Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(13)

“I have an apartment in Paris,” he says. “Properties in Bordeaux, Cannes, Lyon, Biarritz. No, wait, we just sold that one.”

“We?” I repeat. I ignore the fact that he just rattled off a list of properties and focus on the we. My God, does Olivier have a wife?

I never notice wedding rings, but at second glance, he doesn’t have one. Still, that doesn’t seem to mean much in Europe.

“Well, the company,” he explains.

“What company?”

“My company,” he says just as there is a knock at the door.

He walks over and opens it, and Marcel enters the room.

“Monsieur Dumont?” Marcel asks him questioningly.

Olivier just points to the mess on the ground, and Marcel starts to clean it up.

“S’il vous pla?t. Merci, Marcel.”

I’m not sure if I should keep asking him questions while Marcel is here, but everything about this has gotten so weird.

“What, uh, what company?” I prod. I can’t help it.

Olivier walks over to the bedside table and tosses me the hotel’s notepad so that it lands right beside me.

I pick it up with my greasy bacon fingers. There are two things on it that make me gasp.

One is that the hotel I’m staying at is the H?tel du Cap-Eden-Roc, and even I know that this is where all the world’s celebs and royals stay. I can’t believe this, of all places, is where I am.

The other is that above the name of the hotel is a logo that says, “The Dumont Collective.”

Dumont.

As in . . . Olivier Dumont?

I glance up at him sharply. “Is this your hotel?”

He nods with just a touch of a smile on his full lips. “Oui, madame.”

And now it all makes sense, everything sliding into place. His money, his access to this hotel, his villa, the way the staff seems to know him, the way he doesn’t care about the bill or the spilled coffee. Still doesn’t explain the whole Alfred Hitchcock imitation, but I gloss over that.

He adds, “And you’re free to stay here for as long as you want.”

I blink at Olivier for a moment as his words settle in the foggy confines of my brain. For a split second, I imagine a different version of myself. One that will take what he’s saying seriously, that will end up shrugging off school and the responsibilities I can’t escape for a life of wine and lavender-scented linen and the bright blue of the Mediterranean, my skin tanned and glossy, my smile as carefree as the sea breeze that blows my hair around me.

But that version of myself disintegrates as quickly as it appeared.

“What do you say?” he asks.

“About the fact that you’re suddenly the owner of a very famous hotel chain?”

He smirks, the corner of his lips curling up just so. He always seems to be amused by me, which I honestly don’t mind.

“No, not suddenly. I’m afraid I’ve been working at this a long time, and sometimes it feels longer.”

“But you’re . . . young,” I tell him.

“Thirty,” he says. “Which, yes, is young. I’ve heard that a lot. But I was pretty much groomed for this from the day I was born.”

I begin to go over everything I know about these hotels, which isn’t very much, except that the rich and famous stay here. And judging by the way the front-desk woman at the hospital and the cops treated him yesterday, I’d say it’s not just the rich part that he has down pat.

“Dumont,” I say slowly. “Wait, don’t you have something to do with the handbags, like, the French clothing line?”

The smirk on his face falters, just for a second.

“Bien s?r,” he says, but now his easy casualness seems a little bit forced. “But my father and sister run that side of the company.”

“No interest in fashion?” I find that hard to believe since he’s so impeccably put together.

He shrugs. “I care. I care in general about it and especially about the Dumont brand. But not the business side of things. Being a hotelier is more—what’s the expression—up my alley.” Olivier strikes me as the type of man who has many alleys, none of which I would mind exploring. “I promise I can tell you more about it . . . if you stay.”

Marcel exits just as Olivier says this, leaving the two of us alone in the room again. The air feels heavier now, like it’s laden with promise and possibilities. It doesn’t help that Olivier’s stare has intensified with every long second that ticks by.

“You’re joking,” I tell him.

“I’m not,” he says softly. “Stay with me. Just for a few days. Just until you heal.”

Even though I can feel a smile spread across my face, it’s wavering with disbelief. “I can’t do that.”

He tilts his head. “Pourquoi pas? Why not?”

“Because of a million reasons.”

“Which are?”

He doesn’t seem to get it.

I gesture to the room. “For one, I can’t afford this place.”

He seems to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “Quite obviously, you don’t have to worry about that.”

“I don’t want to take your charity.”

“Charity implies that I’m helping you out of my selfless heart. I assure you that I have a very selfish reason for wanting you to stay.”