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Luca still had a hard time processing the news. Marcel was blond, but with blue eyes—like Luca’s. He had shown a real interest and talent for running the exclusive champagne empire. Yet, his father had left the estate to him. Not Marcel. Did that mean he wanted Luca to run it? That he’d forgiven Luca for his mother’s death?
Something tightened in his chest.
His father had died before Luca had the chance to ask if he’d forgiven him. He’d also died before telling Luca about Marcel. Had he wanted Marcel to inherit and run the Legrand estate?
Luca revved the engine.
He’d never know what his father wanted, but whatever it was, it didn’t change the fact that what Marcel was doing was shitty. He’d almost confided his suspicions to François but decided against it. Since his mother’s death, Luca had always taken care of his affairs himself. This was no different, and if he was right, if Marcel was manufacturing these “incidents”—which only required an anonymous call to a tabloid divulging Luca’s whereabouts, readily available on Google Calendar—then Luca would figure out a way to take care of Marcel himself.
The first step was to take a hiatus from his high-profile life, making sure no one would know where he was. So he’d rented a flat in a quiet part of town through a discreet agency, he’d started growing a beard—which itched like mad—and he’d been driving his Ducati around Paris. No one would suspect Luca Legrand, professional driver, to be on a Ducati, a make driven by an opposing team. He’d even bought himself a new phone with a new number so he wouldn’t be contacted by friends...or tracked by Anika.
Only one problem.
He was bored stiff and had no idea if this hiatus would help with the mess he’d created.
No. The mess Marcel has created.
Grinding his teeth, Luca revved the engine again, released the clutch and sprang forward just as the light changed to green. The thing was, before he’d known who Marcel was, he’d liked him. The man was smart, competent and had seemed like Luca’s only ally when every other employee of the Legrand estate—they aren’t employees, they’re family, his father had always said—had shown him little more than polite but cold deference. Something else his father had always said was that trust takes time. Then there was forgiveness...
Luca took the next corner hard and when he spotted a police car at the other end of the street, he reminded himself to slow down. “You don’t need to break any more fucking laws,” he muttered to himself.
Just to be safe, he turned down a narrow side street—the kind that drove tourists crazy because they went unmarked on tourist maps—and then turned down another, which was narrow and deserted.
No, it wasn’t deserted; there was a motorcycle—a Honda Shadow—parked at the side of the road beside an antique shop. The man astride it glanced Luca’s way, watching him as Luca drove past. At the corner, Luca checked his rearview mirror.
Something was off. He could feel it by the way the man’s helmeted head followed his departure. After Luca turned the corner, he stopped the bike by an empty storefront and parked. Leaving his helmet with the shaded visor on, he walked back to the corner and peered down the street.
The man was in the process of pulling off his helmet, and under that he wore a balaclava. With a final surreptitious glance up and down the street, the man strode into the shop with a crowbar hanging from his fingertips.
Fuck.
It was just his luck.
Luca’s one goal was to avoid trouble and here he’d stumbled across a robbery in the middle of the goddamn day.
* * *
For the first time in two days, Jasmine forgot everything that had happened and wandered with delight through the shop she’d found using Google maps. It was off the beaten track, down some lonely little cobblestone street. And it was full of treasures.
This was not the type of pawnshop she was familiar with from the United States—a seedy place with bars on the windows where a greasy man wearing an undershirt picked his teeth behind an enclosed counter. This was a delightful boutique with beautiful items carefully displayed, everything from lamps and pots to clothing and jewelry.
“This is so...Paris,” she said quietly to herself as she gazed about the tiny space.
There were so many exquisite pieces in the shop to choose from: necklaces, bracelets, earrings. There were also hand-embroidered silk scarves, funky original hats and handbags. There were antiques and what had to be one-of-a-kind items, like the silver oil lamp that reminded her of the stories Auntie Bibi used to whisper at bedtime when she slept over at her cousins as a young girl. Adventures and genies from Arabian Nights. She picked up the lamp, considering. Maybe this lamp was a sign that she should have her own adventure, just like Ash encouraged.
Though, a sex-venture?
Jazz smiled to herself. Crazy.
“Est-ce que je peux vous aider?” the man behind the counter asked.
“I’m sorry,” Jasmine said, making her way toward him, the lamp, a silk scarf and a necklace clutched in her hands. Not that she needed any of the items but the prices were so good and Jazz was a sucker for a good deal. “I don’t speak French. Do you speak English?” She leaned on the display case, her gaze drawn to the gorgeous jewelry inside.
“Yes, a little.”
“Those are so pretty,” she said, pointing to a pair of emerald-drop earrings.
“Would you like to take a look?”
Oh, yes please, she nearly gushed before she remembered her reason for being there. She absently rubbed the polished silver of the lamp and said, “I have a ring I’d like to sell.”
“To sell? May I see?”
She set the lamp down on the counter and reached into her purse. Room key. Wallet. Cell phone. Passport. Hmm...where had she put that ring?
“It’s in here somewhere.” She dug around. Seriously, where the hell was the ring and what would she do if she’d lost it? She was sure Parker had paid about twenty grand for it. Not that she’d looked it up online or anything.
Okay. Maybe she had.
She located the ring at the bottom of her bag and placed it on the counter for the man to inspect, straightening her shoulders as he picked it up and scrutinized it through the lens of a loupe.
“C’est belle,” the man murmured as he checked the ring from all angles.
The bells over the door tinkled but she didn’t bother to look because something inside of her had shifted. An unknown weight lifted from Jasmine’s shoulders, making her feel like a brand-new person. Could she really put her broken engagement behind her and be the woman Ash had described—carefree and adventurous? A woman who lived in the moment and was on the lookout for a sex-venture...
“Mettez-vous par terre!” a deep male voice shouted.
She turned toward the voice but nothing about the man behind her made sense. It was like she’d stumbled upon the set of a movie and her already muddled brain was having a hard time computing why a man would be wearing a ski mask in spring and brandishing a crowbar.
To her bewilderment, he strode forward and smashed the display case she’d been leaning on with one massive blow.
What the...?
“Écoutez-moi!” He shouted right in her face.
So weird. Was she dreaming? Because this whole thing had an otherworldly quality to it and it just got worse when the dude reached into his beat-up jacket, pulled out a gun and pointed it at her.
“Par terre!”
Before Jasmine had time to consider what the man was shouting, he grasped the back of her neck and shoved her to the floor.
Oomph!
That hurt.
But now that she was on the ground, the thief ignored her and she lifted her head to find him swiping handfuls of jewelry and dumping the items into a leather satchel. Her ring was among the things he took.
Something inside of her gut, something hot and heavy and furious, was not about to lie benignly on the floor while some petty criminal robbed this delightful shop.
And her.
After all she’d been through? She deserved that fucking ring. Or, rather, she deserved the money from that fucking ring so she could move on from the disaster that was her life.
With energy she had no idea she possessed, Jasmine sprang to her feet, grabbed the outstretched arm of the thug and clung to it like her life depended on it.
“You fucker!” Jasmine growled, twisting his arm in a move she’d learned in a self-defense class, forcing the man to drop the gun. She grabbed the strap of the satchel, pulling it off his shoulder.
“Salope!” The man swung the crowbar catching the side of her head.
The pain in her temple was so sharp and stinging, that warrior-Jasmine drained out of her system as she curled on the ground, gripping the satchel like a beloved teddy bear, feeling like she might vomit from the pain. What happened next would have confused her at the best of times, but her head was still spinning from being clocked and her body was still pumping with adrenaline, lack of sleep and jet leg...
There was a crash.
Followed by a wet thunk and a man cried out in pain.
A body crumpled heavily half on, half off her.
A hand appeared in front of her face, gesturing for her to take it in order to help her to her feet. “Ça va?”
And then Jasmine was standing on noodle-y legs, gazing into the face of a stranger. The man wore a black leather jacket and a black helmet with the visor raised, revealing a face with a scruffy beard, dark brows and...the clearest, bluest, most amazing eyes she’d ever seen.
And then there were four eyes, then six...
“Mademoiselle?” He snapped his fingers in front of her face.
She shook her head, and then wished she hadn’t as stars appeared, dancing in front of her open eyes. She would have fallen if not for the strong hands gripping her arms, holding her up.
However, there were equally strong hands tugging on the strap of the satchel she was still clutching. The thug on the floor grappled for the bag and two things happened simultaneously. The bag slipped from her hands, spilling the contents on the tile floor just as a black leather boot swished past her line of vision, kicking the thief in the face and knocking him out. The rest happened in slow motion. Rings, earrings and necklaces scattered, jumping and skittering across the polished tile floor like live things freed from captivity. Jasmine caught sight of her ring bouncing along the hard floor, ricocheting off the bottom corner of the counter and landing—plunk—inside the passing boot of the stranger.
Without thinking, Jasmine lunged for the man’s leg, reaching into the top of his boot for her ring, but he shook her off, glaring down at her and speaking harshly—probably cursing—in French. Then the man stilled, his head jerked toward the door and the street and Jasmine became aware of the sound of sirens approaching.
“Merde!”
With one powerful shake, the six-eyed man dislodged Jasmine from his leg and strode toward the door.
“Wait!” Jasmine scrambled to her feet and hurried out after the stranger in black. Once on the street, she saw him jogging toward a corner and Jasmine took off after him, calling, “Please, wait! You’ve got my ring!”
However, running in high heels was nearly impossible on the cobblestone street, so Jasmine paused to pull off her sling-back sandals and hurl them away—she’d grab them later. Then she ran the rest of the distance in bare feet. Her head pounded like a drummer was between her ears, playing a solo at a heavy metal concert.
When she got to the corner, her legs wobbled and she could barely see straight.
There.
The man with her ring was straddling a motorcycle, the engine roaring to life as she stumbled toward him, stepping onto the road, holding her hand up to stop him.
Her brain must not have been functioning, because just as the man revved the engine of the motorcycle the world went sideways, and where once there was a street, a man and a motorcycle, there were now only quaint French rooftops, an impossibly blue sky and a bird flying at an odd angle.
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER THREE (#uf9f3b292-06e5-5801-bfea-fbe4bd150e31)
JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.
Why couldn’t Luca mind his own damn business? Not only had he found himself caught in a robbery, the police were only a block away and now a foreign woman—based on the fact she was shouting in English—had fainted right in front of his bike.
“Non. Non, non, non.” Luca put the bike in neutral, jumped off and bent down beside the crumpled woman. He shook her shoulder. “Reveillez-vous.”Wake up.
The woman moaned, her lids fluttered and then she passed out again. He could see the beginnings of a bruise blossoming along her hairline.
“La vache!” The words scraped the back of his throat. Glancing up and down the street, Luca weighed his options. What if he propped her unconscious body in a doorway...
A quick survey of the street revealed that the two closest doors were covered in paper with signs in the window advertising space for rent.
Not good.
The sirens were loud and close.
Dammit. He couldn’t leave her. And he definitely couldn’t get caught at the scene of a crime. He’d wind up in another media shitstorm.
Luca fit his hands beneath the woman’s arms and lifted her to her feet. She briefly came to, giving him just enough time to instruct her to straddle the bike. However, once she was astride, she slumped forward.
The sound of more sirens approaching from another direction got Luca’s pulse racing. He scooted the woman’s body forward on the seat—God, she wasn’t very big, was she?—and then straddled the seat behind her. He shifted into first and then wrapped his left arm around the woman’s waist to hold her steady while he slowly drove the seven blocks, down side streets and alleys, to his rented flat. The ride only took ten minutes and would have been faster if he could have shifted into a higher gear, but that was impossible to do while holding on to an unconscious woman.
The fact she was still out cold was not a good sign.
She better not die.
What the hell was he doing, bringing an unconscious foreigner back to his flat? He must be out of his mind. Luca could see the headlines smeared across the papers and news channels: Dead Foreigner Found in Luca Legrand’s Secret Residence. Foul Play Suspected.
But what choice did he have?
Luca parked his motorcycle in the underground lot, carefully scooped the woman up into his arms and carried her to the elevator that would take him to the fifth floor.
Once inside the flat, he laid her on his bed, got an ice pack out of the freezer—one he kept for when his leg ached—wrapped it in a towel and placed it on the woman’s temple.
“Ne me quitte pas,” he whispered, brushing hair off her forehead and temple so he could press the cold pack against her wound.
“What does that mean?” she asked softly, her eyes still closed.
Oh, thank God. “I’m asking you not to die. Please.”
A small smile touched her lips and she covered his hand with hers. Her touch was light and cool, and Luca felt a stirring of tenderness toward this complete stranger.
“Okay,” she murmured. “I’ll try.”
Then she passed out again.
Rubbing his temples, he gazed down at the slight woman who took up less than a third of his bed. She was showing all of the signs of a concussion; he’d seen it too many times to count on the racing circuit, and although he couldn’t risk taking her to a hospital or calling an ambulance, he had to get her medical help.
