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  I take a table in the middle, sip my macchiato and wait, tapping one foot. If my appointment doesn’t arrive in the next two minutes, I’m leaving.

  A brown-eyed brunette in a red dress comes over, holding a cup of iced tea. She’s pretty, with an hourglass body, extra-large tits and long, toned legs. If I didn’t have an appointment with this Covey guy, I might consider flirting with her, because I definitely need a distraction after the forty-five minutes with Kristen. But work comes first.

  “Antoine Boucher?” the woman says, her voice as perky as her tits.

  “That’s me,” I say, tilting my head to look at her.

  “Hi! I’m Remington. You can call me Remi.” She holds out a hand, palm down.

  What the fuck? I grasp the hand like a canine paw, lift it slightly and let go.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says, breathlessly, as she takes a seat across from me.

  “Ah,” I say, being as noncommittal as possible.

  The woman doesn’t match the résumé I was given. Not that it came with pictures, but it made it sound like Remington Covey was the type of man—woman—who crushed enemies’ skulls before breakfast to work up an appetite. Remi, however, has cotton-candy-soft hands, long, immaculately manicured nails and a good amount of muscle tone that she undoubtedly earned from aerobics and body-sculpt classes.

  “So. What are you really interested in?” I say, getting to the point.

  “First, I just want you to know you have the hottest British accent. Your mom didn’t say.” She gives me a faux-pout over the horrible omission.

  I merely smile. I only use the accent because it gets me more chicks. I didn’t spend enough of my childhood in London to speak real British English.

  She crosses her legs. “You don’t seem like the type who appreciates games, so I won’t play any.” She leans forward. The front of her dress gapes, showing me her pointed nipples in a see-through bra. They aren’t as good as Kristen’s. “I want to have sex with you and have your baby.”

  I spit my macchiato. Thanks to my superior reflexes, I catch the brown liquid on a paper napkin rather than my shirt.

  Remi isn’t finished. “We should marry somewhere in between.”

  “Before or after the baby?” I ask, just to see what’s going to come out of this crazy woman’s mouth next.

  “Definitely before the second trimester. I want to look good in the photos,” she says seriously.

  “How does all this relate to working for Shaw Construction?”

  “It doesn’t. But Chantelle said you’d understand.”

  You’ve got to be kidding me. “Tell her she’s wrong.” I stand up and toss the wet napkin in Remi’s face.

  Jesus. Job-seeking friend, my ass. This is another of my parents’ dramas, in which Maman wants me to costar. No way.

  “Wait!” Remi stands, reaching out.

  “Don’t even think about it unless you want this coffee in your face next.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I absolutely would.” For some weird reason, women think I’m a gentleman. I’m not. “Get the fuck out of here before I change my mind and toss it anyway.”

  “Barbarian.” Remi huffs, then starts to stalk away.

  “Wait!”

  I freeze at the familiar voice, which Remi fortunately ignores, then turn toward the booth. The lone customer sitting there jumps to her feet, and yup. It’s my mom. Chantelle Boucher in the flesh.

  We look a lot alike. The black hair and green eyes, the same thin blade of a nose and full lips. Mamy often said I look just like Maman, which is fortunate, because my dad isn’t the best looking guy. What he gave me is the body—the height, the breadth of shoulder and the strength.

  What Maman has, other than her face, is the kind of figure a woman thirty years her junior would envy. And she makes sure to show it off by wearing tight dresses and high heels.

  “Remi, wait!” Maman says, but it’s too late. Remi’s already almost at the door.

  Maman walks over and sighs theatrically. “Antoine, how could you,” she says in flawless English. She spent the first twelve years of her life in New York City, before her parents moved back home to Paris, and it shows in her speech.

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “She was here to help,” she says, completely ignoring my annoyance.

  “By offering to have sex with me, then have my baby…while somewhere along the line having us get married? I don’t see how any of that helps me.”

  “Remi is just your type. Look at her.” She gestures at the door. Sadly, Remi’s already gone. She did look good.

  “Maman, I don’t mind the sex. Just the rest of it.”

  “Nonsense! You have to have the rest,” she says. “I’ve been trying to get you to do the right thing, but you won’t listen.”

  The right thing. Code for whatever it takes to get your grandfather’s money. “I didn’t listen because I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Yes, you’ve been avoiding my calls. But we’re here now. Let’s sit down and I’ll explain the situation to you. Surely you can spare me a few minutes,” she says, taking a seat.

  I grimace, but there’s no way I can avoid her now. I sit down ungraciously and suck down my iced coffee. This isn’t too terrible a theater, considering, with relatively few people around to witness the drama. The workers are mostly minding their own business.

  Maman starts, “I was saying…I had no choice. If you’d just answered my calls, I wouldn’t have gone this far.”

  Yeah. Sure.

  “You can be so obtuse and stubborn, but this isn’t the time. I’ll be damned if Nicole is going to get what’s mine.”

  I just wait, resigned to listening to Maman’s theatrics for the next five minutes. If I don’t, who knows what she’ll do next? Sending a woman with a man’s name is on the benign side, considering.

  Maman leans back, crossing her arms and studying me critically. She purses her lips, then lets out a dramatic sigh. “Do you know your papy finally made up his mind about how he’s going to divide his fortune between me and Nicole?”

  “No. But I’m sure you’ll tell me everything.”

  “It’s not going to be divided. The whole thing is going to whoever marries and produces an heir first.”

  “Well, you had me first, so you won,” I point out. Maman’s always been so proud of that.

  “It doesn’t count. It’s you or Nicolas who needs to marry and produce an heir.”

  “What?”

  “Apparently what I accomplished doesn’t count because I’m a girl.” Her voice is so bitter, I can almost taste it. “He wants the competition to be between you and Nicolas.”

  I lean back in my seat and shrug. “Then Nicolas has already won. He’s probably impregnated half the population of Europe.” My cousin is a shameless womanizer and proud of it.

  “There are many things you can say about Nicolas, but he isn’t stupid, Antoine. He has managed to avoid impregnating anyone so far.” Maman laughs, the sound overly loud. “You should’ve seen Nicole’s face when she heard what Papy wanted. She looked like she just stepped in a pile of merde de chien while wearing a pair of brand new Louboutin.”

  “I’m sure it was highly amusing. Ha. Ha.”

  “It was. Just what kind of woman names her son after herself?” Maman rolls her eyes. “The worst kind of narcissist, obviously.”

  My tante, Nicole, named her son after herself because she said she was entitled to that much after twenty-six hours and forty-nine minutes of intense labor. Her husband Clément didn’t object, but he’s the type to roll over, panting joyfully, as long as she scratches his belly once in a while.

  Maman continues, “I’m sure Papy decided to have you and Nicolas go for it because he wants you to win.”

  “How do you know?” Papy and I aren’t that close, mainly because I don’t always jump at his command. It got so bad at one point, I refused to spend my summers in Europe if my grandfather didn’t qu
it trying to control me. Nicolas, on the other hand? Every holiday was spent with our grandparents. He didn’t care that he had to give up all of his wishes and needs so long as he could have a luxurious vacation in Europe, paid for by Papy.

  “Nicolas is a mama’s boy. He tries hard to look grown up, but truly, it takes more than seducing every woman one meets. A man must have discretion and taste, both of which you have abundance.”

  Should I point out she thought Remington would be able to seduce me? Nah. Why pop Maman’s bubble? She’ll run out of steam soon enough.

  “Anyway, your darling papy is worth one point two billion, Antoine. That’s a fortune! You can stop cleaning up after Dominic.”

  “He cleans up his own messes.” I keep my voice extra mild.

  She laughs again, the sound too bright and forced. “You’re so funny. You know he doesn’t. Just look at how he got shot.”

  “Exactly. He, not I, got shot trying to save the woman he loves.” And I still feel bad about that because I should’ve been there. “I didn’t have to clean up anything.”

  “You had to coordinate with his lawyers and the police.”

  “He wasn’t conscious. Somebody had to do it.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be you if you get Papy’s money.”

  “I don’t want Papy’s money.”

  “Everyone wants his money.”

  I sigh. This is why I avoid talking with Maman. She can’t imagine how anybody could not want what she wants. “I’m happy where I am. I make plenty, I enjoy my work, I like being in L.A…”

  “You don’t have to move to Greece,” she adds hastily. “Your dear papy Jonas has moved the company to Frankfurt.”

  “Right. Because being in Germany would be better.” Where I have no friends. No job. No purpose.

  “Germans are reliable,” she says, undeterred. “And I’ve already screened several suitable women. All you have to do is meet them—I suggest, mmm, three a day—and decide.”

  “How? Have sex with all of them and see which gets pregnant first?”

  She makes a small moue that says, If that’s what it takes…

  I run a hand over my face. “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “Maman, I’m not interested in the women you pick out.”

  “You haven’t seen the list.”

  “The woman I’m going to marry is going to look like a Victoria’s Secret model and fight like Bruce Lee.”

  “Bruce Lee…wasn’t a lingerie model,” Maman says, bewildered.

  “I know, but that’s my ideal woman. I’m going to stay single until I find someone like that.” Or someone funnier, prettier and sweeter than Kristen.

  “Nonsense! You don’t have to like the girl, Antoine. You can divorce her after you get the money.”

  I finish the last of my coffee and stand up. “Gotta go to work, earn an honest living.”

  “I’m not asking you to quit working! Think of it as an extracurricular—”

  “Adieu, Maman.” I kiss her on the cheek.

  “Is this because of Tessa?”

  The name punches me in the chest, and I inhale sharply.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she continues. “You and Eddie were such good friends, and you adored her. This is your chance to fix everything if you want.”

  Not happening.

  “She’s in town, you know…”

  “Not having this discussion. Ever.” I leave the bistro.

  Chapter Three

  Antoine

  By three, I’m ready to break my phone and move to the middle of Antarctica just to escape any type of mobile reception. Maman has called me twenty-seven times, texted every ten minutes and sent me picture after picture of women she deems ideal for me to marry and impregnate. This is pure harassment. I feel cheap. Worse than cheap. I feel like a stud stallion, some kind of sperm slave…and not in a good way.

  What the hell would I do with a child, and what the hell was Maman thinking, telling me to divorce the woman after I got the money? What would I tell the kid? Sorry, your mom’s no longer needed—and stop crying because neither are you…

  Yeah. That’d go over well.

  I’m doing humanity a great service by not bringing an innocent child into the crazy, mad drama that is my family. One point two billion bucks won’t make me change my philosophy on dating, marriage and children.

  My phone buzzes. Again.

  I walk out of my office, restlessness making it impossible to sit behind my desk. Sarah looks up from her work station.

  I hired her as my assistant specifically because her experience looked great on her résumé…and because she looks great, with mile-long legs, cornflower-blue eyes and long platinum hair. She could’ve been a model if her nose weren’t so narrow and about an eighth of an inch too long. It throws off the overall balance of her face. But still…her body makes up for the minor flaws, and I like it that she’s so hot. When Kristen visited the office four years ago, she stared at Sarah like she was the Antichrist.

  “Hi, Antoine. You okay? Need anything?” Sarah asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say, even though my terse tone says I’m ready to bite somebody’s head off.

  “Okay,” she answers dubiously.

  Don’t bite Sarah’s head off. Don’t bite Sarah’s head off. It isn’t her fault Maman has no concept of boundaries…or sanity.

  My phone buzzes. Argh. I’m going to get arrested for matricide at this rate.

  I pick it up, ready to read Maman the riot act, but a familiar gravelly voice stops me.

  “Something’s come up,” Tolyan says.

  “What?” I say tightly.

  “Check out the main page of the Hollywood Blaze.” His voice is flat and cold. But it’s missing the usual tone of bored superiority, which means he’s unhappy.

  “I didn’t know you read that trash.” The Blaze is one of the sleaziest online tabloid sites in the world. It gets lots of visitors, though, and makes good money from ads, although you gotta wonder about companies that would advertise on a site like that.

  “I don’t…unless it’s something that concerns Lizochka.”

  Oh crap. This can’t be good. Elizabeth and Dominic are on their honeymoon in Bora Bora, ensconced in an over-the-water villa. Sleazy business tactics must be more lucrative than I thought if the Blaze has the money to send people out there.

  “Hold on.” I return to my office, hooking the door shut with my heel, and pull up the site.

  PREDATORY HEIRESS FLASHES A MINOR, the main page screams in lurid hot pink and neon green caps. The subheading says, MONEY GIVES LICENSE TO MOLEST CHILDREN?

  What the fuck?

  My eyes drop to the prominently displayed photo underneath, and I see the familiar redhead, who stands topless in a pool, the “minor” being a teenage boy who’s gaping at her. You can’t really see the kid’s face—it’s been blurred out, but Kristen’s hasn’t. It’s as clear as you can make it—her eyes bright and lips parted—and ditto for the bared tits, although the site did put black squares over her nipples.

  Red drenches my vision.

  “Who the fuck Photoshopped this?” I demand.

  “Not Photoshopped. Taken yesterday at Ming Ming’s pool party,” Tolyan says.

  “How do you know?”

  “Ming Ming. She called.”

  Great. Just freaking great. I want to shake the woman, but I can’t. She’s one of Elizabeth’s closest friends and was the maid of honor at the wedding. Not to mention she’s too politically connected in China. Shaking her teeth loose would cause an international incident.

  “The kid snuck in and managed to yank down Kristen’s bikini top. It was a bandeau, so no straps to get in the way.” Tolyan sounds terribly calm. I know the bastard well enough to know the calm is a lie. If he were there, the kid’s parents would be cradling a corpse.

  I swear. “How the hell did the kid and a photographer sneak in?”

  Tolyan’s silence is full of disapproval. “
Kristen wanted to take security of her own, but apparently couldn’t.”

  Aw, fuck. I run a rough hand over my face. She asked me to come with her, but I turned her down. It felt too much like a date, and I did not need to see her in a skimpy bikini. But I’m a pro. I should’ve been there to keep an eye on things.

  This is all my fault.

  “Somebody needs to pick her up,” Tolyan says.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Even if his tone didn’t imply I should be the one doing the task, I would volunteer. It’s a mess that was created by me not being there.

  “Call if you need backup.”

  “Won’t need any.” I’m dealing with this one myself.

  Chapter Four

  Kristen

  One of my coworkers slowly walks by my cubicle, checking me out. Well, my chest, actually. When I squint and stare, he gives a fake cough and walks faster.

  What’s this all about? He isn’t the only one to react oddly since lunch. I stare down at my outfit. No weird stains or anything on my clothes. I already checked my makeup twice, and it’s fine. I even reapplied my lip gloss, just in case.

  What gives?

  Frowning, I turn my attention back to the design I’ve been studying.

  “Hi, Kristen.” A slightly breathless greeting makes me look up.

  It’s Preston Marsh, an intern. Ropey and lanky, he’s a college senior. As usual, he’s in a white button-down dress shirt with blue pinstripes, khakis and black Chucks. Gel does its best to style his muddy brown hair, but it can’t control the double cowlick, which always stands up, like a mini Mohawk, slightly off to the right side of his head. His wide-set eyes—as gray as rain clouds—are unnaturally bright and enthusiastic behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. They can be startling…even raise the fine hairs on the back of your neck, but intense and eager is how he is all the time. And those are the qualities the company’s owner, Lola No-Last-Name, likes, and he is one of two selected for the year-long rotation program. It’s a pretty cool deal that allows him to see how Lola, Inc. operates. Currently he’s doing the mailroom. It’s not that glamorous, but crappy duties come with the more desirable ones, like watching Lola work. And our internship not only gives him college credit, but there’s a small stipend, too.