Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(7)

But I’m not tactless, and I’m not about to tell this poor girl that she reminds me of a beloved pet rabbit. I give her a gentle smile instead and say, “What is your name, then?”

She clears her throat and slowly sits up straighter. “Sadie. What’s yours?”

Sadie. I like that name too. It could be French. So much better than Jane Doe.

“Olivier,” I tell her, holding out my hands and grabbing her by the elbows to haul her out of the car.

She’s quite short, and while she’s got an ample amount of curves on her—a refreshing change from the skin-and-bone runway models—she’s still light. I practically pick her up and carefully place her in the chair.

She’s wincing from all the movement but then covers it up as soon as she catches me looking. “I’m fine, I’m good.”

“I’m sure the doctor will prescribe you a generous amount of drugs to take the pain away,” I tell her, placing my hands on the handles and wheeling her toward the doors. “And if he doesn’t, I know where I can get you some.”

She glances up at me over her shoulder. “Money talks, huh?”

Normally I would be more on guard, but I have the feeling that she has no idea who I really am. How could she? She probably just thinks I’m some rich French man with a new Mercedes who was in the right place at the right time.

“Knowing how to speak French talks,” I tell her. “I’m guessing you don’t know any.”

“I know merci and bonjour and ‘Zut alors! I have missed one,’” she says in a ridiculous accent. “That last part is from The Little Mermaid,” she adds.

“I think you’re a bit young to know that movie.”

“I’m twenty-three,” she says stiffly, “and I grew up watching cartoons. Animation is so much more interesting than reality.”

That explains some.

Once inside the emergency room, I take her back to the nurse at the front desk.

“Is this Jane Doe?” the nurse asks.

“What is she saying?” Sadie asks me with those big eyes. “Jane Doe?”

I give her a quick smile and turn my attention back to the nurse. “Her name is Sadie.”

“Sadie what?”

I glance down at Sadie. “Your surname?”

“Reynolds.”

“Sadie Reynolds,” I inform the nurse.

“And she’s not French?”

“No, she’s American. From Seattle.”

“Does she have insurance? This isn’t free for everyone, you know.”

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll cover it.”

Another brow raise. “And who are you?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I need your credit card.”

“Already? Can’t she see a doctor first?”

“It’s to hold it. It’s the weekend. Many tourists get treated here for God knows what and skip out on the bill.”

I sigh and reach into my pocket, pulling out my wallet.

“Seriously, you don’t have to pay for me,” Sadie says.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, not wanting to explain that it’s not paying that’s the problem here.

I hand the nurse my American Express Black Card, and she stares at it.

“Olivier Dumont?” she repeats.

“That’s me.”

She squints at me, but there’s something changing in her expression. She’s softening, and not in a good way. “You mean the Olivier Dumont? Son of Ludovic Dumont. Of the Dumont family. The handbags.”

Handbags, perfume, haute couture. The Dumont brand is on par with Chanel and Hermès in terms of the billions of dollars in revenue and being intrinsic to French culture and society. Outside of France, no one really knows we’re behind the label, thanks to my father’s wishes to remain as discreet as possible. Inside of France, though, everyone knows who we are.

You buy a Chanel to show the world you’ve made it. You buy a Dumont to show yourself you’ve made it.

At least that’s how my father spins it. It’s worked for him.

“Yes,” I say to her tightly, not wanting her to go on, “that’s me.”

“What’s going on?” Sadie asks, brows furrowed, and I realize she can’t understand a word we’re saying. Thank God. “Is there something wrong?”

Not yet, I think. The thing is, I don’t even have a problem with being recognized. It’s just that, for what it’s worth, I’d rather Sadie keep thinking I’m some random guy, and I want to keep her out of the tabloids. She may be a stranger to me, but she’s been through a lot, and the last thing she needs is to be splashed across newspapers as the mystery girl I “saved.”

As for me, well, this might be the last chance I have to remain as I am in the public eye. The clock is ticking, and I only have three weeks until I need to make a choice. If I choose wrong, the world won’t smile very kindly on me—my uncle will make sure of that.

“Nothing is wrong,” I tell her. Then I open my wallet, take out a wad of hundreds, and slide them toward the nurse. “This,” I say, lowering my voice and leaning in, “is for you to keep quiet about this. I don’t know this girl, I saw her being attacked on the street. She’s a poor American student. She doesn’t deserve to be sold out in any way, nor do I, you understand me?”