Pleasure Games. Daire Denis St.

      The two exchanged pleasantries: where they were from, what they did for a living, whether they’d been to Paris before.

      See? Jasmine consoled herself. Look how calm I am, making nice with a complete stranger as if everything is normal.

      As if her whole world hadn’t been turned upside down a mere forty-eight hours ago and she hadn’t received the worst shock of her life.

      Their drinks arrived, though Jasmine noticed her champagne was a little on the glass-half-empty side.

       Bitch.

      “So, Neil, what’s in Paris? Business or pleasure?” She downed the champagne in three swallows and pressed the call button again.

       Two can play this game, gorgeous French woman.

      “Oh, a comic convention. It’s the biggest one in all of Europe. I’m an illustrator.” He brushed a wisp of hair off his forehead.

      “Interesting.” Jasmine helped herself to another handful of Doritos. “What kind of illustrations?”

      “Do you want to see?”

      “Why not?”

      Neil unfastened his seat belt and retrieved a bag from the overhead compartment, taking out a sketchbook before replacing the bag and sitting down. He flipped open the sketchbook to cartoons of—well, Jasmine was having a hard time focusing, to be honest.

      “The cartoon is called Betty Boobs. It’s a play on Betty Boop. It’s very popular in Europe.”

      Jasmine blinked and squinted. Big-chested, naked cartoon women with a bit of 1930s flare graced the pages of his sketchpad. Getting it on. Porn. The guy drew cartoon porn.

      Cool.

      “Neil, can I ask you something?”

      “Sure.”

      “Do you know what a beard is?” She blinked at him, forcing herself to swallow. That last sip of champagne had burned.

      “You mean like facial hair?” He stroked his chin.

      “No. The other connotation. Do you know it?”

      His bushy brows drew together and then rose up his forehead as if filled with helium. “You mean like a gay guy who—”

      “Yes.” She poked him on the arm. “That’s exactly what I mean. For example, my fiancé—well, ex-fiancé—asked me to marry him, right?”

      “Okay.”

      “Unbeknownst to me, I was his beard.” Reaching over to the little table in front of Neil, Jasmine snagged the can of Bud that he’d barely sampled and guzzled a good third before continuing. “We were supposed to get married yesterday.”

      “Really?” His gaze was on the beer, not her.

      She nodded.

      Wow. She was really doing it. No tears. No temper tantrums. Just reporting the facts as if it had happened to someone else or like she was completely over it. Jasmine was proud of herself.

      She drank deeply again before leaning close and placing her hand on Neil’s sweating forearm. “Yep. I’d have never known, except the night before the wedding, while I was supposed to be staying at a hotel with my friends, I came back to my apartment to pick up something I’d forgotten—something borrowed, or was it something blue?” She tapped her lips. “Hmm. Either way, that part doesn’t matter. What matters is that I caught my fiancé in bed with his best friend. They were booping. Betty Booping, if you will.”

      “Holy shit,” Neil said, still eyeing the beer in her hand. “That must have been a shock.”

      “Oh, yeah.” She pointed to the seat he was occupying. “My new husband was supposed to be sitting where you are sitting right now, but he’s not. Because he’s gay.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “He never loved me.” Jasmine fell back into her seat, staring at the headrest in front of her. “He was only using me. God. And I was so blind because he gave me whatever I wanted.”

      “Hey.” The guy patted her hand where it lay on the shared armrest. “You okay?” He carefully retrieved his nearly empty beer from her slack fingers.

      “A gorgeous penthouse apartment. Fifty-thousand-dollar limit on my credit card.”

      “I can’t imagine...though a limit like that would be nice...”

      “You know what the worst thing was, Neil?” She lolled her head toward him. “After I caught him? He was relieved. Relieved.”

      “It’s hard to live a lie, I guess...”

      “And he said nothing had to change.” She poked him in the sternum, above the orange crumbs. “Can you believe it? He still wanted to marry me!”

      “Umm, you might want to keep it down a bit—”

      “A housekeeper and cook if I wanted...whatever I wanted, really. Bribery.” She shook her head. Her neck was stiff. So was her jaw. Tight, like it was wired shut. “All fucking bribes and distractions,” she said through clenched teeth. “Distractions from what, you might ask?” She turned to face Neil and the rest of the story came out of the deep hole where her heart used to be. “So that my soon-to-be husband could take business trips with Robert. That’s the fucker’s name. Robert Miskey. I’m a fucking cover so Parker can be-boop Robert fucking Miskey.”

      “You’re not allowed to shout on planes these days.” Neil blinked nervously.

      “Am I making a scene, Neil? Am I?”

      “Umm, yes.”

      “Don’t you think finding out that you’re a beard on the eve of your wedding warrants a scene?”

      The man was now frantically pushing the attendant call button.

      Unbuckling her seat belt, Jasmine stood, addressing all the people in first class. “I’m supposed to be married. I’m supposed to be on my way to Europe for my honeymoon. And instead I’m here with Neil, who draws cartoon porn.” She glanced at Neil and said in a marginally more controlled voice, “Sorry, Neil.”

      His smile wavered and his hands said, No problem, crazy lady.

      “Doesn’t that give me the right to make a scene?” She tried to meet the other passengers’ eyes, but there were no takers. “Doesn’t it?”

      Cool fingers circled her upper arm and an accented voice said calmly, “Please return to your seat or we will be forced to make a stop in New York City where you will be escorted off the plane and detained. Do you understand?”

      Jasmine attempted to tug her arm out of the attendant’s grasp but the woman was freakishly strong. Fucking French.

      “I—” When she turned her head she was met with the sincerest smile she’d received from the woman yet.

      “Please,” the woman said soothingly. Her sincerity came as such a surprise that Jasmine’s knees buckled and the woman had to help her back into her seat.

      Jazz caught a whiff of the woman’s perfume—Coco Mademoiselle by Chanel, if she wasn’t mistaken—as the flight attendant leaned over her to secure Jasmine’s seat belt. Tasteful, subtle, perfect.

      “I’m very sorry you’re having a bad day. Please don’t make it any worse.” Before standing, the woman tucked a handful of tissues into Jasmine’s fist and, moving close to her ear, whispered, “Whoever this man is who hurt you? He did not deserve you.”

       CHAPTER TWO

      THE SECOND JASMINE