Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(6)

When I wake up, we’re in the parking lot of a hospital, and Sexy Rich French Guy is gently shaking me.

“We’re here,” he says softly, peering at me. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”

I’m so groggy I can barely speak, and the longer I stay awake, the worse the pain gets. “No, my shoulder took most of it,” I manage to say.

“I just want to make sure you don’t have a concussion,” he says. “You were passed out cold for the last ten minutes.”

“It’s been a hell of a night,” I tell him, trying to smile.

He doesn’t smile in return. “It’s not over yet,” he says. Then he opens his door. “I’m going to get you a wheelchair. Stay here.”

Before I can tell him both not to worry and that I won’t be going anywhere, he’s jogging over to the doors to the emergency ward.

I realize I don’t even know this guy’s name.





CHAPTER TWO

OLIVIER

“Can I get a wheelchair?” I ask the sullen woman behind the counter in the emergency room.

She raises her brow slowly. You’d think she’d be used to dealing with emergencies. “What do you need it for?”

What do you think?

“I have a woman in my car; she was attacked tonight. I think her ankle might be sprained or broken,” I tell her.

The woman’s expression doesn’t change. “Attacked?”

“Yes,” I say impatiently, tapping my fingers on the counter.

“By who?”

“I don’t know. A man.”

“You’ll have to call the police.”

“I will,” I tell her, “as soon as you admit this girl, and for that I need a damn wheelchair.”

The other brow arches. She’s obviously not used to being spoken to this way, but I’m not used to being treated this way either.

“What is her name?” she asks after a beat, looking down at her sheet.

Fuck. I have no idea.

“Jane,” I say quickly, thinking of the most American name I know. “Jane Doe. Now can I have a wheelchair, or do I have to steal one?”

She narrows her eyes at me, and they momentarily flit over my shoulder. I turn around to see a couple of wheelchairs folded and stacked against the wall.

“Thank you,” I tell her and run over to grab one before she can protest.

This certainly wasn’t how I thought I’d be spending my Friday night.

Then again, my night wasn’t shaping up like I’d planned to begin with.

First, there was my date, Celine, whom I knew was using me. They all do; I’ve known this since I was a teenager, and models are the absolute worst about it. Doesn’t seem to keep me from fucking them, but it does get tiresome after a while when I have to pretend that I didn’t see it coming.

In this case, today I was supposed to pick up Celine from her train arriving from Paris, then take her out to dinner in Cannes at one of the newest, hippest restaurants. Which, of course, is pointless, because I know models, and I know how much they only pretend to eat. Instead of taking one out to dinner, it’s best to save your money and let them have limitless champagne and coke in your hotel room, along with a couple of olives to kill their hunger pangs before you screw them senseless.

Not that wasting money matters much for me, but it’s still the principle of the matter. And in this case, not only was I taking Celine out for a meal that she’d only pretend to eat, I was unknowingly being used as a pawn in some jealousy scheme. Turns out the owner of the new restaurant, a hotshot chef fresh from London, is Celine’s ex-boyfriend.

Suffice to say, things got a bit awkward, and I’m fairly certain that there was spit in my leek-and-scallop soup. I managed to get out of there without getting into a fistfight—which is what I’m pretty sure Celine was gunning for so that she could be front-page news with these two men brawling over her—and dropped her right back at the train station. There was no way I was taking her back to my hotel.

So I was a bit rattled and disoriented after that, especially since Celine started crying big, fat crocodile tears just as I put her on the train, and I ended up driving down the wrong street.

Or maybe it was the right street. I’ve given up on fate at this point in my life, but I shudder to think what could have happened to this girl had I not been driving through at that time.

I glance down at my bleeding knuckles as I push the wheelchair toward my car. I guess I did get my fistfight after all.

I wheel it over to her side and open the door. The American girl has fallen asleep again, which makes me a bit nervous for her. I’ll make a point to mention it to the doctor.

I clear my throat. “Lapin?” I ask, leaning over to gently shake her awake.

“That’s the second time you’ve called me that,” she says, her voice groggy, and I breathe a sigh of relief. She gingerly opens her eyes and looks at me.

Her eyes do the same thing to me as they did when I first looked into them on that darkened street. I’ve never seen such big, round, and impossibly blue eyes before. They’re mesmerizing, giving her an otherworldly quality, like she’s straight from a fable my mother used to read to me.

The way they look at you, full of wild innocence, makes something in my chest catch. And combined with her round face, full cheeks, and, well, large, somewhat pointy ears, she reminds me of a pet rabbit I had growing up, before the cook slaughtered it for dinner one evening. I loved that damn bunny.