Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(9)

I laugh at her phrase and fight to keep my eyes glued to the road and not her knockers, which are pretty fucking fantastic from what I’ve seen.

“I guess it comes with the territory of backpacking alone,” I offer.

She shrugs and lets out a heavy sigh before leaning her head back on the seat rest. “Yeah. I mean, they did it when I was with Tom, too, but of course he didn’t fucking care. Now I know why.”

Again, heat in my chest. “Who is Tom?”

What other guy’s name is she going to mention?

“Tom is my . . . my ex-boyfriend,” she says. “Fucking asshole supreme.”

At least he’s her ex. “What happened?”

“Well, to give you the bullet-points version, he and I were together, we planned this trip together, we started on this trip together, and then, a month into it, we broke up. He’s back at home. I’m here.”

“You know you’re going to have to give me more than that. What happened?”

“Ugh,” she says in a moan. “Let’s just say I got screwed over. What does it matter, anyhow? We’re done.”

“How much longer do you have left in Europe?”

“I was planning on spending my last three weeks in Spain. I fly out of Madrid. Hoping I can survive grazing on tapas all day, but who the fuck knows if I’ll even make it out of my hostel since I can barely walk.”

I feel bad for her. Not just going through a breakup but having to deal with her injuries as well. “You can’t get an early flight back?”

“No. There’s no changing it. My flight was bargain-basement bin. I’m probably seated on the toilet.”

“You can book another flight back.”

“With what money?”

She stares at me, and I know she’s almost daring me to say, “My money.” But I have a feeling she’s going to see that as charity and get defensive again. “Don’t you have parents or someone back at home to help you out? This is kind of an emergency.”

With a shake of her head, she snorts again. “Parents? No, my dad left when I was young. My mom is broke as fuck. I help her out when I can; it’s not the other way around.”

We drive in silence for a few moments as I pull onto the motorway, heading south. “Your foot will heal fast. The doctor said it was a very light sprain. You’ll be walking in no time.”

“Mm-hmm,” she says, and seems to be dozing off. Suddenly she lifts her head. “Where are you taking me?”

“To a hotel. As I said.”

“Where? We’re leaving Nice. Right? That was Nice back there, wasn’t it?”

“The hotel isn’t in Nice.”

She tenses up and stares at me with wide eyes. “Where is it?”

“Relax,” I tell her.

“Are you abducting me?”

I give her a steady look. “S’il vous pla?t.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know you. I know your name is Olivier, and you’ve done nothing but be nice and gracious so far, but being taken out of Nice wasn’t part of this whole charity mission.”

“It’s not a charity mission,” I say patiently, even though she’s trying mine. “I’m taking you to Antibes, to the hotel I’m staying at. I can get you a room. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”

She grows quiet after that, and I think she may have fallen asleep. I’m starting to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. It’s already two o’clock in the morning, and I have a feeling those drugs are going to hit her really hard, really soon.

That said, she might be easier to handle.

“Why are you doing all of this?” she eventually says, her words slurring slightly. “What do you want from me?”

I can’t help but bristle at that. This girl seems to know how to get me where it stings.

“I can’t just be a concerned citizen, no? A nice guy?”

“There are no nice guys,” she says. Her voice is low, and she stares out the window at the darkness. She’s definitely been fucked over.

“Maybe you’ve been looking in the wrong place.”

“I’m not looking for anyone,” she says sharply. “And anyway, there are no nice guys with money.”

I don’t know how to argue with that. I think of Pascal and Blaise, my cousins. I think of Uncle Gautier. They’re worse than Sadie can probably even imagine. I’ve spent most of my life trying to take after my father, trying to differentiate myself from them. I’ve tried to be seen as the nice guy, but it’s a hard fucking line to walk, and it’s a dirty world.

“You’ll just have to trust me,” I tell her after a moment. “That’s all you can do. If you really want me to turn this car around and take you back to Nice, to that hostel, so some Ryan guy can take care of you, then I will.”

She seems to shut up at that.

“If it helps,” I go on, “the police have seen us together. Believe me, if anything were to happen to you—and it won’t, but you do seem to be terribly suspicious—they would look for me first. They know who I am.”

“And who are you?”

“Olivier Dumont,” I say simply. “And I’m trying to be a fucking nice guy, d’accord?”