The money doesn’t tempt me. I have more than I need waiting for me on my yacht. Most importantly—astoundingly—I don’t feel the itch, that desire to achieve something.
I thought it would be one last job: to unload the Georgia O’Keeffe without the hassles of appraisals and taxes and a paper trail for the seller, and to triple my commission that I wouldn't even have to share with a broker. Everybody wins. Kind of.
It would be easy. And then I could go on with my plan to lay low at the villa of my grand-mère in Sainte-Maxime.
It should have been an easy con to pull off: charm the girl and casually mention the art piece in conversation. And then reel in the big money from her super rich friend.
But now, sitting here, talking to her, I can’t go through with it.
The woman, the best friend of the married tech guru, is not even a part of this high-flying world I float in. She asks me if I got my watch on sale or if it was a gift. She teaches yoga to little kids. She eats burgers and fries and likes outdoor concerts.
She’s so refreshingly innocent and unrehearsed I could kiss her.
Looking into her eyes, I can’t think of anything but wanting to show her the world. I want to show her the Mona Lisa in Paris. I want to take her out on my yacht to spend a few weeks soaking up the sun in Saint-Tropez.
I’m flooded with guilt that I’m using this girl to get access to her best friend’s money.
Back at my hotel, I pay for another night, although it’s extremely inadvisable. I can sense the feds getting closer to catching up with me.
Still, I make the call once I get back to my room, and I follow up with the deal. Not only do I not overcharge and pocket the difference, I don’t even take my own legal cut on the sale of the piece.
Several hours later, Stella’s husband, a beefy fellow with a kind face, meets me with the check, but he has more concern about his wife’s friend than about his wife’s money. He shakes my hand and says, “If you hurt my wife's best friend, I will hunt you down. Do we understand each other?”
I nod and reassure him. “I understand completely, and I promise that won’t be necessary.”
After he leaves, I wire the money—the full amount—to my client. Then I look forward to spending just one more night here in America with the woman of my dreams, knowing I will probably never come back to these shores again.
Chapter 4
Laney
I’m so excited to go on this date, my whole body is shaking.
I know this date is nothing but a glorified one-night stand, no strings attached. He said something about setting sail to Europe in the morning. Maybe that's all it is, but I just have a feeling about this guy. It's not a feeling that he's the marrying kind or anything; it's more a feeling that he might be the most intriguing man I've ever met and I'm eager to peel back the layers.
You want to peel back the layers of his glamorous persona, or his layers of clothing? Hmm…why not both?
I know myself pretty well. I am built for monogamy and marriage, but the prospect of a one-night stand with a mysterious, dapper stranger is thrilling as all get out.
Stella gave me free rein of her closet before she left for her date night with Luke. All I have with me on this vacation is swimsuits, shorts, cover-ups, and a sundress that barely passes as anything other than beachwear. Although her vacation wardrobe is for a pregnant lady and all the dresses are meant to frame a pregnant belly, I still find plenty of options. I finally settle on a dark red maxi dress with a deep vee neckline to show off my cleavage—my one physical attribute that makes me closer to a 4 than a 2. The hibiscus floral print makes me happy. My beachy hair is fairly hopeless so I twist it up into a loose side bun at the nape of my neck.
It’s been so long since I’ve been on a proper date I don’t know if I should wear lipstick. I’m for sure going to be kissed; I just don’t know if he’s going to kiss me before or after dinner. I end up applying some sheer, summery lip gloss and borrowing Stella’s gold designer handbag. And just for good measure, I do a sequence of yoga poses to get my nervousness under control and my blood pressure balanced.
When I arrive at the party, Fabian (whose name I still suspect is fake as hell) is leaning with one elbow against the bar but looking impossibly hotter than he did earlier this afternoon.
The party is already in full swing. There are dozens of perfect 10s milling around in barely-there dresses, angling for his attention, but his eyes are on me.
His eyes drift all the way down to my toes and back up again to my face, and I feel my entire body flush once again. His expression about does me in; nobody has ever looked at me with that much heat before, and in such a way that doesn’t feel creepy.
How does he do that?
“Hi!” I say, still trying to quell the nervousness so it doesn’t show in my voice.
He exhales something in French and I nearly lose all feeling in my knees. “Mon pétale.”
Fabian takes my hand in his and kisses my knuckles, then kisses each of my cheeks. When he places his hand on the small of my back and says, “Let’s get you a drink,” I’m trembling because I feel like I’m on a date with the ghost of Cary Grant and everyone in the room can see we don’t belong together.
I’m grateful for the liquid courage; this resort hotel's poolside party is packed with people who look like they could
