Six(30)

Probably because Six was really good at sex. The only good thing in my complicated existence.

The two men exited the elevator first, giving me another passing glance, which I had to admit excited me a little bit.

“Why dress me up in the first place?” I asked as we slid into the car we picked up upon arrival, that I wasn’t sure I wanted to know where it came from. It fell into his more-money-than-common-sense spending. “You could have just kept me locked up, as usual.”

“Just keep your mouth shut when we get there.”

I rolled my eyes. The man couldn’t answer most questions, and I never knew what he was thinking about. With the exception of sex. He had so many tells for that.

My gaze gobbled up each and every building and monument we passed. Paris was beautiful and historic, and it made me wish even more that I’d traveled while in college.

We stopped in front of a rather large building with columns, the door up a flight of stone steps. Those were going to be a bitch in the heels I was wearing.

“Play your part well, and I’ll let you come multiple times,” he said as he held out his arm for me to grab on to.

I nodded and wrapped my arm in his, my heart hammering in my chest. By force of will, I tilted my head back and forced my muscles to relax and tightened back up in what I hoped resembled a confident posture.

My first step ended in a bit of a wobble, due to nerves or the uneven surface. I wasn’t quite sure which, but with luck, Six’s arm, and good balance, I remained standing.

“Don’t f*cking fall. I’m not picking your ass up,” he said between clenched teeth.

Chivalry dead? I was beginning to think so. Then again, he probably exhibited manners only when the situation warranted them.

We stepped through two huge, thick wooden doors that had to be at least twelve feet high. Elegant crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the floors were made of marble with intricate inlaid patterns. Enormous antique mirrors with golden frames hung from the twenty-foot-high walls. Elaborate décor and accessories enhanced the air of aristocracy of the large lobby.

It was a stunning tribute to the craftsmen who created them.

A man stepped up to us about twenty feet in. He appeared to be an employee and not the caliber of clientele the establishment catered to. With a wary smile, he spoke what I was pretty sure was a welcoming greeting and not a Pretty Woman you-can’t-shop-here attitude.

While I may have been a perfect Vivian replica in this case, Six was no Edward, though he could play the part well. Vivian got paid, not killed, and ended up with her prince, while I was going to end up six feet under.

Six responded in words I didn’t understand. Gibberish to my ears. I took a few years of Spanish in school, a language I’d long forgotten, minus how to order a good margarita at my local Mexican restaurant.

Welcome to France!

The man bowed and stepped back, opening his arm out, gesturing for us to proceed. Whatever he said must have been pretty good, because the wary smile was dropped in favor of a more reverent attitude.

My stilettos clicked against the marble floors, hips sashaying as I played my part of arm candy. Amazing how I always thought of myself as pretty average, maybe a bit above, but linked with Six, I felt like the sexiest woman in the room.

Maybe it was the blonde hair or the makeup. Could’ve been the two-thousand-dollar dress I was wearing, or thousand-dollar Christian Louboutin peep-toes, or even the nine-hundred-dollar clutch. Whatever it was, I didn’t feel like myself.

I wasn’t Paisley anymore—I really was Lacey.

With my head high, I acted as well as any Oscar-winning actress.

Pretentious as anyone else in the room. Elite and selfish, caring for nothing but the man on my arm and what he could buy me.

Another suit wearing man stepped in front of us, cutting off the direction we were headed. “Excuse me, sir, can I help you?”

English!

Six arched a brow at him. “The only assistance I require is for you to remove yourself from my path and point me toward Samuel Winston.”

Damn, he could play just about any part. And the Oscar goes to Six.

“May I ask your name?”

“Sean Collins.”

He disappeared through a set of elaborately carved wooden doors and reappeared almost immediately, ushering us forth. As we stepped into the room, I was once again struck with awe. Tall ceilings, massive fireplace, lush décor, and occupied by only two people.

A snotty looking blonde sat on a chair while a Fifty Shades of Grey like man stood in front of the fireplace.

“Mr. Winston, a Mr. Collins for you.”

“Thank you, William.” His voice was deep, and held an air of authority.

The only thing that ran through my head was the conversation Six and I had on the first day we met.

Cocky. Mr. Christian Grey wannabe was cocky, arrogant, and probably an * as well.

When he turned, I almost stepped back. Black hair, seemingly glowing green eyes, and an aura of power. With the fire roaring behind him, he resembled the devil.

As soon as the door closed, the blonde stood. It was amazing the similarity of presence they projected. When I turned to look at Six, I pulled back. The air around him had changed as well, almost matching theirs, only his lacked the cocky edge.

There was almost a competition going on, and it was blatantly obvious who was the oddball—me.