Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(29)

Then again, everyone on that side of the family is like that.

“What are you doing here?” I ask curtly, unable to fake any formalities.

Pascal feigns being shocked. “Why do you think I’m here? You know, Olivier—you’re not the only one who gets to jet off on vacations.”

“I’m not on vacation,” I tell him.

A small, knowing smile tugs at his lips, and he shakes his head. “No. No, of course not. You never take vacations. Still, I can’t help but wonder, since you should have been back in Paris the other day.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You have nothing else to do but keep track of where I am?”

His mouth spreads into his easy, lopsided grin. “Oh, we have other people do those things for me, but sometimes I prefer to watch firsthand. Always more fun that way. Call it a hobby. But listen, now that I’ve seen you in the flesh, I can tell them to back off.”

“What do you want?” I ask tersely.

“Nothing. Well, other than being concerned about your whereabouts.”

“My whereabouts are none of your concern.”

The corner of his lip twitches. “Hmm. Yes, but of course they are. You’ve been pretending for the last ten years, Olivier. Pretending that time isn’t running out for you, that you don’t have to make a decision. But you do. Very soon. And when you run off like this at the last minute, you can’t blame me or my father for thinking you’re trying to get out of it.”

I give him a steady look, refusing to be intimidated, even though the mention of the contract and the deadline makes my heart do double beats. “I didn’t run off anywhere. This is my hotel.”

“So it is. A great excuse. You know, it made me think maybe I should take a break from the business too. There is a lot on our plates with the upcoming season. My father still thinks this should be the time, the year, we announce our emergence into e-commerce. Join the rest of the fucking world. You know.”

“That’s nice,” I tell him. “Make sure to bring that up with him at the next Dumont meeting.”

I move to go past him, but Pascal reaches out and pushes my shoulder back with the heel of his hand. “You’re dismissing me so soon?”

I glance down at his hand and think about all the ways I could so easily break it. My eyes go across the room to the receptionist, who is both trying to check a couple in and glancing at me apologetically. She knows she is supposed to call me if anyone in my family ever shows up while I am here.

“Don’t be mad at her,” Pascal says softly, looking over at the same girl. “I told her to keep me a secret. I can be very persuasive, you know.”

I don’t even want to know what transpired there. All I know is that poor girl is now without a job. I can’t employ staff who aren’t loyal to me and would rather fuck or flirt with my cousin. Ever since my uncle made him the face of the Dumont “Red” cologne, and the ads were plastered all over the world, Pascal has become even more famous than he was before.

“I have a meeting to get to,” I tell him.

“Oh, so you are doing business here,” he says, removing his hand.

“Yes.”

“I thought maybe you were busy fucking some sweet little American thing.”

Everything inside me tenses like I’ve been shot with a dart.

American?

I breathe in sharply through my nose, trying to measure my next words. I can’t give this man any extra ammunition. “And you thought I had a type?”

Pascal stares at me for a long moment and then lets out a laugh. “A type? You? Well, I suppose all this time here I thought you preferred them French, easy, and . . . married.”

And there it is. Another passive reminder that Pascal knows.

That he has to know.

That ten years ago I had an affair with his then wife, Marine.

That ten years ago I made the biggest mistake of my life.

A mistake that will haunt me until the day I die.

Because of the promises I signed in my blood to my uncle.

Because of the promises I’ve had to live with and lie about and pretend don’t bother me.

I manage a sour smile. “You obviously know I have no need to be picky.”

“But that’s where you’re lying, cousin,” he says, slapping his hand on my back. “You have a reputation, just as I do. Perhaps not as bad as mine, since you’re the eternal bachelor, and I, well, I was married once. Remember that? Remember when I was married?”

Fuck.

I swallow thickly and meet his eyes, refusing to back down, refusing to let him see any shame in me. “I remember.”

“Good,” he says, smiling. “My father does too. So far, we’re the only ones. I’m not sure how much longer that will last.”

That’s a loaded sentence.

I keep staring at him. “Is that all?”

His eyes narrow momentarily. He hates being dismissed, especially by me.

“Do you remember when we were young, just stupid little children, spending that one summer by the beach in Tarragona? Our fathers were still in Paris, doing business, working all the livelong day, so it was just us, just the children and our mothers, wandering about without a care in the world?”

I have no idea why he’s bringing this up, and the memory itself is very vague. Every summer was pretty much as he described, albeit in different locations across Europe.