Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(43)

My heart skips a beat—maybe because for a split second I’m imagining that it’s Olivier. There was something about the man that reminded me of him, perhaps his jaw and his sleek movements.

But the guy wasn’t quite as tall, and there’s no good reason why Olivier would be following me down the street. He’d want me to see him, wouldn’t he?

The lights change, and I’m ushered across the street by the crowd.

I take out my phone and look at the directions, trying to read the streets on the map and figure out where I’m walking in real life. I bump into numerous people and almost step in dog shit before I decide to put my phone away and pull up the mental map in my head instead.

It’s then that I get the feeling again.

I stop and turn around, the hairs standing on my arms, my body buzzing with electricity.

There’s a man a few yards away, his back to me as he leans against a wall. He’s got a newsboy cap on his head, covering the thick, dark hair that curls at the nape of his neck. His shoulders are very broad, like a swimmer’s, and I’d put his height at about just under six feet.

I can’t help but stare at him, almost willing him to turn around.

And then, as if he feels my will, he looks up from whatever he’s doing and moves his head just an inch, just enough so that I can see the edge of his sunglasses. Just enough so that he’s glancing at me out of his peripheral vision.

The shoulders under his gray T-shirt are tense.

Waiting.

This spurs something dark inside me, like he’s activated an internal panic button.

I need to get to the museum.

I need to get out of here.

I start walking, faster now, hoping that I’m not about to get myself lost. I make it about a block before I have to stop at the next light.

I glance over my shoulder.

The man is walking toward me, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets, head down and cap pulled forward so that I can only see the bottom of his chin.

It’s a distinctive chin.

That’s why it feels so familiar.

Like I’ve seen it before.

For some reason an image flashes across my mind, a memory.

Having sex with Olivier for the first time.

Thinking I see a man on the balcony watching us.

The chin.

But that can’t be it.

No one had been there.

And with him walking toward me at the rate he is, I don’t want to hang around to see how I know him.

I turn the corner, not wanting to wait for the light anymore, and hurry down another street, walking so fast I’m almost at a jog, my poor ankle screaming at me for the extra impact.

I do this for three blocks, essentially taking two left turns and going around in a circle back toward where I started.

I don’t look back, not until I get to the end, because I know if I do and he’s still there, it means he’s there for me.

But eventually I have to know.

I stop beside an oak tree just outside of a little café with a few tables on the street, people packed in shoulder to shoulder, smoking and watching the day go by. At least I feel safe.

I look back, and for a moment, I think I see him. At the back of a row of Japanese tourists, just the hint of a newsboy cap.

BEEP.

My phone lights up, scaring the shit out of me, and I quickly glance down to see it’s a text from Olivier. I breathe a sigh of relief just seeing his name and look back up, expecting to see that man again, closer.

But there’s no one there at all now, just a pigeon walking back and forth, cooing, following the tourists.

“You’re being paranoid,” I scold myself, wishing that I hadn’t put so much pressure on my ankle. It’s throbbing again. Or maybe it’s the memory of being attacked on the streets of Nice.

I calm my heart rate and take a better look at Olivier’s text:

Meet me tonight at H?tel Rouge Royale. Seven pm. Room 508. Wear something nice . . . or nothing at all.



Though I’m smiling, I’m a little hurt that this means I won’t see Olivier until this evening. But a quick Google search brings up the hotel. It’s swanky as fuck—and, of course, one of Olivier’s.

Well, at least this gives me something to do now.

Screw the Picasso museum. I’m going lingerie shopping.



At six forty-five I enter the opulent lobby of the H?tel Rouge Royale and stride inside like I know where I’m going. I turn a few heads, but, thankfully, it’s not because I look like I don’t belong there.

Olivier made sure of that.

After getting his text, I did go shopping for tonight.

Of course, on my budget all the shopping was to be done at H&M. I couldn’t even afford Zara.

And I could only get a black lace bra and nothing else.

But when I went back to his apartment to get ready, I was in for a major shock.

He’d gone shopping for me.

Laid out on his massive bed was a burgundy balconette bra, all intricate lace and boning, coupled with a matching thong and stockings with garters. Naturally, they were all in my size, as was the pair of black patent kitten-heel Louboutins next to them.

As was the Dumont label black trench coat, folded neatly at the end of the bed with the note on it: Pour ce soir.

For this evening.

He wants me to wear the trench coat and nothing else underneath except for the lingerie.