Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(2)

The seconds stretch into minutes again, my heartbeat growing louder in my head.

Finally, he lets out a long sigh. “You’re young, Olivier. You made a mistake. I see that. I remember what it’s like to be twenty years old, filthy rich, the world at your feet. You don’t care for anything but sex and money and power, and you’ll do anything to get them. I know—don’t think I don’t. But youth doesn’t excuse you from punishment. It doesn’t unwrite your sins.” He pauses. “I have a bargain for you, Olivier. The only way out of this. Would you like to hear it?”

I blink at him, my eyes trying to focus on the shadows of his face, but everything keeps shape-shifting.

A bargain with my uncle is a deal with the devil.

But what other choice do I have?

“What is it?” I ask, licking my dry lips as I talk, my words coming out in a murmur.

“It will ensure that neither Pascal nor your father will hear of your indiscretion. No one will know at all, and you’ll be able to go on living the reckless, selfish, stupid life that you’ve been living. Fucking everything that walks, spending your money on pointless, vapid things. You’ll continue to be Olivier Dumont, one of the many heirs to the Dumont empire, the most eligible bachelor in France.”

I clear my throat. “And so what do I have to do?”

Though his face darkens, I can see the smile spread across it, the white of his veneers standing out as sharp as the Cheshire cat’s.

“Sign a document, that’s all.”

But that wouldn’t be all.

Nothing is ever that simple with the Dumonts.

“Okay,” I say quietly, knowing I’ll have to agree to whatever it says.

I’ll be signing it in blood.





CHAPTER ONE

SADIE

Nice, France

Present day

Train ticket?

Check.

Phone?

Check.

Ridiculous travel wallet that wraps around my leg?

Umm.

Well, shit.

I rummage through the compartments in my backpack, riffle through my cross-body purse, and look around the empty dorm room, frantically trying to remember where I put the damn thing. It’s not like it contains my money, credit cards, and passport.

I’d spent the morning going for a jog along the promenade and had only taken some euros along with me for my postworkout coffee; then I spent the rest of the day hanging around the common room and munching on last night’s leftovers from the hostel’s BBQ. On those days when I don’t have to spend my money on food, I take advantage. I’m like a jackal, but with lipstick.

Only right now I won’t be able to afford another lipstick unless I find my money belt.

Then I remember stumbling to my bed last night after too many drinks at the bar and becoming suddenly suspicious of everyone in the room.

I reach over and lift the edge of the mattress.

Ta-da. My money belt.

With a sigh, I grab it and clutch it to my chest.

After two months backpacking through Europe, you’d think I’d have a better idea where I put things, but hey, at least I was being vigilant after a bottle of wine. I’ve heard enough horror stories from the people I’ve met so far to know that the worst-case scenario is always around the corner.

And currently my worst-case scenario is losing either my passport or my wallet, hence the ugly and uncomfortable money belt I wear strapped around my calf. Depending on the sketchiness of the hostel I’m staying at, that money belt sometimes stays on me as I sleep. Last night I apparently thought hiding it under my mattress was somewhat of a happy medium.

I pull up the leg of my wide linen pants, which are wrinkled beyond belief, and strap the belt on, then take one last look around the dirty, threadbare room with sagging bunks and the unshowered stink of a couple of Swiss guys who arrived yesterday. They’re probably out at the clubs right now, but their sour aroma is here to stay.

Good riddance to this shithole.

When I first came to Europe, I never dreamed of staying in a run-down backpacker hostel like this one, but then again, when I first came to Europe, I was with my ex, Tom, and I had nothing but love and adventure in front of me, not to mention security for the first time in my life.

Though I’d saved up as much money as I could from working at the university bookstore after classes, it was Tom who really planned ahead for both of us. Traveling as a couple, it was rare that we stayed at a hostel, and when we did, it was always in a private room. Most of the time we were in a hotel. Nothing fancy, but nothing that smelled like alcohol-infused farts either.

Then, a month into our travels, I’d gotten an email from my friend Chantal back home, the email that changed my life. Chantal told me Tom had been sleeping with our mutual friend Jen throughout the two years we’d been together and, suffice to say, an epic breakup to end all breakups occurred, right in the middle of the train station in Vienna.

So now Tom’s gone back to Seattle, and I’ve been staggering around Europe with a broken heart and a dwindling bank account, trying to figure out what to do with myself. I’ve got three weeks before I have to fly back home, and I have no idea what I’ll do if I find out Tom is in most of my classes in September.

Shit, I don’t even know what I’ll do with myself period. Though the breakup occurred almost four weeks ago, I’m nowhere near being over him. With every new place I end up in, I can’t help but wish I had someone by my side to share it with.