Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(21)

“Oh, I’m sure plenty of women—and men—wouldn’t mind if you barged in on them.”

“You seem very preoccupied with the idea of me and other people,” he says to me, placing the roses by my bed. “For as long as you see me standing before you, other people don’t exist. It’s only me and only you.” The way his eyes are latched on to mine is so intense, I can feel my core grow hot. “Especially only you. Tu comprends?”

I feel a little sheepish at that. I’m not sure why I keep bringing it up; I guess it’s because it’s really the only thing I know about him. And, I mean, just look at this guy.

“Okay,” I say quietly, giving him a shy smile. “It’s just me and just you.” I clear my throat, changing the subject. “So where are you taking me tonight?”

His eyes go to the French doors and the setting sun beyond, which is painting the sky shades of lavender and peach. “I hope you don’t get seasick.”

“You’re taking me on the boat?”

He nods. “Just you and just me. Oh, and Marcel and Philippe. He’s an excellent chef, won many awards.”

I can only blink at him.

“So I can still surprise you,” he says. “That’s good to know.” He comes over to me. “Now if you don’t mind, we have a boat to catch.” He holds his arm out to me. “You can use me as a crutch, or I can carry you in my arms.”

“Sure you don’t want to put me in a wheelbarrow? I’m sure that will turn a few heads.”

“People here have seen stranger things, I’m sure.”

Since I’ve been resting most of the day, I find I can get along pretty well with pressure on the ball of my foot, so luckily the wheelbarrow is out of the question. I take his arm and grin up at him, my nerves dancing at how close we are, making my skin feel flushed and tingly.

“Shall we?” he asks, his voice taking on this throaty, silken quality that makes me bite my lip. I nod.

The journey down to the boat is fairly painless. The path is level and well groomed, making it easy to just lean on him. The sounds of birds and cicadas fill the candy-colored air, and I breathe in the smells of rosemary and cypress.

“God, it’s beautiful,” I tell him. “It feels so good to be outside of the room.”

“I can imagine,” he says.

“Why do you live in Paris? I’d live here if I could.”

He chuckles softly, and when I glance up at him, I can see the fiery skies reflected in his eyes. “I’m too young to live here. This is where you go when you retire.”

“But I mean, I’m sure you could retire tomorrow if you wanted. You don’t have to work a day in your life if you don’t want to.”

He nods, his lips pressed together. “You’re right. I don’t have to work. But I want to. It’s . . . what gives me life. And Paris is where the work is, where the life is. When I feel I’ve taken on too much, maybe then I’ll come down here and relax for a few days.”

“But I bet you don’t. I bet it’s always business for you.”

He shoots me a quick smile. “Are you making guesses, or are you just observant?”

I shrug. “A little from column A, a little from column B.”

He frowns. “I don’t understand the reference.”

“You don’t have to.”

The boat is actually a massive sailboat situated along a dock with a few other ridiculously large ships tied to it. Olivier lets it slip that one of them belongs to a very famous couple I have no doubt is Jay-Z and Beyoncé.

But before I have time to marvel over their impressive motorboat, I’m scuttled aboard Olivier’s, which is all teakwood and cream colors, both modern and vintage. I don’t know a damn thing about boats and have been on only one, during a field trip in tenth grade, but I know this thing is top of the line.

With Philippe the chef cooking up a storm in the galley kitchen, Olivier and I settle into the plush seats by the cockpit, with Marcel at the wheel of the boat as it pulls away from the dock and heads out to sea.

“Is there anything you can’t do, Marcel?” I ask the concierge teasingly.

“Absolument pas,” Marcel says with a wink.

“But seriously,” I say, turning to Olivier, who has his arm along the back of the seat. With his tux and the sunset skies and the dark waves glittering with gold behind him, he looks every inch a French James Bond. “I didn’t peg you for a sailor. Don’t you need to have a lot of time on your hands for that?”

He gives me a lopsided grin. “You do. And Marcel is a far more capable sailor than I am. This boat actually belongs to my brother, Renaud.”

“Where is Renaud now? He doesn’t mind you using his boat?”

“So many questions.” He reaches out and gives a few strands of my hair a light tug.

I swallow. “I like to know things. I’d like to know you. The real you, not the one I read about.”

His gaze drops to my lips, and for a heady moment, my world starts to spin, and I think, This is it, he’s finally going to kiss me.

But the spell is broken when he looks away at the darkening horizon, clouds spreading through the sky like an inky bruise. My heart is beating loud in my chest, waiting, waiting . . .