Pleasure Games. Daire St. Denis

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 and sprang forward just as the light changed to green. The thing was, before he’d known who Marcel was, he’d liked him. The man was smart, competent and had seemed like Luca’s only ally when every other employee of the Legrand estate—they aren’t employees, they’re family, his father had always said—had shown him little more than polite but cold deference. Something else his father had always said was that trust takes time. Then there was forgiveness...

      Luca took the next corner hard and when he spotted a police car at the other end of the street, he reminded himself to slow down. “You don’t need to break any more fucking laws,” he muttered to himself.

      Just to be safe, he turned down a narrow side street—the kind that drove tourists crazy because they went unmarked on tourist maps—and then turned down another, which was narrow and deserted.

      No, it wasn’t deserted; there was a motorcycle—a Honda Shadow—parked at the side of the road beside an antique shop. The man astride it glanced Luca’s way, watching him as Luca drove past. At the corner, Luca checked his rearview mirror.

      Something was off. He could feel it by the way the man’s helmeted head followed his departure. After Luca turned the corner, he stopped the bike by an empty storefront and parked. Leaving his helmet with the shaded visor on, he walked back to the corner and peered down the street.

      The man was in the process of pulling off his helmet, and under that he wore a balaclava. With a final surreptitious glance up and down the street, the man strode into the shop with a crowbar hanging from his fingertips.

      Fuck.

      It was just his luck.

      Luca’s one goal was to avoid trouble and here he’d stumbled across a robbery in the middle of the goddamn day.

      * * *

      For the first time in two days, Jasmine forgot everything that had happened and wandered with delight through the shop she’d found using Google maps. It was off the beaten track, down some lonely little cobblestone street. And it was full of treasures.

      This was not the type of pawnshop she was familiar with from the United States—a seedy place with bars on the windows where a greasy man wearing an undershirt picked his teeth behind an enclosed counter. This was a delightful boutique with beautiful items carefully displayed, everything from lamps and pots to clothing and jewelry.

      “This is so...Paris,” she said quietly to herself as she gazed about the tiny space.

      There were so many exquisite pieces in the shop to choose from: necklaces, bracelets, earrings. There were also hand-embroidered silk scarves, funky original hats and handbags. There were antiques and what had to be one-of-a-kind items, like the silver oil lamp that reminded her of the stories Auntie Bibi used to whisper at bedtime when she slept over at her cousins as a young girl. Adventures and genies from Arabian Nights. She picked up the lamp, considering. Maybe this lamp was a sign that she should have her own adventure, just like Ash encouraged.

      Though, a sex-venture?

      Jazz smiled to herself. Crazy.

      “Est-ce que je peux vous aider?” the man behind the counter asked.

      “I’m sorry,” Jasmine said, making her way toward him, the lamp, a silk scarf and a necklace clutched in her hands. Not that she needed any of the items but the prices were so good and Jazz was a sucker for a good deal. “I don’t speak French. Do you speak English?” She leaned on the display case, her gaze drawn to the gorgeous jewelry inside.

      “Yes, a little.”

      “Those are so pretty,” she said, pointing to a pair of emerald-drop earrings.

      “Would you like to take a look?”

      Oh, yes please, she nearly gushed before she remembered her reason for being there. She absently rubbed the polished silver of the lamp and said, “I have a ring I’d like to sell.”

      “To sell? May I see?”

      She set the lamp down on the counter and reached into her purse. Room key. Wallet. Cell phone. Passport. Hmm...where had she put that ring?

      “It’s in here somewhere.” She dug around. Seriously, where the hell was the ring and what would she do if she’d lost it? She was sure Parker had paid about twenty grand for it. Not that she’d looked it up online or anything.

      Okay. Maybe she had.

      She located the ring at the bottom of her bag and placed it on the counter for the man to inspect, straightening her shoulders as he picked it up and scrutinized it through the lens of a loupe.

      “C’est belle,” the man murmured as he checked the ring from all angles.

      The bells over the door tinkled but she didn’t bother to look because something inside of her had shifted. An unknown weight lifted from Jasmine’s shoulders, making her feel like a brand-new person. Could she really put her broken engagement behind her and be the woman Ash had described—carefree and adventurous? A woman who lived in the moment and was on the lookout for a sex-venture...

      “Mettez-vous par terre!” a deep male voice shouted.

      She turned toward the voice but nothing about the man behind her made sense. It was like she’d stumbled upon the set of a movie and her already muddled brain was having a hard time computing why a man would be wearing a ski mask in spring and brandishing a crowbar.

      To her bewilderment, he strode forward and smashed the display case she’d been leaning on with one massive blow.

      What the...?

      “Écoutez-moi!” He shouted right in her face.

      So weird. Was she dreaming? Because this whole thing had an otherworldly quality to it and it just got worse when the dude reached into his beat-up jacket, pulled out a gun and pointed it at her.

       “Par terre!”

      Before Jasmine had time to consider what the man was shouting, he grasped the back of her neck and shoved her to the floor.

       Oomph!

      That hurt.

      But now that she was on the ground, the thief ignored her and she lifted her head to find him swiping handfuls of jewelry and dumping the items into a leather satchel. Her ring was among the things he took.

      Something inside of her gut, something hot and heavy and furious, was not about to lie benignly on the floor while some petty criminal robbed this delightful shop.

      And her.

      After all she’d been through? She deserved that fucking ring. Or, rather, she deserved the money from that fucking ring so she could move on from the disaster that was her life.

      With energy she had no idea she possessed, Jasmine sprang to her feet, grabbed the outstretched arm of the thug and clung to it like her life