Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(50)

He giggles maniacally at our encounter, reaches over to pinch my ass, and then runs up the stairs. I don’t even have time to yell at him or react, and, for all I know, he could go and switch into another mask, and I’ll never know who he is.

Yup. Having people stare at you without your even knowing is one thing; overt sexual harassment is another.

“Ugh,” I say to myself, smoothing down the back of my dress and feeling dirty. I’ll be sure to tell Olivier when I get a moment to talk to him, because I don’t stand for that shit, and I don’t care if it’s going to be a problem. That’s probably the vibe I’m picking up on at this party. Like a Marie Antoinette version of The Purge, where everyone is free to flirt and giggle and grab and leer and get stupidly drunk, all while remaining coy and supposedly anonymous.

Outside it’s only a little bit cooler, and while the band is playing and people are dancing on the terrace and on the grass, there’s a swan that seems to take an interest in me, and not in a good way. With my feather mask and white dress, I might look like one of his relatives.

I start going back inside, but before I reach the doors, I see Ludovic, Gautier, and Pascal all step out of a room that Ludovic locks behind them. I hang back and wait, and Gautier and Ludovic then move past the row of armored knights toward the stairs, but Pascal turns toward the doors.

Toward the outside.

Toward me.

I gasp internally and then quickly spin around so that he doesn’t see me.

Which, unfortunately, leaves me nearly face-to-face with that swan.

It opens its mouth and hisses.

I open my mouth and hiss right back.

For a moment the swan seems stunned, and I think perhaps it actually worked. If he thinks I’m a swan, maybe he thinks I’ve said fuck you right back in swan language.

Then he waddles toward me and honks lightly.

“Don’t worry—his honk is worse than his bite,” a smooth voice says from behind me, and suddenly Pascal comes and stands right between me and the swan, his back to me. He mutters something to the swan in French and makes a sudden movement. That sends the swan pivoting around, flapping his wings, and waddling away.

I’m staring at just Pascal’s back, and already it’s familiar to me.

Do I know you? I want to say. How could I?

I don’t say anything at all.

Pascal turns around and grins at me. “But, of course, his bite is pretty fucking bad.”

I blink at him, trying to remember what to say and do. It’s all on me.

“You speak English, don’t you?” he asks me.

I nod slowly. “I do. How did you know that?”

“I heard you talking to some of the guests. Your accent stands out, like a siren call among a sea of sharks.”

Odd analogy. And yet it reminds me so much of Olivier.

“You must be Pascal Dumont,” I tell him, straightening my shoulders and raising my head, forcing myself to be someone else.

He tilts his head and runs his hand slowly over his chin.

That chin.

If I let myself think too much about it, I could swear it was Pascal following me on the streets the other day. But I don’t want to think about it because then I’m going to fucking panic.

“You know who I am,” he muses, and even beneath the mask I can feel this cold intensity in his eyes, like I matter to him a lot more than he lets on, but only in the way a mouse matters to a cat.

“Of course. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

His eyes narrow beneath the mask, just a bit. I can’t tell what color they are—it’s too dark—and the result is a bit unnerving. “But if you know who I am, I can’t say I know who you are.”

“Sadie Reynolds,” I tell him, giving a faux bow. I know better than to make up a name for myself—besides, it says Sadie on the envelope. If he or anyone else wants to look me up online, they won’t find much on me.

“And what brings you to my party, Sadie Reynolds from Seattle?”

I freeze. What did he just say?

I try to smile, to act breezy. “How did you know I was from Seattle?”

“I can tell. I’m very good at accents. Comes with the business,” he says. “You know, we have an account with Nordstrom. It was the first American store to carry Dumont handbags.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Okay. I want to get out of this conversation now. I look around, trying to see if maybe there’s a waiter with a drink I could get or someone I know. I’ll even settle for the guy with three eyes.

“Planning your escape?” Pascal says, his voice strangely soft. He takes a step toward me. The corner of his mouth quirks into a crooked smile. “Am I making you nervous?”

I laugh. Nervously. “Nervous? No. I was looking for something to drink. It’s so hot outside.”

“It is,” he says with a sigh, rocking back on his heels slightly. “Though I do have that effect on women.”

“Making them nervous?” I eye him quickly before looking again for something, anything.

“Making them hot.”

Now I’m turning to face him, brows raised. “Only a small man would take credit for the weather.”

I know I’m playing with fire here, and after everything Olivier said to me, everything he made me promise, I know I need to head inside, find some excuse. The last thing I should be doing is firing insults at Pascal.