Hot Picks: Secrets And Lies. Dani Collins

one’s victim.

      “Vera can do whatever she wants. I don’t like the idea that you’re judging me by her choices, though.” She hated it. Avery’s awful accusations came back to her and she felt raw all over again. Worse even, as she thought of this man who lived like this thinking she wanted a shortcut to the same lifestyle. “I don’t sleep with men for a swag bag. I have a job. I buy what I need and if I can’t afford something, I live without it.”

      “What do you do?” He looked like he was asking out of politeness, not like he really believed her speech on self-sufficiency.

      She almost blurted “funeral arrangements” just to put him off.

      “I have a business degree and I’m a qualified financial advisor, but my focus is estate planning and trust management.”

      His stall of surprise was painful in how loudly it spoke of his having underestimated her.

      “I’m a very boring person,” she said, wishing she could be more smug at defying his assumptions about her, but she only felt the difference in their stations more keenly. He had obviously written her off as trifling. And yes, she was trying to climb higher than where she’d wound up, but through honest hard work. Still, she would never reach his level and that put him well beyond her reach.

      Not that she wanted him.

      Did she?

      With an uncomfortable sting in her blood, she picked up her champagne then remembered she had decided to stop drinking now that Vera was gone. She took a sip of water instead.

      “I wasn’t expecting that,” he admitted.

      “You thought I was a secretary? Airline hostess? Model? Even if I was, those are all honest careers in their own right.”

      “They are. And you could model. You’re very beautiful.”

      “So could you. You have a face so nice, God made it twice.”

      He snorted. “Point to you,” he conceded with a grimace. “I absolutely hate to be reduced to ‘one of the Sauveterre twins.’ We are all more than we appear on the surface, aren’t we?”

      Oh, the bastard, now she couldn’t hate him unequivocally.

      “Is it bad?” she asked, feeling compelled to do so. “I mean, I see things online all the time that I know have to be pure rubbish. The same nonsense that shows up about all celebrities, saying you’re having an alien’s baby or whatever. Does it bother you, though? Do you resent being famous because of an accident of birth?”

      He took a moment to answer.

      “I don’t resent being who I am. I don’t talk about my family—” his gaze shot to hers in warning to stay well back “—but I wouldn’t trade them for anything. The attention is a pain in the ass and not something we invite. It annoys me, but I’ve learned to pick my battles.” He said it flatly, but the nail beds of his fingers were white where he gripped his glass.

      “Well, I—” She stopped herself, holding out a hand. “Message received about your family,” she assured him. “You’ve earned the right to privacy. But I hope she’s well. Your sister, I mean.”

      She was tempted to say more, weirdly yearning to explain that his family’s pain had rippled out to her in the strangest way. She’d been as taken as anyone with the Sauveterre twins. The girls were a little younger than her, but they had seemed like an ideal worth emulating, living much larger than Cinnia even though her family had been doing quite well in those days.

      Then Trella had been kidnapped and she’d been terrified for the girl. Of course, she had been compelled to follow the rest of the family’s exploits forevermore. She was as curious as anyone about why his youngest sister had dropped out of the public eye in her teens. Had she gone into rehab? A madhouse? A nunnery? Theories abounded, but Cinnia kept her lips sealed against asking for the truth.

      Against asking him if he was still dealing with the fallout.

      The butler brought another plate of hors d’oeuvres, this one with tiny deviled quail eggs, caviar and stuffed olives and a whipped salmon mousse with narrow fingers of toasted bread. It was exquisite and she kept her gaze on it to hide how thinking of his past had altered her perception of him. She wanted to dismiss him as a womanizer who should be avoided, but he was human. He’d been hurt. Scarred.

      “Why estate planning?”

      She dragged her gaze off the plate, heart taking a skip as she met his gaze.

      “Many reasons. I started looking into it after my father died. There was a lot to untangle and as I learned what he could have done, I kept wondering why he hadn’t set it up this way or that. My mother would have had it easier if he’d shown some foresight. Looking at it as a career, I saw it was flexible, something you could do without a lot of overhead. You can even work from home if you have to. Everyone needs a will, whether they know it or not. And it’s one of those things that if you’re good and fast, you can make a decent living. I didn’t see a downside beyond its lack of sex appeal.”

      “Which you more than make up for in being yourself.”

      He said it with gentle mockery. She knew he meant it as over-the-top flattery, but her cheeks still warmed. She tried to hide how affected she was with a dry “I try.”

      The fireworks started and they turned to watch.

      She was more aware of him than the performance. He was very charismatic with his air of aloof charm and hint of a French accent. He was also subtly demonstrative, lightly caressing her wrist as he drew her attention to the flotilla of boats coming in to watch.

      Everything he did made her very aware of herself. Her breaths felt deliberate, her skin sensitized, her movements a dance of grace. She was being seduced and he wasn’t even making an effort to do it. Her mind drifted to thoughts of kissing him. Feeling his weight against her.

      Her skin warmed, her nipples tingled and she pressed her knees together to ease the ache in the fork of her thighs.

      She was sorry when the fireworks ended and her excuse for being here was over.

      “Oh, no,” she said quickly, declining the butler’s offer to bring strawberries and cream with a fresh bottle of champagne as he removed their plate of finger foods.

      “Do not worry about your figure,” Henri said, nodding to the butler.

      “I’m worried about my survival. I’m allergic. I have a pen for emergencies and everything.” She nodded at her clutch.

      “It’s that bad?” He held up a hand to halt the butler.

      “I nearly died at a sleepover once, because my friend didn’t want to fess up that she’d stolen a bottle of her dad’s best wine for homemade sangria.” She rolled her eyes, making light of what a frightening near miss she’d had.

      He refused the strawberries and told the butler he would press the call button when they were ready for more champagne.

      “Have them if you want them,” Cinnia protested. “It’s not so bad I can’t watch someone else eat them.”

      He tucked his chin, leaning forward as the butler closed the door behind himself. “But I can’t kiss you if I’ve eaten them. Can I?”

      His words made her ears ring. She stole a long, subtle inhale, holding his gaze while she tried not to let him see how easily he sent her blood pressure into the stratosphere.

      “Remaining hopeful?” Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

      “Very much so.”

      She forced herself to slide off her tall chair, excusing herself to the attached powder room. Time to go, she told her reflection. The woman in the mirror was entirely too heavy lidded, her defenses against Henri thinning by the second.

      When she returned, Henri was inside the suite. The lighting fell in subdued angles off the