Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(11)

My heart leaps.

“Hello?” I cry out, trying to figure out how to hobble to the door to open it. I move to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, but it’s already so painful I have to stop.

“Sadie?” Olivier’s voice comes through the door. “Are you decent?”

“Yeah,” I say, and before I can force myself to get up and limp over, the door starts to unlock.

What the fuck? How does he have a key?

The door swings open, and his head pops around the corner, brows raised in concern. “S’il vous pla?t, don’t get up!”

Then the door opens wider, and suddenly what looks to be a butler is pushing in a cart topped with metal-domed plates.

“Merci, Marcel,” Olivier says quietly to the butler, who exits as quickly as he came in. The door closes behind him, and I’m left in the room with Olivier, my eyes jumping from Olivier to the cart and then back to Olivier.

Of course, there’s no secret why my gaze keeps going back to him because, Christ on a cracker, now that it’s the light of day and I’m out of danger and the pain is only somewhat excruciating, I’m really seeing him for the first time.

The man is fucking gorgeous.

I mean, like the kind of guy you see on an ad for Hugo Boss or something. The kind of guy God definitely didn’t make enough of. The kind of guy you can probably only find in the South of France.

And he’s here. In my hotel room.

Or maybe this is his hotel room?

“How did you get in here?” I ask after I find my voice.

He holds up a room key. “La clé.”

“I assume that means key? Why do you have a key?”

He tilts his head as a small amused smile teases his lips. “Why wouldn’t I? This is my room.”

“Your room?” I exclaim, looking around. My God, did he sleep here with me?

I feel a shot of warmth between my legs. Holy hell, the mere thought of that shouldn’t be turning me on.

“No,” he says matter-of-factly. “I slept in the villa. I would have put you in there, but it’s a bit out of the way. Usually occupied by royal families or celebrities on getaways, but it was free last night.”

I stare at him. “I don’t understand.”

He gestures to the cart. “This is your breakfast. I didn’t know what you wanted, so I ordered pretty much everything on the menu.”

Get. The fuck. Out.

I shake my head, scoffing. “No. This can’t be real. You are not real.”

“I’m very real.”

“I’m dreaming then.”

“I can pinch you if you want,” he says, his silken voice dropping a register, a devious glint in his eyes. The kind of look that increases the heat between my thighs. Oh, fuck me, I’m in trouble. He should know how dangerous those looks are when they’re coming from him. Or maybe he does know.

I take him in again, the V-neck white T-shirt that looks especially soft, showing off his olive skin, darkened from the summer sun. He’s taller than I remember, at least six foot, which makes him a giant compared to my five-foot-two frame, and he’s all muscle. Not the big and bulky kind that one would get from hours in the gym, the kind that seems to come naturally—strong forearms, wide, firm chest, broad shoulders, slim hips.

Okay, I need to stop staring.

I sit up straighter, trying to make sense of everything and knock some reality into myself. On top of everything he’s already done for me, I’ve taken his hotel room, which probably costs a small fortune, and he’s brought me room service.

Every fucking thing on the menu.

“What’s your endgame in all of this?” I can’t help but ask. I know I should just be grateful, but still, this is so much to do for a stranger.

“Endgame?” he repeats, folding his arms, his watch gleaming.

Wow. Wow, yeah, I’m a sucker for those forearms.

“Uh-huh,” I say slowly. “Are you trying to, I don’t know, seduce me?”

I regret it the moment I say it.

He breaks into a devastating grin, the kind that could steal my breath away and never give it back. “Do you want me to seduce you?” he asks, running his long fingers down the length of his jaw, like he’s now considering it.

“No,” I say quickly.

I’m pretty sure I’m lying.

“Good,” he says, still smiling. I see a hint of pink tongue as he bites his lip. “Because, believe me, lapin, you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Okay, that reminds me—I need to figure out this lapin shit pretty quick. We don’t know each other enough to have nicknames.

Yet you’re in his fancy-schmancy hotel room, about to have breakfast in bed while making innuendos.

With my cheeks flaming, I clear my throat and promptly change the subject. Unfortunately, everything I want to talk about involves us.

“So, uh, I can’t imagine how you got me in here last night.”

“I carried you,” he says, lifting a dome. “This is an egg-white omelet.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I need me some yolks.”

He laughs at that, his eyes squinting delightfully. “My kind of girl.”

Oh boy, I don’t like how tingly that comment made me feel.

“You seriously carried me?” I ask. “What did the hotel staff say? Weren’t you—uh, we—caught?”