BIG: (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance) (21 page)

Just as she was getting almost too nervous to see Marcel in the street for fear that another six million euros’ worth of art would be turned over to her, the postman simply handed her a pale blue envelope and two white ones from Credit Agricole and Buoygues Telecom. She’d never been so relieved to see a phone or credit card bill in her life.

Dumping the bills to one side, she took the blue envelope over to the couch and ripped it open. A thick, embossed cream card tipped out of it.

An invitation to the opening of ‘The
Lost Love Letters of Claude Monet to Camille’, curated by Annalesa Genevieve LaFevre.

The date was for September 2017, and the address...

Her eyes bugged.

Rue Pigalle was where Claude had painted Camille wearing the dress borrowed from Frédéric Bazille.

There was no way Ric would send her the card if he hadn’t already bought the property. A little post-it note fell off the back of the card and landed on her knee.

The Paris art scene is yours. Enjoy! R xx

She snatched up her phone and knowing he couldn’t yet answer—not even caring whether he answered or not—barely waited for the ‘talk’ beep before railing at him.

“Ric, are you insane? I love you
so
much. There are just no words for... for what you’ve sent me. But are there more? Please let me know if more are coming because I’ve got to keep these safe now. For a year. It changes the storage process.” She laughed a little hysterically. “Not sure how I’m going to keep them safe for a year without telling anyone about them. Am I allowed to tell anyone? Hey... don’t worry! I’ll get help—discreetly. I’ll keep you posted. Love you.”

The moment she hung up, she felt like she’d put too much emphasis on her worries in storing the beautiful gifts and left another message babbling that she had no complaints at all—she was just blown away by the scale of his gift. Then she left another message to apologize for all the babbling.

A few days later, she got a letter.

Hey Leesa

Thanks for the many, many messages. I think I’ve lost a little hearing in my right ear. I’m really glad you liked your birthday present. Like I said, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there on the day, but the letters and paintings weren’t the easiest to procure. Want to see the new gallery site? I’d like to come to Paris and check it out with you. Let me know.

R xx

Annalesa laughed and got her stationery block out of a drawer in her living room. If he’d taken to pigeon-post to communicate, so would she. She wrote back, saying she’d love to see the gallery and even the grubbiest parts of Paris with him—so long as she got to see him.

Soon.

“So, this is your ‘garret’ apartment.” Ric put his bag down, wrapping his arm around her waist. “Makes me think of La Bohème.”

“Does it?” She blinked.

“Yeah. Bunch of artists in an attic. Your ‘garret’ is nicer than theirs.”

“Well they
were
starving artists—burning their plays to keep the fire going and all that. I didn’t know you knew your opera?”

“I don’t. Just that one. This lady client had the hots for Dad and suggested opera for a night out. Dad took me with them as lurve-repellant. All I remember of the show is this ill girl who kept falling over, and about fifteen minutes of this guy singing to his damn coat.”

Annalesa giggled as he slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him. His brows waggled. She loved it when he was in a playful mood.

“How thick are the walls?” he murmured into her ear.

“Never thick enough. But no thinner than any of the hotels nearby. Do you have a night-time plan?”

“I’ll come up with one. I wanted to check your place out first before finding some hotel to check ourselves into. Kinda like it here. Let’s stay here tonight and see if we get any complaints from your neighbors in the morning.”

“Don’t make me any enemies...”

He lowered his lips to hers, brushing then parting them with his tongue, gently catching up. She slipped her hands up beneath his long-sleeved tee, her palms revisiting the hard muscles of his back and shoulders as his own scent and the soft background citrus of Armani Code filled her head.

Ric finally straightened up, tucking her head under his chin and holding her hard. “I’ve missed you.”

“Me too. So much.” She kissed the tattoo on his neck. “And I’m very impressed by your ‘mission’. How the hell did you find those artifacts?”

“Can’t say yet.” He winked. “Don’t worry, you’ll have enough information to account for their provenance by the time you’re assembling the props for the gallery. Shall we go see the place?”

“Provenance?” She grinned as he took her hand and headed for the door. She wanted to stay home—preferably in bed, although the sofa or kitchen table weren’t out of the question—now that she had him here. But she followed him anyway. “I think you’ve been learning a fair bit yourself while acquiring those letters.”

“If you want to be a serious buyer, you have to sound like one.”

It was only a few minutes’ walk to Rue Pigalle, which was now largely cluttered by shops, and just about every form of business named ‘Pigalle’. A few doors down from a music store was an ancient, grubby, narrow building with iron bars over every window.

She winced. “How can a listed building be treated like that?”

“It’s not the
actual
studio,” Ric confessed. “But it was the only property close enough and big enough for conversion. C’mon, I’ve got the keys.”

He let her walk around in a daze for a good hour, pulling cobwebs down from corners and building a whole different picture of the inside in her head. She could imagine high ceilings and hanging space in off-white, with duck egg and pistachio accent walls. The deathtrap staircase with its sinister Hornbeam railings could be replaced with a glossy pine spiral of steps with no risers. Ric came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist as she used the corner of her zip-up hoodie to clean a circle on one of the windows facing the road. Light burst through to the floor like a great, fat javelin, warming her skin.

She turned and beamed up at Ric, who chuckled and tucked her hair behind her ears. He kissed her forehead. “I love seeing you so excited.”

“I love
being
this excited!”

There was room enough to display paintings from new, local artists on the top two floors. She couldn’t wait to start working on the place.

Apart from the odd morning or hour in the afternoon spent on the phone, Ric spent time with her the whole week. They had sex everywhere in her apartment. The bed, the shower, the sofa, the kitchen counter. Even against the door to her apartment. They barely made it inside and got it closed before Ric was pressing her against it.

They also did other things.

They visited the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame. She made him drive the Arc de Triomphe roundabout to keep him from continuing to mock her nerves behind the wheel. He kept his cool as an ancient green 2CV cut in front of him with inches to spare, and didn’t say another word about her driving the rest of the time they spent together.

On his last morning before returning to Trondheim, she introduced Ric to David, who lost all capacity for intelligent, reasonable speech within moments of shaking hands with him.

While Ric made coffee, she had to tell herself to not keep sneaking glances at Ric’s tight, high rear-end in his black jeans—like David kept doing.

“You’re her agent, right?” Ric brought coffees over and settled on the sofa beside her, putting an arm over her shoulder in a casual sign of ownership. Not that Ric seemed concerned about it much around David now—you didn’t need good gaydar to figure out David’s sexual orientation. It was pretty obvious when you met him. “I’ve got a guy who wants to see the top apartment in your building. Keep an eye out for an email from a guy named Ryan Kemp.”

“Sure.” David smiled, sipping his coffee and admiring Ric from afar. “Glad to help.”

Annalesa cringed at the name ‘Ryan’, but was relieved to see Ric and David getting along so well. As handsome as David was, most of Ric’s possessive body language had disappeared the moment he’d discovered that David was batting for the other team.

“I can’t promise anything to Mr. Kemp, though.” David cleared his throat. “We’re mostly pitching these flats to students, not people looking for cheap rent.”

“It’s all right.” Ric sipped his coffee. “He’s been prepared for possible disappointment.”

David chatted with them for a little while, then he said he had to go—he had an appointment to look at an option for a second building. They’d filled three apartments within a few days of advertising them.

After he’d gone, Ric put their cups on the coffee table and scooped Annalesa into his lap, pulling her against him.

“When do I get to see you again?” She rested her cheek against his shoulder, trying to enjoy the moment and not think about him having to leave in an hour.

“Potentially, really soon. Depends on what you say.”

“What I say to what?” She peered at him, puzzled. He had to know that she’d re-arrange her schedule from now until the end of time for the opportunity to spend time with him.

“I have to tell you something.” His arms tightened around her, as if he suspected her of wanting to get away. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She stroked his cheek, stubbled with bronze scruff. “The guy I mentioned to David—Ryan Kemp. His former name was Mercer. Ryan Mercer.”

“What the bloody hell?” She would’ve jolted out of his arms if he hadn’t gripped her back in place. “What? Why? What are you up to now, Ryker?”

“Listen,” he said, holding her as she squirmed, trying to get out of his Kung-Fu grip. “Hear me out at least.”

“Why?” she cried, trying to pry his big hands off her. “Why should I? What possible explanation could you have for being in touch with that bastard?”

She couldn’t break free, and gave up, something suddenly occurring to her that made her blood run cold.

She turned her face up to him and asked coolly, “Who are you pretending to be this time?”

“It’s not like that,” Ric insisted. “Please—just listen. I’ll give you veto power. I promise.”

She nodded, restraining her fury. But the moment he relaxed his hold, she got up, pacing the room.

“I cannot
believe
you,” she muttered. “Being with you is like some nightmare version of ‘
This is Your Life
.’ Who are you going to make me face next?”

She held up her hand, shaking her head. “Don’t tell me.”

“Ryan knows it’s me.” Ric picked up his coffee, looking so calm she wanted to strangle him. Annalesa continued to pace. “We sort of reconnected on a chat site for uh... I guess you could say for... rich kids trying to survive in the family business?”

“How charming.” She scowled. “He knows it’s you? You promise?”

“My screen name is R_Ryker. Hardly anonymous.” Ric patted the sofa beside him, but she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. She kept her distance, crossing her arms.

“A couple weeks ago, Ryan sent me a message saying he’d checked me out and wanted to know how I was dealing—he knew I’d come home to take over the business. And I was the boss’ son.”

“Ryan asked you for advice?” She was incredulous.

“He’s having a rough time, I guess. He even took his mom’s former name because he didn’t want everyone to think he’d gotten his job because of his father.”

Annalesa laughed with disbelief. “He tried to befriend you? Did your punch in the face give him amnesia?”

“I asked him that.” Ric shrugged. “He did the whole ‘water under the bridge’ thing, which I believe... up to a point.”

“How?” She couldn’t keep the sharpness out of her voice, given how angry Ric had been about the same guy just weeks ago.

“I think he wants a job in our legal office in L.A. He’s based in Poitiers now, here in France. He’s a junior lawyer stuck at the bottom of his father’s firm, dealing with property law.” Ric chuckled. “When he told his father he didn’t want to be treated differently from anyone else, I don’t think he expected to be taken so literally. Anyway, he’s having a little problem gaining respect, which I think is probably more because he’s a schmuck than because he’s the boss’ kid.”

“And what am I supposed to do with this ‘schmuck’?” Annalesa glared down at Ric, caught between anger at this new stunt, and relief that he’d kept his promise to warn her next time he flung one of their old demons into her face.

“Show him the apartment. Go to dinner. When he makes a move on you—which he will—”