Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(20)

But that’s all just crazy talk. I’m obviously smitten with the fact that he’s completely gorgeous, totally French, and obscenely rich and successful. Anything else is probably a product of my very active imagination. I mean, other than his touching my ankle, or my thigh, or pushing a strand of hair off my face, he’s made no real moves on me.

I thought he was going to. Especially when he got this heated look in his eyes more than once and leaned in just a little closer. Normally, I would freak out, and even though I was internally, I didn’t jerk out of the way or anything.

But, no. Either the man is a tease, or I’m picking up on the wrong signals.

Or maybe he’s a gentleman who doesn’t believe in going after injured young women, I remind myself.

It could be that. There’s no denying there’s chemistry between us; it’s just a matter of acting on it, and I sure as hell won’t be making any moves over here. Not when I can barely move to begin with.

And yet, as I manage to get out of bed, my body does feel less stiff and sore than it did yesterday. Maybe Olivier was right, and the champagne really was best for my stress levels. And what had he said about the sea? That it was good for my heart?

I carefully get up and see there’s an envelope underneath the door. I hobble over to it, too afraid to put any real weight on my ankle yet, and pick it up.

Scrawled in elegant handwriting on the hotel stationery is a note:

Mon Lapin,

I hope you were able to get some much-needed rest. I will be working for most of the day, so I hope you’ll feel free to entertain yourself. If you want food or drinks, please order to your heart’s desire. If you wish to go to the pool, to the restaurant, anywhere you like, please dial the concierge, and Marcel will be at your beck and call. I will be back for you at seven o’clock tonight for dinner. There are some dresses outside the door, in case you want to wear one for the occasion.

Olivier Dumont



Oh. My. God.

I open my door and peer outside. I gasp. There is a legit rolling rack outside the door with numerous garment bags hanging off it.

I manage to keep the door open and pull the rack inside the room. I quickly get to work unzipping the garment bags and discovering each dress hidden inside. They’re all black—I suppose it’s the safest and most elegant choice—all in my size, and all with the Dumont label. My stomach flips, knowing each dress has to be worth at least $1,000.

Shit. He wants to take me out for dinner tonight, with my bungled-up ankle and lack of decorum? He might be able to fit me in a flattering and beautiful dress, but it might be akin to putting lipstick on a pig. Or at least designer clothing on a girl from a trailer park.

I carefully try on each one, trying to play the part of princess, even if just for a day. I eventually settle on a billowy lace number with a low-cut neckline that shows off my chest and flares out toward the knee. Bonus points for not having to wear a bra with it.

The biggest challenge is trying to occupy myself for the next ten hours or so. Luckily, the time passes easily. I order in a big enough breakfast, with copious amounts of coffee, so that I don’t need anything for lunch, then spend the afternoon lying by the private hot tub and getting some sun.

By the time seven o’clock rolls around, I’m slightly burned, light-headed, and nervous, but the dress looks great on me, and I’ve managed to make some faint waves in my hair so that it fans out on my shoulders. I haven’t bothered with makeup much while traveling, since it all seems to melt off my face, but I do what I can to make myself look fairly pretty and presentable.

If it’s pretty enough for Olivier Dumont, well, that remains to be seen. But fuck it. I can be insecure some other time. I’m going to take advantage of tonight—this once-in-a-lifetime, fairy-tale kind of date, this other life I’m living—and I’m going to believe I deserve every single minute of it.

Olivier is punctual. There’s a knock at the door at exactly seven o’clock, and it takes all my concentration to keep myself from freaking out.

I hobble over to the door, with my flip-flop on one foot and the bandage on the other, and open it.

Fuck me.

Olivier is standing there with a bouquet of pink and coral roses in his hand, but it’s the rest of him that takes my breath away.

First of all, he’s dressed in a freaking tuxedo. I mean, this is a slick suit, complete with bow tie and shiny shoes. Second of all, his hair is all artfully mussed up with some kind of product and pushed off his face, letting those gorgeous eyes of his shine. And, of course, that cocky as hell smile that I could stare at all night long.

“You look beautiful,” he says to me, letting his heavy-lidded eyes slowly coast up and down my body, pausing ever so briefly at my breasts. “You made the right choice with that dress.”

I’m blushing. Damn it.

“They were all so lovely,” I tell him, feeling all sorts of awkward all of a sudden, because now he’s here, and this thing is so real. “I had a hard time choosing. Sorry I don’t have the right footwear to complement it, though.” I point my mangled foot at him.

“I won’t be staring at your feet, don’t worry,” he says. “May I come in?”

“Of course, it’s your room.”

He grins at me as he strides into the room, and I catch the fresh scent of his aftershave. Mint and cedar and something clean. “It would be very dangerous for me to think of my hotels that way,” he says as he takes a vase from the corner of the room and fills it up with water in the bathroom before artfully arranging the roses in it.