Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(51)

But Pascal seems to like it. He’s laughing. A genuine laugh too.

“I like you, Sadie,” he says. “I really do. Here I was thinking that maybe you were some stupid American tourist who decided to crash the party uninvited, but now I’m not so sure.”

His words strike fear back into me. I swallow. “I’m not stupid. And I’m not crashing this party. I was invited.”

“By whom?”

I had prepared for this. “By Seraphine. Your cousin.”

“Hmm, and how do you know Seraphine?”

“Dance class.” This lie is a gamble. Not so much that Seraphine could be asked who I am, because she apparently has a bad memory and knows way too many people and would just say she knows me anyway. But that I’m not a dancer. I mean, I had dreams of it when I was young, and I took lessons before my dad left, but if Pascal is about to ask me to do some sort of move, I’m going to fail miserably and probably be thrown out of the party.

His eyes rake over me, up and down, pausing at my legs, my crotch, my chest, then my lips. “I would have pegged you as more of a gymnast. I am sure you are very, very . . . flexible.”

Holy shit. That was definitely innuendo, but it also came from some place of knowing.

Then I’m staring at his mouth, the way he’s licking his lips. The smattering of a mustache, the goatee along his chin. That very familiar chin.

And once again a memory jabs into my head in a red-hot haze.

Sex with Olivier.

A face at the window, eyes in the shadows.

The very same face I’m looking at now.

I can’t even hide the fear, and there’s no question that he can see it.

But I have to pretend. For Olivier’s sake, I have to pretend.

And then I have to get out of here.

No matter what, I have to get Pascal to believe my lie.

“A little too flexible for the likes of you,” I tell him, reaching out and patting him on the chest. “Sorry, pal, I know you get a lot of girls because of your little perfume campaign, but I’m not interested.”

It works. His mouth turns sour, into a pout. “I’m not hitting on you,” he says.

I shrug and wave my hand at him. “Whatever you say.”

Then I walk away.

I even do a little sashay, swinging my hips, like I’m proud to have just turned him down, and I can only hope it’s enough for him to buy it, enough for him to forget his objective. I hope that his injured pride and bruised ego, something he never even put on the line, is enough of a distraction that he’ll forget everything else he thinks he knows about me.

I walk inside the doors, back into the armor room, toward the stairs.

Start going up them.

And the hair on my arms starts to rise.

I glance over my shoulder to see Pascal following me, his mouth set in a grim line. He doesn’t look so easygoing anymore. The cat doesn’t like to lose the mouse.

I get to the top of the stairs and look around as subtly as I can, trying not to look like I’m searching for Olivier.

But I am.

And I spot him, standing by the doors to the music room, talking to his father and some other man I’m pretty sure is Tom Ford. I don’t know my fashion designers, but this man is as recognizable as the pope and handsome as fuck.

Even though the three of them are in conversation, there’s a small crowd around them, giving them space, but also staring at them in adoration. And why not? This is the fashion world, and these men are some of the gods. No wonder everyone is hanging on to their every word and nodding along as if they’re part of the conversation too.

I pause, watching them, hoping I’ll be passed over the same as everyone else.

And yet I feel Pascal stop right behind my shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything, but he’s there. My skin feels like I’ve gotten an electric shock that I can’t quite shake.

I should move, should go somewhere. But I feel powerless from fear. Like I’m waiting for him to do something.

And he’s waiting too. Maybe for me to do something.

Then something does happen.

Something across the room.

There’s a shout and a cry, and for a moment I think that maybe someone got a surprise or dropped something.

But when my eyes travel over, I see Ludovic clutching his chest, face red and strained as he rips off his mask. Another man is leaning over in concern, and then Ludovic’s legs are buckling and Olivier is right behind him, trying to hold him up.

Olivier starts yelling something in French, and people are taking out their phones, and, oh my God, I think his father is having a heart attack.

Another man is behind Ludovic, helping Olivier, but then he slips to the floor, unresponsive now. The crowd is gathering, and I can’t see a thing, but I hear Olivier crying out for his father.

I have to be there for him.

I run toward Olivier, glancing back once at Pascal, thinking he must be following me, going to help his uncle.

But Pascal remains behind.

Standing there, completely still.

His mouth and face are unreadable.

His eyes are dark.

All I know is that they’re following my every move.

I get to the crowd, trying to break through, to get to Olivier, but there are too many people, and they’re panicking. Blaise is in front of them, keeping everyone back, yelling in French. I wish I could understand what the hell was going on, but I know it’s not good.