Pleasure Games. Daire Denis St.

It’s just so...” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Symbolic of my life with him. Dependent and lame.”

      Even from across the distance, Jasmine heard Ashley’s deep inhalation, followed by a long exhalation. “But, how are you going to survive if you don’t?”

      The reminder that she had no way of supporting herself slammed through Jasmine. When she’d met Parker she’d been working as a stylist in an upscale salon. She’d liked the job—loved it, actually—but as her relationship with Parker progressed, they’d seen little reason for her to keep it. He made more than enough to support them.

      “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think about money before I left.”

      Ashley rubbed her jaw, her gaze sliding up and to the side as she considered this possibility. Her gaze returned to the screen. “Where’s the ring?”

      “What ring?”

      “Duh...your engagement ring?”

      Jasmine’s gaze automatically searched her ring finger only to find it bare. Her purse! She reached inside, found the cold platinum and held it in front of the phone for Ashley to see.

      “Get rid of it.”

      “Like, chuck it?”

      “No! That thing cost Parker a fortune. Go sell it. Use the money to do something wild and crazy. And whatever’s left? That’s what you use to start over.”

      Jazz held the ring up, seeing it in a new light. Could she do that?

      Hell, yes, she could. The ring was hers. Parker had given it to her when he said he’d love her forever. Now she was heartbroken, fucked over and desperately in need of a break. Parker probably wouldn’t even care.

      Jazz bit her lip. “I’ll sell the ring, but I don’t know how to do ‘wild and crazy’.”

      “Oh, my God.” Ashley slapped her forehead. “I’ve known you most of my life and if there is anyone who knows how to be wild, it’s you.”

      “Ash...”

      “Don’t Ash me. You know what you need?”

      “A drink?” Jazz held the champagne bottle aloft.

      “I think you’ve self-medicated enough,” Ash replied with pursed lips. “No. Here’s what you need. Go find yourself some smoking-hot Frenchman who knows how to treat a woman. And then you need to have a month of raunchy, nasty, awesome sex.” She snapped her fingers. “A sex-venture.”

      “A sex-what?” Jasmine rolled her eyes.

      “I’m not kidding. You need a release from all this tension—what better way than good sex? You’re totally single now.”

      Jasmine groaned.

      “I’m sorry, hon. But that’s why you need a passionate, torrid, love affair. Feed some romantic French dude chocolate-covered strawberries. Let him lick champagne off your body...”

      “Seriously?”

      “Go to one of those sex districts and buy awesome European sex toys...or...” Ashley’s eyes lit up. “No, wait! Buy yourself a gigolo. A super-hot one!”

      Jazz couldn’t help laughing at Ashley’s suggestion. It felt good to laugh. “You are insane.” She blew her bangs out of her eyes. “And you should be here,” she finished softly.

      “Yeah, well...” Ashley stood and patted her rounded belly. Her friend was tiny, so her third trimester of pregnancy made her look like she had a basketball tucked up under her shirt. “I’m not exactly in the best form for sex-ventures. Plus, I’m pretty sure I would scare off any potential hotties.”

      Jasmine touched her finger to the screen as if touching Ashley’s belly. “That is one lucky kid to have you for her mother.”

      Ashley’s lips twisted. Her friend had worries of her own with her first child due in under a month.

      “Thanks, Ash.”

      “Hey. What are friends for? You know I’m here for you. Anytime. I’m just a FaceTime away.”

      Jazz nodded.

      “Oh, and Jazz?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Let me be your cautionary tale...” Ash rubbed her belly. “As soon as you sell that ring and before you embark on your sexy time?”

      Jazz groaned. “Uh-huh?”

      “Buy condoms. Lots and lots of condoms.”

      * * *

      Two weeks had passed since Luca had been released on bail. The agreement he’d made with François was that he’d not only stay out of the limelight, but that he’d disappear completely while François worked behind the scenes to change the board’s mind. He had hired Myra Monte, publicity guru to the stars, to try to salvage the Legrand brand—promos, charity donations and the like.

      “Give me a month,” François had said. “During that time, I don’t want to hear about you, read about you or have to bail you out.”

      “But wouldn’t it be better if I talk to the board? Prove to them I’m competent?”

      “No. You have to trust me.”

      Luca did trust him. Thus he was lying low, as requested, staying out of the press, staying out of trouble. The problem was, scandal had followed him for the last year like a stray dog he’d fed on a whim, a dog that wouldn’t leave him alone. It was that feral beast he didn’t trust.

      Bad luck? Luca wasn’t so sure anymore.

      He stopped his Ducati Diavel Cruiser at the red light, considering for the thousandth time the information François had revealed.

      What if he was being sabotaged? If he was, Luca knew exactly who was behind it.

      Marcel Durand. His half brother.

      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