5. Leia

Chapter 5

If Nicolas Dupont thought I was just gonna stay home and wait around for him like some weird prom date pick-up, he could think again. That was absolute crap. No guy told me what to do. No guy had even tried since I started running The Pour House. Well, maybe some had tried, but I'd ignored them all.

Like I was ignoring Dupont now as I sorted some of the files in the office behind the kitchen at the bar and changed the combination on the safe out of sheer habit—however much that action was a day late and way the hell more than a dollar short.

But I was used to being my own boss, and just handing the business over to someone else for a month wasn't something I was happy to do. I wanted to meet this guy Dupont was installing, make sure he knew how to run things, that he got on with my regulars. I really didn't want to come back to no business because it had been left in the hands of someone who had no clue how to run a bar.

I'd brought Dad with me, too—I didn't trust him enough to leave him at home by himself. He probably couldn't do anything, but the man seemed to open lines of credit for himself as easy as breathing, so it was better not to take chances. He was up front propped between Harry and Pierre, and they were probably sick of babysitting duty already.

I slammed the top drawer closed—that one had been sticky as long as I could remember—and walked through the kitchen then stopped as I caught sight of a man I'd never met making himself at home behind my bar.

From the back, he reminded me of Nicolas Dupont—he was tall and his shoulders were broad, and something about the strength in his muscles made me think of the other man—but when he turned in my direction, there was nothing secretive or stormy about his almost aqua eyes, and his ready smile was a welcome change to the more predatory one Dupont seemed to favor.

I shuddered just thinking about Dupont's smile…his mouth. Except it wasn't really a shudder; it was more of a shiver of anticipation—and an unwelcome one, too. Damn horny, traitorous body.

Well, I'd make my way back here as soon as I could. The more I pondered my situation, the more I considered the contract, the more I decided there was probably a loophole. All contracts had them. I just had to find this one. That would put a stop to my body wanting to do its own thing.

I just had to bide my time while I figured my way out.

"Can I help you?" I approached the stranger—I had a fair idea why this guy was here, but I folded my arms as I looked him over. "Customers don't usually make their own drinks at my bar."

His smile widened as he stepped forward. "What? You don't believe in the honor system?" His lips formed a small pout as I slowly shook my head. Then he was back to grinning. "I believe you were expecting me? I'm Benedict Rousseau, temporary bar manager at your service."

He swept a small bow, and I bit back an unexpected chuckle. Without missing a beat, he turned and served a customer, even recommending the beer he thought the guy should try.

I nodded at the customer's back as he walked away. "You done this kind of thing before, Benedict?" I didn't want to sound too friendly or welcoming. I was doing all this shit under protest. I literally didn't have a choice.

"I guess you could say that." He nodded. "I've amassed a lot of experience in a lot of different areas over the years, and bar keeping is just one of my many talents."

"Jeez. With yourself around, you certainly don't need a fan club," I muttered, then blushed when he seemed to pick up my quiet words and laughed.

"Some free advice for you," he replied. "Be your own biggest fan."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah. Thanks."

"All the best bartenders give advice." He glanced at where Pierre and Harry still had Dad between them. "They look like good guys."

"Yeah, they're great." I started to relax. They'd keep Benedict under control for me. "Regulars, too. Come and meet them."

Benedict put a glass he'd been wiping back in the rack above the bar and followed me toward Harry and Pierre's booth. It had gotten to the stage where I could've just labelled it; no one else ever sat there.

"Hey, cher." Harry's eyes crinkled around the corners as he smiled, and I grinned back.

"Hi, Harry, just wanted to introduce you to Benedict. He'll be managing the bar while I…"

"She's going on vacation," Dad interjected, and Benedict frowned slightly, just a quick tug at the center of his eyebrows before his expression smoothed out again. Probably so fleeting that no one else even saw it.

Pierre cocked his head, his gaze quizzical. "Vacation?" He and his brother knew enough about my business to be aware that I couldn't possibly afford time away, never mind an actual trip somewhere.

"Mysterious benefactor. She's a lucky girl, my Leia." Dad grinned broadly like he had something to be proud of, and this time Harry did frown.

I stopped looking at him and focused on Pierre instead. I didn't want to talk to Dad. He'd gambled me away, and now he seemed pleased with himself over it. "I'll be gone for a month, so Benedict will be managing The Pour House while I'm away."

Pierre nodded. "Sounds like a good plan." He cast some side-eye toward Dad.

"Well, anything you need, Benedict." Harry half-rose and extended his hand to Benedict. "Anyone helping Leia out earns our help in return."

Benedict nodded as he clasped Harry's palm. "Just Ben is fine, and thank you. I'll be sure to let you know if I think of anything." Then he nodded toward Dad. "You'll be collected tomorrow to start your own vacation."

"My vacation?" Dad's eyes widened. "That's not something I agreed to."

"Perhaps not." Benedict flattened his lips and the corners of his mouth dipped. "But Nic was pretty insistent. You've been booked for a month's rehabilitation therapy, and you'll be assessed again at the end of the month."

Nic. I couldn't imagine referring to Nicolas Dupont so informally, but the idea teased a thrill of excitement through me. I quickly squashed it, though. I needed to get through this month without memories of the man's lips and tongue. And his hands. Fuck, his hands as they'd moved heat over my skin. I'd wanted him to touch me again. Anywhere. Everywhere. But that wasn't going to help me.

"You'd look churlish and ungrateful to refuse help, Jean," Harry cautioned, his expression stony as he watched Dad glare at no one in particular.

Benedict shrugged, but the movement was tight. "I guess change is hard. I'd advise that turning up there with a hangover might not look great, though."

"We've got him, and we'll make sure he doesn't lose himself in a bottle tonight," Pierre said. Then he looked at me. "You go and enjoy your time. Don't worry about a thing."

I nodded, gratitude warming me that these men cared enough to help. Maybe not Benedict—I didn't know him—but I couldn't have gotten this far without Harry and Pierre at my back, watching over me.

Benedict turned to me. "I think you should go home and pack." The gentleness in his eyes made it more of a suggestion and less of an instruction, but it was still a statement that didn't have no as an answer.

"That won't take long." I answered with a hair flip and an annoying nervous giggle that slipped out without my permission. I didn't have a great deal worth taking anywhere, especially given I didn't entirely know what was expected of me. Anxiety prickled up my cheeks. If Dupont expected ballgowns and evening dresses, he'd called in the wrong contract.

"Good luck." Dad raised his glass in my direction, his eyes gleaming a little too brightly.

"Cut him off now," I said quietly, and Benedict and Harry nodded.

"We'll make sure he gets to where he needs to be," Harry said, and I nodded before turning to the door.

Every step across the bar was one I had to think about. There were nights when I hadn't wanted to leave because it meant returning home to another place that hemorrhaged money faster than I could earn it. But today I didn't want to leave because I was scared of the unknown and what I would find there.

And when I closed my eyes, the looming figure I saw was most definitely Nicolas Dupont.

The black limo sat purring in my driveway. I'd been ignoring it for fifteen minutes already, unable to make myself leave my home. I wanted to hang onto the furniture, the drapes, the doorframes so no one could remove me.

But in reality, I looked in a mirror spotty with dust and age blemishes, patted my hair, smoothed the lip gloss I was unaccustomed to wearing from the edges of my lips, and straightened my spine.

I could do this. I could walk across my cracked and overgrown driveway and be driven somewhere I didn't know with a stranger I'd only met once.

Twice, my traitorous mind supplied, but at least one of those meetings didn't include a handshake or names, so it didn't count.

A driver, complete with cap, sunglasses and leather driving gloves, climbed out of the front and walked around to open the back door for me.

I glanced in the limo before I slid onto the seat. "No Mr. Dupont?"

My stomach did that weird thing between relief and disappointment. Nausea, that was probably better known as.

"Mr. Dupont sends his regrets, but he's been delayed at La Petite Mort."

My throat dried at the mention of Dupont's casino, but I swallowed and sat inside the car.

"He said for you to make yourself comfortable and help yourself to a drink." The driver waved at a mini-bar.

"Thank you—" I paused. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Jenkins, Miss Boucher."

"Thank you, Mr. Jenkins," I said, and one corner of his mouth tipped up.

"My pleasure."

As the car pulled away from my house, I stared at my hands. I didn't need to look at my home. It wouldn't be the last time I saw it. It wasn't like I needed to commit it to memory or anything.

My fingers twisted together and my skin paled. "Where exactly are we going?" My voice was steady and calm, but even in his sunglasses, I got the sense Jenkins was watching me in the rearview mirror as he answered.

"Mr. Dupont lives a little farther out on the south side of the city."

I nodded like I'd known that much while I tried to imagine what his house might look like.

Traffic was light for our journey, and we looped around the city rather than driving through, giving me a view of spread-out homes, mailboxes with no house in sight along the rutted tire tracks that led away between fields, and barely moving bayous with tree trunks rooted in them.

As those views gave way to something greener, and swamp gave way to grass, live oak trees took over, the Spanish moss growing with far more decorum and grace than it ever grew by my property, hanging in delicate fronds.

The car slowed and Mr. Jenkins made a wide turn onto a sweeping driveway that led to a large white home. I sat forward, almost on the edge of my seat as I watched it grow bigger as we approached.

"Beautiful," I whispered.

"Isn't it?" Mr. Jenkins half-turned toward me. "It's been in Mr. Dupont's family for centuries."

It was larger than my house, with a sweeping balcony across the front, columns that soared higher than I could dream of, and a large dome on top. Its majesty was everything my house deserved, and my gut twisted again as I thought of Dad's actions that had resulted in the current state of our home.

The outside of Dupont's house gleamed as if freshly painted or cleaned, and the driveway looked as if it didn't dare crack or sink.

God alone knew what I was going to have to do for one month to have a hope of reinstating my house to even half of this glory.

When the car stopped at the bottom of the wide steps, I sat for a moment, not even moving to unbuckle my seatbelt. I'd expected a grand lifestyle from Dupont, but I glanced at my jeans and well-worn shirt and cringed a little. This wasn't my world. Not even close.

I battled every day for what I had, I clawed my way to it, and I wasn't ashamed of it, but I knew where I belonged, and it wasn't with Nicolas Dupont, and it wasn't here.

Mr. Jenkins opened the door, and before I'd even climbed out, a butler stood at the top of the stairs, his hands at his sides as he waited for me to join him. Alongside him stood an older lady in a navy-blue skirt and jacket over a white blouse.

The butler bowed slightly as I arrived next to him.

"Miss Boucher," he murmured. "Welcome to Vitam Immortalem."

"Thank you." Between the name of his casino and the name of his house, Dupont certainly had an odd sense of humor.

I stepped inside the house and the butler closed the heat out, cocooning us in a space as quiet as the grave. For a moment I didn't even breathe.

"Are you all right, my dear? You needn't worry. The wards here are very old and will protect you." The butler touched my arm, and normal household noises seemed to come rushing back as my mind unmuffled. "Would you like me to show you around a little?"

I narrowed my eyes slightly at the obvious eccentricities of the man. Wards? "Thank you, Mr.…?" I didn't look at him as I spoke. There was too much to take in.

A wide staircase that started to my right curved up to the second floor, but more steps just beyond that led downward. A beautiful hardwood floor swept forward, appearing to cover acres of ground, before passing seamlessly through an archway supported by more beautiful Grecian-style columns. A grand piano sat further inside the room, as well as gleaming wood sideboards and a couple of oversized Asian vases that could have originated with the Ming Dynasty for all I knew.

The butler laughed and gestured to the lady with him. "I'm Baldwin, and this is Mrs. Ames."

"Thank you, Mr. Baldwin."

"I'll just show you the basics. Chef is very excited you're here and is preparing quite the feast. It's not often we have guests."

I nodded again, like I'd morphed into some sort of bobble-headed toy. There was no way I'd own a place like this and not have guests for most of the year. It was how I imagined every boutique hotel I couldn't afford to visit—exquisite.

"If I owned this place, I might pay people to visit me just so I could show it off." I didn't mean to speak out loud, but Mr. Baldwin laughed.

"Then maybe I shouldn't boast of the amenities?" He gestured toward the staircase that disappeared below the house. "In the basement, you'll find a home cinema, a swimming pool, and the gym. But if you follow me up the staircase, I'll show you to the east wing, where you have your own suite of rooms."

I chuckled. "Is the west wing reserved for the president?"

Mr. Baldwin paused for a moment, his feet still on the stairs before he regained his forward momentum.

"The west wing is the master's personal quarters. They're strictly off limits to everybody, and the one place you really can't go." He turned to me at the top of the staircase, his jaw firm, his eyes serious. Then he smiled. "But the rest of the house is yours to explore and enjoy. This way, please."

He led me between wide double doors into a tastefully decorated hallway, where everything was soft and a shade of cream, but I cast a glance over my shoulder at matching double doors that were firmly closed.

The area I wasn't allowed. That was interesting… and possibly a reason I could use to terminate our contract early if it had something to do with whatever Dupont was obviously holding back from me about our deal. The loophole I was looking for. Maybe Dupont was involved in criminal activity and needed me with him so he'd look respectable? But surely not…

I chewed my lip. Well, it wouldn't be the first time a business was used as a front for something else, and if I could find out what, I could get away.

So I had to know.

I returned my attention to Mr. Baldwin as he opened a door and strode into a room that could have belonged to royalty. There was a large four-poster bed on a small raised platform, and I tore my gaze away before an unexpected visual of Nicolas Dupont, his body over mine and the sheets rumpled around us, solidified in my mind.

"There's a small seating area." Mr. Baldwin spoke unnecessarily as he pointed beyond the bed. "And through this door, your bathroom."

I peered into the biggest bathroom I'd ever seen, and it was a beautiful mix between old-world style and shower controls that looked space-age. "Wow."

Mr. Baldwin smiled, his eyes lighting with what looked like pride. "And the other door is your walk-in closet." He led me into a room bigger than the square footage of The Pour House and I gasped.

There were already gowns hanging on some of the rails, and I reached out to touch one before retracting my hand.

"If there's anything you don't like, I can arrange to have it sent away, but the master felt sure these would be to your liking."

I pressed my lips together to prevent myself from agreeing, holy crap, yes, I liked them very much. But I didn't stop my head from nodding, and the movement gave me away.

Mr. Baldwin laughed again and clapped his hands. "Very good. But we'll have to cut the tour short here or Chef will send out a search party. If you'd like to follow me to the dining room?" It wasn't simply a polite request, so I fell in line behind him, my stomach churning with anxiety as we walked back across the room.

And I still couldn't look at the bed.

Mr. Baldwin hurried back down the stairs, suddenly taking on a tour guide persona as he flung his arms out to the left and right. "This is the formal drawing room. The sitting room. Study. Library."

Wait…what? I slowed my steps then backtracked to the room he'd pointed into last. Floor to ceiling bookshelves dominated the space, and there were ladders hooked over rails at various points around the room. I stepped inside, already inhaling the smell of leather and pages and ink.

"My dear?" Mr. Baldwin's voice floated back down the hallway, and I peered around the doorway toward him.

"Sorry. I… I like this room."

"A very good choice." He hurried toward me, his shoes striking the wooden floor with each step. "It's one of my favorite rooms, too." He sighed. "Alas, we don't have time to discuss the books now. Chef has a lot of knives in his kitchen." He broke off and chuckled. Then he started to walk and point again. "Formal dining room. Family dining room, and the kitchen is through that door there. I'm sure the master would let you in there, but maybe while Chef's not around." He winked. "Where would you like to eat tonight?"

I glanced around. "Is it… Is it just me?"

I glanced around like I almost expected Nicolas Dupont to appear through the walls or hurtle through a window. I hated feeling so insecure, but this house wasn't my natural environment, and I didn't feel safe here.

Well, no. That wasn't quite it. It wasn't safety so much as I didn't trust my surroundings.

Fuck it. I didn't trust myself.

A masculine, spicy scent lingered in the air in nearly every room, and I knew exactly who it belonged to.

"For now." Mr. Baldwin nodded. "The master has been further delayed at—"

"At the casino." I jumped in and finished his sentence, and he nodded.

Disappointment niggled at me, but I pushed it away and waited for the relief I should feel instead. I needed to be relieved that I was here alone. Perhaps my whole month would fly by like this. Just me and that fantastic library. Alone. In Dupont's house.

Now that was the kind of vacation I could get behind.

"I guess I could go family dining room? I'm not sure I'm dressed for formal." And I definitely didn't need to be at the end of the huge banquet table I'd glimpsed through the doorway.

"Perfect." He led me in and set a place at the table before stopping on his way to the door. "Chef will be in with your meal in a moment."

I unfolded my napkin and set it over my lap, and when I looked up, Mr. Baldwin had left the room.

I glanced around, taking in the sumptuous designs and textures in the decoration and finishes of the room. I was sitting at a table that looked like an antique. In the fucking least formal of the dining rooms. I was more used to making do with badly put together furniture I'd assembled from Ikea knockoffs. A knock at the door startled me, and a man stepped in, a huge try of food in his arms.

"Good evening," he said, and I half-stood to return his greeting.

My napkin slid from my lap, and I bent to retrieve it but ended up sitting back in my chair with no grace at all.

"Fresh from the kitchen." A woman rushed in behind the man, a tray stand clutched in one of her hands. "I'm Emma. I work for Mr. Dupont, and this is Chef."

"Just… Chef?" I lifted an eyebrow.

"I am what I do," he confirmed as he set up the tray and started unloading plates in front of me.

I watched pasta dishes and a hamburger and risotto and a surf and turf platter hit the table, and I blew out a breath. "Are we expecting more guests or…or someone else?"

Maybe Nicolas Dupont wasn't held up at work anymore. My anxiety roared back to life, and I drummed my fingertips on the gleaming wood.

"I got a little carried away, perhaps." Chef ran his gaze over the food.

"Or maybe not carried away enough?" Emma suggested. "Maybe she prefers something else?"

"Oh, no! I… There's no way I can eat so much food. Will you join me?" I gestured to the chairs opposite me.

Emma darted a quick glance at Chef. "Uh, we're staff. We're not allowed to eat while on duty."

"Oh, shit. Sorry." I cringed. "Sorry again. I mean, I don't want to get you in trouble with Mr. Dupont." I scooped some pasta onto my plate. "I'll just have a little of everything."

Chef watched me carefully while I ate, nodding his approval every time I murmured appreciation for his food, and Emma chatted, telling me a little about the various antiques in the room and details about the house and grounds. When I finally pushed my plate away, Chef looked at Emma, triumph shining in his eyes.

"See! I told you I've still got it."

I laughed. "I don't know what you think you lost, but it's certainly not the ability to cook." I tried to stifle a yawn but ended up hiding my face behind my hands as it took control. "I'm sorry. I have no idea why I'm so tired."

Dusk had fallen outside, but it was nowhere near late. Something about being at Dupont's house seemed to have let my body know I no longer needed to stay up until hella late o'clock working, and exhaustion raced through my veins, relaxing my muscles and fogging my thoughts.

"Would you like me to show you to your room?" Emma paused in her removal of the plates from the table.

I smiled at her. "No, thank you. Mr. Baldwin already showed me. West wing, right?"

"East." She made the correction sharply and fast. "I mean, the west wing is off limits."

"Shoot. Yeah. Sorry. I meant east." I tapped my forehead. "I'm just tired."

I gazed at the closed west wing doors as I climbed the stairs. If it wasn't a criminal mastermind headquarters, I had no idea what could be behind there that Dupont was so protective of, but I hadn't been lying about being tired. Knowing what Dupont kept in the rooms I wasn't allowed in would keep until at least tomorrow.

But those rooms were likely my key to leaving.

As I walked toward my room, the shadows moved, and I sucked in a harsh breath.

Nicolas Dupont's low chuckle brushed over my skin as he stepped away from the wall. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh!" The sound flew from my mouth. I hadn't expected… I narrowed my eyes a little. What was he doing here? Waiting to make a move? I straightened my shoulders, trying to project confidence. "You didn't startle me."

Dupont remained quiet, his left hand forming a loose fist at his side as he watched me. His pupils dilated as an unexpected rush of desire flooded me, and his chest heaved as he breathed in.

I backed up a little, and my ass grazed the door behind me. "We had a deal, remember. I'm here to settle a debt. I said no sex."

He hummed, the sound a mild disagreement. "Nope. You said no sleeping with me. I can almost guarantee there'd be no sleeping involved if you were to spend the night in my bed." He stepped closer and took a lock of my hair between his finger and thumb, watching the strands as he rubbed them gently. "And I can definitely guarantee your satisfaction."

He met my eyes, and his seemed to swirl with a beautiful oncoming storm.

"No." I jerked back. "I've told you I don't want you, and for you to continue after I've told you that would be rape."

His eyes flashed then. The storm had arrived, and I'd been wrong about beauty. It was a wicked, wicked storm.

"Rape?" His voice was a low growl. "I would never rape." He stepped away from me, putting the illusion of distance between us before leaning almost close enough that his lips grazed my ear. "When we have sex, Miss Boucher—which is definitely a when, not an if—it will be because you're begging me for what you want."

Then he pivoted and strode away down the hall, leaving his now familiar scent and confusion swirling around me as my body and mind warred about what they wanted.

I glared at his retreating back, watching him the whole way down the corridor, my gaze so heavy he should have combusted under the weight and anger I tried to channel. Even when he was out of sight, he still remained in my head.

That fucking guy.