops his head to his chest. “Respect.” “And, since September,” Melissa plows on, “our office joined the Paris Bar Solidarity Scheme, and Noemi has been doing pro bono work at the legal clinics they run.” Jeanne taps Julien’s shoulder. “Sounds like you married a saint. The Mother Teresa of Paris.” I choke on my drink and go into a coughing fit. Julien rubs my back before turning to Jeanne. “Nah. She’s no saint.” “Permanently disqualified,” I manage between two coughs. Julien’s eyes crinkle with mirth as he adds, “My wife is way more badass than Mother Teresa. She’s Superwoman slash Daredevil.”

Tickled pink, I grin. Julien’s teammates nod in approval and smile, interpreting his comment as praise for my vigilante legal eagle skills. I have no doubt he was also referring to those skills. In addition to the other ones, which earned me the Superwoman title. He takes my hand and gives it a little squeeze, before lacing his fingers through mine. I return the squeeze. Without needing to look at each other, we both know exactly what our nonverbal exchange signifies: A brilliant defense attorney will be going Superwoman again tonight. And the guy with the rose tattoo can’t wait.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

One of the earliest Olympic sports, water polo is a national pastime in Hungary, Serbia and Montenegro, and is very popular in most of Europe. But it’s incomprehensibly under-funded in other parts of the world, including France and the United States. Things are changing in the US, though, where water polo is the fastest growing sport. No wonder, considering the achievements of the national men’s team (Olympic silver at Beijing) and, especially, women’s team (Olympic gold at both London and Rio). For the purposes of this story, I invented several water polo clubs, tweaked the schedules of various competitions and championships, and threw in a fake fact or two.

But I’ve tried to stick as close to reality as possible. My wonderful readers, I hope you enjoyed PLAYING DIRTY, the final installment in the PLAYING TO WIN series!

If so, please spread the love by telling your friends about it, and consider leaving a review on Amazon to help others discover my work. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your continued support — I would be nowhere without it. Much love, Alix

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What does it take to fall in love with your enemy? a) His private jet. b) His six-pack abs. c) His unsuspected charm. Read on for an excerpt from F IND YOU (THE DARCY B ROTHERS #1)

IN

P ARIS

If there's one man that store clerk and amateur photographer Diane Petit really, really, actively hates, it's fragrance mogul Sebastian Darcy who stole her father's company--and wrecked the man's health in the process. But the arrogant SOB had better brace himself because Diane has vowed revenge. And revenge she will have.

CHAP TER O NE It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young man in possession of a vast fortune must be an entitled SOB born into money. Either that or a ragsto-riches a-hole who bulldozed his way to said fortune, leaving maimed bodies in his wake. The ferocious-looking PA returns to her desk. “Monsieur Darcy is still in a meeting.” “That’s OK.” I smile benignly. “I can wait.” I place my hands demurely on my knees and stare at the portrait adorning—or should I say disfiguring—the wall across the hallway from where I’m seated. Pictured is Count Sebastian d’Arcy du GrandThouars de Saint-Maurice, the oldest son of the late Count Thibaud d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de SaintMaurice and the inheritor of an estate estimated at around one billion euros. Said estate isn’t your runof-the-mill stock holdings or start-up fortune. Oh no. It’s made up of possessions that were handed down—uninterrupted and snowballing—all the way from the Middle Ages. Even Robespierre and his fellow revolutionaries didn’t get their greedy little hands on the d’Arcy fortune. What are the odds? Upon his father’s premature demise ten years ago, young Sebastian moved back into the town

house in the heart of Le Marais and took the reins of the family’s main business. A twenty-three-yearold greenhorn at the time, you’d expect him to make tons of bad decisions and sink the company or, at least, diminish its value. But no such luck. Instead, Sebastian Darcy took Parfums d’Arcy from number three to the number one European flavor and fragrance producer—a feat that neither his illustrious grandfather nor his star-crossed father had managed to accomplish. According to my research, also about ten years ago, the new count chose to go by “Darcy,” abandoning the apostrophe and the rest of his status-laden name. I’m sure he only did it to fool those beneath him—which includes most everyone in a country that guillotined its royals—into believing that he sees himself as their equal. The hell he does. Sebastian Darcy is a stinking-rich aristocrat with instincts of an unscrupulous business shark. This means he qualifies in both the SOB and the ahole categories. No, scratch that. He slays both categories. And I hate him more than words can say. The straitlaced man on the wall seems to smirk. I shudder, my nerves taut to the point of snapping. Will they kick me out if I spit at the photo? Of course they will. I steal a glance at the PA stationed

between me and Darcy’s office. She looks like a cross between a human and a pit bull. I’m sure she’d love to stick something other than paper between the jaws of her sturdy hole punch. My hand, for example. But I didn’t come here to fight with Darcy’s PA. I’ll keep my saliva in my mouth, my eyes cast down, my butt perched on the edge of the designer chair, and my knees drawn together and folded to the side. Like the meek little mouse I’m trying to pass for. After waiting three weeks, I’m careful not to arouse any suspicion in Pitbull’s mind so she won’t cancel my appointment with Darcy. Eyes on the prize, Diane! Don’t forget you’re here to declare war by spitting in Count Sebastian Darcy’s face, rather than at his photographic representation. I look at the photo again, arranged in perfect symmetry between the portraits of his grandfather, Bernard, who founded the company, and his father, Thibaud, who almost put the lid on it. I know this because I’ve done my homework. During my week-long research, I dug up every piece of information the Internet had to offer about Sebastian Darcy and his family. I was hoping to find dirt, and I did. The only problem was it was already out in the open—common knowledge, yesterday’s

news. And completely useless as leverage. Pitbull looks up from her smartphone. “Monsieur Darcy is delayed. Do you mind waiting a little longer?” “No problem.” I smile politely. “I’m free this afternoon.” She arches an eyebrow as if having a free afternoon is something reprehensible. How I wish I could stick out my tongue! But instead I widen my already unnaturally wide smile. She frowns, clearly not buying it. I turn away and stare at Darcy’s likeness again. In addition to the now-stale scandal, my research has revealed that Darcy is close to his middle brother, Raphael, and also to a longtime friend— Laurent something or other. Our vulture-man even managed to have a serious girlfriend for most of last year. A food-chain heiress, she looked smashing at the various soirées, galas, and fundraisers where she was photographed on his arm. Darcy was rumored to be so into his rich beauty he was about to propose. But then she suddenly dumped him about six months ago. Clever girl. He has no right to be happy when Dad’s life is in shambles. I won’t stop until I crush him, even if it means I go to jail—or to hell—for using black-hat tactics.

It’s not as if they’d let me into heaven, anyway. I’ve already broken the arms and legs on Darcy’s voodoo doll. There’s no turning back after you do that sort of thing. The next step is to let the world know who he really is and hurt him in a variety of ways, big and small. And then, just before delivering the deathblow, let him know he’s paying for his sins. That’s why my first move is to show him my face and make sure he remembers it and associates it with unpleasantness. That way, when the shit hits the fan, he’ll know which creditor is collecting her debt. Pitbull breaks me out of my dream world. “Monsieur Darcy’s meeting is running late.” “That’s OK, I can—” “No,” she cuts me off. “There’s no point in waiting anymore. As soon as the meeting is over, he’ll head to the 9th arrondissement, where he’s expected at a private reception.” I stand up. She glances at my bare ring finger. “Mademoiselle, I can reschedule you for Friday, December twelfth. It’s two months away, but that’s the only—” “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” I say. I know exactly which reception Sebastian

Darcy is going to tonight.

CHAP TER TWO Three months later “It might snow tonight.” Octave holds my coat while I wrap a scarf around my neck. “Will monsieur be taking his supper at home?” As always, I wince at “monsieur,” but I do my best not to show it. Grandpapa Bernard hired Octave before I was born. Roughly Papa’s age and a bear of a man, Octave has worked for my family for thirty-odd years, rising from valet to majordome. He’s seen Raphael, Noah, and me in all kinds of embarrassing situations young boys tend to get themselves into. I’ve asked him a thousand times to call me Sebastian. All in vain. Octave Rossi claims his respect for my old family name, my noble title, and my position in society is too strong for him to drop the “monsieur.” So be it. “Yes,” I say. “But I’ll come home late, so please tell Lynette to make something light. And

don’t stay up for me.” He nods. “Oui, monsieur.” Chances are he’ll be up until I get home. Since I moved back into the town house after Papa’s passing, Octave has been helpful in a way no one, not even Maman—especially not Maman— has ever been. All the little things, from paying electricity bills and hiring help to undertaking necessary repairs and planning reception menus, are taken care of with remarkable efficiency. When he offered to assist me with my correspondence, I insisted on doubling his salary. My argument was that he’d be saving me the expense of a second PA for private matters. He caved in only after I threatened to move out and sell the house. I trust him more than anyone. “Morning, Sebastian! To the office?” my chauffeur, Greg, asks. He, at least, doesn’t have a problem calling me by my first name. “We’ll make a detour,” I say as I climb into the Toyota Prius. “I need to see someone first.” I give him the address, and he drives me to the Franprix on rue de la Chapelle in the 18th arrondissement. Greg parks the car, and I march into the supermarket, scanning the cashiers’ counters lined parallel to the shop windows. There she is!

Diane Petit smiles at a customer as she hands her a bag of groceries. She’ll be finishing her shift in about ten minutes, according to the private eye I hired to locate and tail her. I’ll talk to her then. Right now, I pretend to study the selection of batteries and gift cards on display not far from her desk. What I’m really doing is furtively surveying the firebrand who smashed a cream cake in my face in front of a few dozen people last October. At the time, the only thing I registered about her through my surprise and anger was foxy. I’ve had ample opportunity to pour over her pretty face and eye-pleasing shape in the numerous close-ups the PI has supplied over the past few weeks. I’ve studied Diane in all kinds of situations and circumstances—at work with her customers, hanging out with her friends, and roaming the streets with her camera, immortalizing everyday scenes of Parisian life. She’s hot, all right, but there’s also something endearing about her, something unsophisticated and very un-Parisian. In spite of her extravagant outburst at Jeanne’s bash, Diane Petit seems to be an unpretentious small-town bumpkin through and through. I’ve learned a good deal about her since that memorable evening. I know she works part time at this supermarket, lives in a high-rise in the 14th, and hangs out with her foster sister Chloe, a coworker named Elorie, and a waitress named

Manon. She enjoys photographing random things, going to the movies, eating chocolate, and drinking cappuccino. More importantly, I know why Diane did what she did that night at La Bohème. And I plan to use it to my advantage. Someone gives me a sharp prod in the back. “Why are you here?” Diane asks as I spin around. “To give you a chance to apologize.” She smirks. “You’re wasting your time.” “No apology, then?” “You’re here to let me know you’re on to me, right?” She puffs out her chest. “Read my lips—I’m not afraid of you.” “That’s not why I’m here.” “How did you find me, anyway?” “I hired a professional who tracked you down within days.” She tilts her head to the side. “And you’ve waited three months before confronting me. Why?” “I wanted to know what your deal was, so I gave my PI the time to compile a solid profile.” I hesitate before adding, “Besides, your foster sister was shot, and you were busy looking after her. I wanted to wait until Chloe had fully recovered.” “You’ve met Chloe?” She sounds surprised. “Of course.” I shrug. “Jeanne introduced us.”

She blows out her cheeks. “What do you want, Darcy?” “Just to talk.” “About what?” “I have a proposition that might interest you.” She looks me over. “Unless your proposition is to give me a magic wand that would turn you into a piglet, I’m not interested.” “I obviously can’t do that, but what I can do is—” “Hey, Elorie, are we still on?” Diane calls to a fellow cashier who passes by. Elorie smiles. “Only if you and Manon let me choose the movie.” “Fine with me, but I can’t vouch for Manon.” While Diane and Elorie discuss the time and place of their outing, I resolve to draw Diane somewhere else before making my offer. Preferably, somewhere that’s on my turf rather than hers. “Can we go someplace quieter?” I ask Diane after Elorie leaves. She sighs. “OK, but don’t take it as a good sign.” “Understood.” I do take it as a step in the right direction, though. She follows me outside and into the car. “To Le Big Ben, please,” I say to Greg.

He nods, and thirty minutes later, Diane and I are seated in a private booth at my favorite Parisian gentlemen’s club, which I also happen to co-own with Raphael as of three weeks ago. We’ve kept the old manager, who’s doing an admirable job. I’ve continued coming here with Laurent or Raph, as a longtime patron who enjoys the subdued elegance of this place and its unparalleled selection of whiskeys. The staff may not even realize the club has changed hands. It’s easier this way—and it removes the need for socializing with them. “So,” Diane says after the server brings my espresso and her cappuccino. “What’s your proposition?” “Marry me.” She blinks and bursts out laughing as if I just said something outrageous. Which I guess it was without prior explanation. Maybe I should start over. “Here’s the deal,” I say. “You and I will date through April.” I make air quotes when I say “date.” She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You’ll move in with me in May,” I continue. “About a month after that, we’ll get married.” Diane makes a circular motion with her index at the side of her head and mouths, “Nutcase.” “A month into our marriage, I’ll cheat on you,” I continue, undeterred, with a quote unquote on

cheat. “And then you’ll leave me.” She gives me a long stare. “Why?” “It doesn’t concern you. What you need to know is that I’m prepared to pay fifty thousand euros for a maximum of six months in a pretend relationship.” “Why?” she asks again. “You don’t need to know that.” “OK, let me ask you something I do need to know.” She arches an eyebrow. “Why me?” I shrug. “If you continue ignoring my legitimate questions,” she says, “I’m out of here before you finish your espresso.” “You’re perfect for a plan I’d like to set in motion,” I say. “And as an incentive for you to play your role the best you can, I’ll quadruple your fee if my plan succeeds.” “How will I know if it succeeds if you won’t even tell me what it is?” “Trust me, you’ll know.” I smirk. “Everyone in my entourage will.” Diane leans back with her arms crossed over her chest. “Can’t you find another candidate for your shady scheme? It couldn’t have escaped your notice that I humiliated you in public.” “I assure you it didn’t,” I say. “But what’s really important and valuable here is that it didn’t escape other people’s notice, either. A picture of

my cream-cake-covered mug even ended up in a tabloid or two.” She gives me a smug smile. “At the time, I told everyone I didn’t know you, but I can easily change my tune and confess we’d been dating.” “This doesn’t make any sense.” “Believe me, it does—a whole lot of sense—if you consider it in light of my scheme.” “Which I can’t do,” she cuts in, “because you won’t tell me what your scheme is.” True. “Anyway, I’ll tell everyone we’ve talked it over and made up.” She says nothing. “Mademoiselle Petit… Diane.” I lean in. “Your parents—and yourself—are not in the best financial shape right now. I’m offering an easy solution to your woes.” “Ha!” she interjects with an angry gleam in her almond-shaped eyes. “Says the person who caused our woes!” She’s right, of course, but not entirely. Before going in for the kill, I did offer to buy out her father’s fragrance company. The offer wasn’t generous by any measure, but it was reasonable given the circumstances. Charles Petit’s artisanal workshop wasn’t doing terribly well. In fact, it was of little interest to me, with the exception of the two or three of his signature fragrances that were

worth the price I’d offered. Charles is a lousy businessman—but he’s a true artist. He created the fragrances he sold, and he also created for others. I would’ve offered him a job in one of my labs had I not been one hundred percent sure he’d decline it. As it happened, he also declined my fifty thousand, calling me a scumbag and a few other choice epithets I won’t repeat in front of a lady. Fifty thousand euros isn’t a fortune, but seeing as he stood no chance against me, he should’ve taken the money. It was better than nothing. But Charles Petit proved to be more emotional than rational about his business. And he ended up with nothing. Worse than nothing, actually. I heard he took to drinking, got kicked out by his wife, and had a heart attack. Or was it a stroke? Anyway, my point is, at least some of those misfortunes could’ve been avoided had he sold his company to me. I open my mouth to say this to Diane, but then it occurs to me she must already know about my offer. She probably also shares Monsieur Petit’s opinion that it was indecently low. “Can we skip the whole dating and marrying nonsense,” Diane says, “and go straight to the part where you grovel at my dad’s feet, thrust a check for two hundred thousand into his hand, and beg him to take it in the hopes he might forgive you one

day?” I sigh and shake my head. She stands. “The answer is no.” “Why don’t you think it over? I’ll be in touch next week.” I set a twenty on the table. “May I offer you a ride?” “Thank you, Monsieur Darcy, you’re very kind.” She bares her teeth in a smile that doesn’t even try to pass for a real one. “But I prefer the métro.”

CHAP TER THREE “Will you remind me again why we’re on a bus just before the rush hour?” Elorie gives me a sour look, hugging her counterfeit Chanel bag to her chest. I admit, it was a mistake. But I’m not admitting this out loud. “It takes us straight to the bistro I’ve been telling you about,” I say. “Like a taxi.” Elorie snorts. “Taxi, my foot! When I take a cab, I sprawl comfortably and give this baby”—she points at her bag—“its own seat. Whereas now—” She jostles the woman on her left. “Madame, you’re stepping on my foot!” The woman apologizes and shifts a couple of

inches, which is no mean feat, considering how packed the bus is. Elorie turns back to me. “You said the bistro was in the 9th, yes?” I nod. “At this rate, it’ll take us an hour to get there.” I’m about to suggest we get off and find the nearest métro station when two school kids jump out of their seats and make their way to the exit. We take their seats immediately. “Ah,” Elorie says. “This is better. Not a taxi by a long shot, but still.” We’re on this bus because I’m taking Elorie to celebrate at La Bohème, my favorite bistro in Paris. Perhaps even more than its amazing cappuccinos and out-of-this-world chocolate mousse, I love that bistro because it’s home to two terrific chicks— Manon and Jeanne. Headwaiter Manon is my gym and movies companion, and she’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met. Proprietor Jeanne’s personality is so mood enhancing she should charge a supplement every time she tends the bar. Jeanne also happens to have a brother, Hugo, who happens to be my sister Chloe’s fiancé. In other words, she’s almost family. How cool is that? Regardless, I’d half expected her to declare me persona non grata for crashing her latest reception and assaulting one of her guests. The guest in

question—Sebastian Darcy—is her husband’s friend and political backer, which makes my smashing a cream cake in his face an even bigger affront. But Jeanne just laughed the incident off, saying the bash had been too stuffy and in serious need of an icebreaker. Which I kindly provided. The Manon-Jeanne combo makes me feel truly welcome at La Bohème. So much so that I forget I’m far away from home in a metropolis of eleven million people, suburbs included. The vast majority of them are crammed into tiny apartments and deeply convinced they’re the most evolved representatives of the human race. Here in Paris, if you say bonjour to a stranger on the street, they think you’re either a nutcase or a hooker. “How’s the quest coming along?” I ask Elorie. The quest is shorthand for Elorie’s newfound mission—locate an eligible billionaire and get him to marry her. Elorie defines “eligible” as currently available, reasonably young, and passably goodlooking. She launched the project three months ago on her twenty-sixth birthday, and she’s been working hard on it ever since. Not very successfully, judging by the sound of it. But what’s three months when looking for a soul mate who meets such high standards and such specific… specifications? “I’ve made good progress,” Elorie says.

I bug out my eyes. “I want a name!” “Not so fast, ma cocotte. My progress is theoretical at this point.” “Oh.” “Don’t you oh me.” Elorie wags her index finger from side to side. “Would you launch a business without conducting a market study first?” “I guess not.” I narrow my eyes. “Do you approach all your dreams as a business?” She shrugs. “Not all—only the ones worth pursuing. Anyway, as the saying goes, if you practice without theory, you shall fall into the ditch.” “There’s no such saying.” “You sure?” She puts her chin up. “Well, there should be. Anyway, I stand on much firmer ground today than three months ago all because I’ve done enough research to write a thesis on the topic.” “Maybe you should write one,” I mutter. Elorie is the most entertaining person I’ve ever met and I love her, but her pragmatism does rattle me sometimes. Then again, I’m well aware I’m a country-fried prawn who still hasn’t wrapped her head around big-city attitudes. “Ha-ha, very funny!” Elorie pauses before adding, “Anyway, I’ve now read all the tutorials and how-to articles I could get my hands on, and I’ve analyzed several real-life case studies.” “I’m impressed.”

“Me, too,” she says with a wink. “I’ve never taken anything so seriously in my whole life.” “Mesdames, messieurs,” the bus driver says into the speaker. “This bus will not continue beyond Opéra. You can wait for the next one or take an alternate route.” People gripe and boo and begin to move toward the doors. I spread my arms in apology. Elorie rolls her eyes. We get off and continue our journey using the most reliable means of transportation in Paris—our feet. The air is cold and humid, which is no surprise in February, but at least it isn’t raining. I look up at the leaden sky and tone down my gratitude—it isn’t raining yet. “Feel like sharing your theoretical findings?” I ask, tucking my scarf inside my coat in an attempt to shield myself from the cutting wind. Elorie considers my request. “OK. But only because you’re my friend and you always pay for the drinks.” “Aww.” I place my hand on my heart. “You put ‘friend’ before ‘drinks,’ you wonderful person.” “Listen up—because I won’t repeat this,” Elorie says, choosing to ignore my irony. “The single most important action you can take is to hang out where billionaires do.” “In Swiss banks?”

“For example.” She nods, unfazed. “Don’t tell me you believe Kate would’ve snatched William if her clever mom hadn’t sent her to the University of St Andrews, where the cream of British nobility goes?” “I must confess I haven’t given the matter much thought.” “Then thank me for opening your eyes.” “Thank you,” I say dutifully. “But we have a problem—I’m too old for college, and it isn’t my thing, anyway.” “That’s OK,” she says. “It was just an example.” “Phew.” I’m doing my best to keep my expression earnest. “What a load off!” She glances at me sideways and shakes her head. “What I’m telling you isn’t funny, Diane. It’s precious. I’d be taking notes if I were you.” “Sorry, sweetie. Go on.” “I’ll give you a few pointers,” she says. “Go horseback riding, join a golf club, or book yourself into a high-end ski resort. If you’re targeting a specific man, go exactly where he goes.” “Some people would call it stalking.” “I call it lending fate a hand.” “OK,” I say. “What about the rich perverts who frequent BDSM clubs? Should I get a membership for one? And what about the polygamists who make their wives wear burkas? Where do you draw

the line?” “Where he buys me Louboutin pumps, Prada sunglasses, and Chanel purses to wear with my burka.” She arches an eyebrow. “If I can travel the world in his private jet and have my own wing in his palace plus three or four maids at my beck and call, then sure, why not. Bring on the burka.” I stop and put my hands on my hips. Elorie stops, too. “Aren’t you a little too cavalier about this?” My voice betrays my feelings—equal parts incredulity and concern. “Let me be more specific. We’re not talking a burkini here. We’re talking the works with gloves and an eye grid. And other wives.” Elorie tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Ten maids, my own palace, and my own jet.” I’m too dumbfounded to speak. “What?” she says. “Don’t look at me like that. Everyone has a price, and so do you.” “I don’t think so.” “Of course, you do. You’re just too ashamed to admit it, which is kind of sad.” Does she really think that? “Or maybe you’re fooling yourself that your affections can’t be bought,” she says, her expression pensive. “Which is even sadder.” “Please, believe me when I say I don’t care about money.” I stare her in the eye. “I don’t mind having some—just enough to get by—but I

wouldn’t make the slightest sacrifice just so I can marry a rich man.” Elorie rolls her eyes, clearly not buying it. “If you want to know the truth,” I say, “I find rich men repulsive. They’re so full of themselves, so convinced of their superiority! They gross me out.” “What, all of them?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “Without exception. They mistake their dumb luck for divine providence and their lack of scruples for business acumen.” Elorie narrows her eyes. “It sounds like you’re talking about one rich man in particular. And I think it’s Sebastian Darcy.” The moment she mentions his name, I realize I’ve spent the past few weeks doing exactly what Elorie just advised me to do—researching a rich man. But there’s a difference. I haven’t been investigating him for a chance to marry him. I’ve been probing into his life in the hopes of finding a weapon to destroy him. I didn’t find any. And then, three days ago, he showed up at my workplace and handed me one. Sure, what he’s offered is a stick rather than a hatchet. But it’s up to me to take that stick and sharpen it into a spear. Our ancestors killed mammoths with spears—I should be able to skewer

a man. “He’s superhot, by the way,” Elorie says. “I’d marry him even if he was a mere millionaire.” “He’s a jerk.” “Who isn’t?” I start walking again. “So you meet the billionaire of your dreams, then what?” “Duh.” She rolls her eyes. “Then I make him fall madly in love with me.” “Of course! How?” “By being gorgeous, self-confident, and classy.” I clear my throat audibly. “What was that supposed to mean?” she asks, turning to me. “We’re cashiers.” I give her a hard stare. “We may be called cute but gorgeous and classy are beyond our reach.” I expect her to object that you can be classy on a budget, but instead she puts her arm around my shoulders and gives a gentle squeeze. “Finally,” she says with an approving smile. “Diane Petit has demonstrated there’s a realist hiding in there, underneath her principles and other bullshit.” Her words sting a little. “My dear,” Elorie says as we turn onto rue Cadet. “I’ll reward your bout of honesty by giving you the single most precious piece of advice

anyone has ever given you. Or ever will.” I halt again and fold my hands across my chest. “I’m all ears.” “I’m sharing this,” Elorie says, “because we’re besties and because I want you to owe me one.” I shake my head. “You can’t link those two reasons with an and. They’re mutually exclusive. It’s either because we’re besties or because you want me to owe you one.” She sucks on her teeth for a brief moment. “I want you to owe me one.” “OK, what’s your precious advice?” “It’s a shortcut that very few women are aware of.” “Yeees?” “You need to develop a real interest and a certain level of competence in what the billionaires you’re targeting are passionate about.” I pull a face. “Things like football?” “If that’s what floats his boat.” “I see.” “It can be all sorts of things.” Elorie begins to count on her fingers. “Sports cars. War movies. Guns. High tech gadgets. Video games.” “I think they’re a waste of time,” I say. “It doesn’t matter what you think. What matters is what you say.” She moves on to her right hand. “Mixed martial arts. Wine. Politics. Porn. Art photography.”

My eyebrows shoot up. She giggles. “That last one was a mole to check if you were paying attention. Nobody—except you, that is—cares about art photography.” “I know men who do.” “Are they filthy rich?” I shake my head. “Ha! Thought so.” We reach La Bohème, and I stop in front of the entrance, pulling Elorie by her sleeve to stop her from walking on. “OK,” I say. “Let’s finish this conversation before we go in. Let’s say you’ve become a wine connoisseur or a sports car buff. How does that guarantee your billionaire will fall to your feet like an electrocuted wasp?” “It’s science, dum-dum.” She cocks her head. “Say your man loves Star Wars and football. You give him a well-timed Yoda quote, and his mind goes, ‘Ooh, she’s special.’ Then you give him an analysis of the latest Paris Saint-Germain victory, and his body releases even more happiness hormones. And before he knows it, his brain learns to associate that euphoric state with you. This leads him to conclude you’re Mademoiselle Right, which, in turn, leads him to propose.” “Neat,” I say. And what about the billionaire who proposes not because he gives a shit if you’re Mademoiselle

Right or Mademoiselle One Night, but because he wants to use you in some shady scheme? I push open the door to the bistro and decide to keep that last observation to myself. Get Find You in Paris now or grab the Darcy Brothers box set, and save 50%!

BOOKS BY ALIX NICHOLS

PLAYING TO WIN (3- B OOK

SE R IE S )

Playing with Fire

He was supposed to look out for her, not kiss her senseless.

Au pair Uma is all kinds of wrong for single dad Zach. She is his son’s nanny, a twenty-three-year-old Hindu virgin, and a guileless ingenue to boot. Zach knows all of that.

Then why can’t he rein in his lust for her?

If there is one man Uma should not be attracted to, it’s the father of the adorable five-year-old in her charge. Once burned twice shy, Zach is the captain of a Paris water polo team and a wealthy

entrepreneur who can have any woman he wants. No strings attached.

Small wonder he goes all out to shun Uma!

But when, with the help of a bottle of fine wine, Zach confesses all the dirty things he’d like to do to her, Uma astounds him by saying she wants that, too.

What’s a man to do but oblige?

Besides, it’s not like it’s the end of the world. They’re both sensible, level-headed adults. They’ll just have a bit of fun and then go back to normal, as if nothing happened.

As if feelings weren’t already getting in the way. Playing for Keeps

He remembers everything… except the first thirty years of his life.

Sports star-turned-coach Lucas Delaunay has no recollection of his past, despite his parents' and friends' efforts to help him.

Enter Isabelle Ferrand, a young publicist hired to land sponsors and fundraise for Lucas’s club. He is told she was a friend. Just a friend. Everyone, Isabelle included, insists he regarded her as a sister.

Not anymore, he doesn't.

Every night, he dreams of her naked and panting beneath him. Her taste, her smell, the way her breasts fill his palms... Every morning he wakes up rock hard, groping for her in his empty bed.

With desire spinning out of control, Lucas wonders if amnesia has changed his taste in women, or if there’s something Isabelle isn’t telling him.

And if she might be the key to unlocking his past.

Playing Dirty

What happens when revenge collides with love?

In his pimply teens, Julien was led on, played and publicly humiliated by Noemi. But time has been kind to him. Now a heartthrob and formidable water polo defender, Julien has no trouble with the ladies. That means, he can finally get back at Noemi. Only… he hadn’t expected her to have grown from a shallow girl to a caring woman. A woman with feelings. Nor had he anticipated the bitter aftertaste of his revenge, or how empty his bed—and his life—would be without her. Might she still have his heart? While Julien ponders the question, Noemi sets out on her own quest for payback…

THE DARCY BROTHERS (3- B OOK

SE R IE S )

Find You in Paris

True spite. Fake marriage. Real romance.

If there's one man that store clerk and amateur photographer Diane Petit really, really, actively hates, it's fragrance mogul Sebastian Darcy who stole her father's company--and wrecked the man's health in the process.

But the arrogant SOB had better brace himself because Diane has vowed revenge.

And revenge she will have.

WARNING: Just like in Pride and Prejudice that inspired this book, expect to find one rich, brooding and handsome Mr. Darcy and one feisty small-town girl who can't stand him. Unlike Pride and Prejudice, this book also contains artful nude photos of said Mr.

Darcy and nights of wild passion in Paris. Raphael’s Fling

A secretive nerdette gets a bad boy for Christmas…

I'm Mia, a grad student and part-time assistant at D'Arcy Consulting and Audit. My company's CEO, Raphael d'Arcy, is young, funny, smart, and uber-rich. He's also smoking hot. That alone should have scared me away, were I not such a fool, my academic achievements notwithstanding. But there's more. Raphael is France's most notorious playboy who doesn't do relationships. He does one-night stands. If sufficiently intrigued, he might do a fling, which is the most we could ever have together -- a short-lived fling. So what, right?

Worse things happen at sea... They do, indeed. As a matter of fact, getting my heart broken by Raphael d'Arcy is the least of my worries. Some very serious merde has been piling up in my life lately. And it's about to hit the fan. The Perfect Catch

He blocked the penalty shot, but he left his heart unguarded.

French goalkeeper Noah Masson wants to prove his worth to Coach and help his team win the gold. With an unruly mutt for company, a part-time gig to pay rent, and the national Water Polo Championships fast approaching, Noah is one hundred percent focused on his goal.

That is, until he catches a beautiful intruder poking around his kitchen...

American realtor-in-training Sophie Bander wants to convince her overbearing father she can be a first-class agent. Now she's in Paris, learning the ropes at a large agency. When she's done, she'll return to Key West, join her father's business, and marry the man of his dreams. It's not like she expects to be attracted to that man. Sophie has never felt sexual attraction, anyway.

That is, until a hard-bodied goalie mistakes her for a thief and presses her against the wall in his kitchen... Clarissa & the Cowboy (Companion to the Darcy Brothers series)

~ Nathan ~ Right now Clarissa, our tour guide, is talking about prehistoric cave paintings. In a moment, she’ll point at the mammoth… Wait for it…. “Look at the mammoth on your right,” she says. Told ya! I’ve done her tour six times in two months.

Everyone gawks at the mammoth. My eyes stay trained on Clarissa’s lovely face. After the tour, I’ll ask her out, fully expecting her to say no. I mean, why would a hotshot Parisian archeologist go on a date with a dairy farmer from the sticks? But I need to hear Clarissa’s no. Maybe then I’ll be able to forget her.

~ Clarissa ~ Nathan, aka Cowboy, is here again. Staring at me again. I ignore him. Just as I’ve ignored the hot, disturbing dreams I’ve been having lately. Dreams in which a handsome cowboy undresses me. Kisses me. Pleasures me into oblivion. Crazy dreams! In real life, I’m going back to Paris to start a new job in a big museum. The one thing I don’t need during my last week in Burgundy is a roll in the hay with Nathan. Even if that roll turns out to be better than my craziest dreams…

L A B OHÈ M E Winter’s Gift What If It’s Love?

Falling for Emma Under My Skin Amanda’s Guide to Love The Devil’s Own Chloe

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alix Nichols is an unapologetic caffeine addict and a longtime fan of Mr. Darcy, especially in his Colin Firth incarnation. She is a USA Today bestselling author of sexy, funny, riveting books which will “keep you hanging off the edge of your seat” (RT Book Reviews) and “deliver pure pleasure” (Kirkus Reviews). At the age of six, she released her first romance. It featured highly creative spelling on a dozen pages stitched together and bound in velvet paper. Decades later, she still writes. Her spelling has improved (somewhat), and her books have topped the Amazon charts around the world. She lives in France with her family and their almosthuman dog. Follow Alix on BookBub! Connect with her online:

Website: alixnichols.com Facebook: facebook.com/AuthorAlixNichols Pinterest: pinterest.com/AuthorANichols Goodreads: goodreads.com/alixnichols Twitter: twitter.com/aalix_nichols

COPYRIGHT Copyright © 2017 Alix Nichols All Rights Reserved. Editing provided by Write Divas This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.