PARIS. THE WITCHING HOUR.
Cassie’s favourite time to venture out in recent years. Though she was no witch. No matter how much her ex and his family would like to paint her as such.
She sipped her vodka martini, finding peace in those precious minutes between two and three in the morning while most around her slept.
In the distance, the Eiffel Tower had emitted its final sparkle long enough ago to see the last of the tourists in bed. Its structure a dark silhouette in the inky sky. The avenue of the Champs-Élysées and impressive Arc de Triomphe below flaunted their own muted glow. Equally beautiful in their subtlety, just as reassuring in their solitude too.
‘Would you like another, Your Highness?’
Her fingers tightened around the crystal stem of her glass. ‘Just Cassie, please, Beni.’
The young waiter bowed his head, his dipped gaze polite. Every night for the past month Beni had opened the rooftop bar for her after hours and every night he had addressed her like so.
Tomorrow, she would still be a princess. And the day after. And the day after that...well, who knew.
Public opinion was a fickle thing, especially when it was fed by the lions—her ex, the Prince of Sérignone. His royal family, the Duponts. Their loyal staff. The world’s press.
They’d all crowned her long before her marriage to the Prince...would they go on crowning her long after she was done?
It had been a month. A month divorced. Two years separated. Four years married. Five by his side. A sixth of her life. A sixth she would sooner forget...if only the world would let her.
There was only so long one could bear the title that reminded her of the fool that she had been. The fool that she had let him take her for. And if she was honest, the fool that she had been long before then, courtesy of her parents and their skilled puppeteering from birth.
But she was done dancing to the tunes of others...it was time to choose her own tune. Her own path. And she couldn’t afford for it to be derailed by the vitriol now coming out of Sérignone.
She picked at some invisible lint on her black shift dress as she mentally picked at the remnants of her life. At thirty-three, she’d gone from cherished British socialite to prized princess of a tiny Mediterranean kingdom a thousand kilometres south of where she sat now, as a woman trying to find herself while the world at large tried to keep her pigeonholed.
Though pigeonholed as a beloved princess beat being painted as the scandalous woman the Duponts and their team of spin doctors were trying to turn her into. Spinning the tale of the woman who had driven her husband into the arms of his many lovers. By being emotionally unavailable and ‘overfamiliar’ with the household staff. Fuelling rumours that she had taken more than one to her bed, because there could be no smoke without fire...not when it worked in their favour. As it did now. Because, in the Duponts’ minds, the Prince could not come out of their divorce smelling of roses while she still did.
One of them had to suffer. And so, it had to be her. Someone had to be blamed for the shocking behaviour of the Prince, and it made most sense—most royal and socioeconomic sense—for that someone to be her.
Didn’t matter that she had already suffered enough. Witnessed enough. That the behaviour they laid at her door, belonged solely at the Prince’s own.
She didn’t know what was more galling—to learn that Georges had married her purely for the money, what with the royal reserves in dire need of a cash injection that her father had been all too willing to provide.
Or that she had been naive enough to have believed that she was enough for Georges. That her appeal—her beauty and intelligence, her charity endeavours and European connections, her ability to converse in several languages and win over the people—had been all Georges could have wanted in a princess. That he had wanted her. That he had, as he had told her and she had so desperately wanted to believe, loved her.
But no, it had been a lie and she had been a joke. A laughingstock to all who were in the know. The real know.
Behind closed doors. The palace doors. They’d been laughing at her.
Had her parents been cruel enough to laugh too?
They certainly hadn’t been laughing when she’d turned up on their doorstep almost two years ago. Desperate for a place to stay. A place to escape to. A place to feel safe from the speculation and the censure and the pain.
They’d only delivered more of the same and tried to force her to return, because heaven forbid, she’d walk out on the Prince and bring shame to their door...
A frenzied stream of reporters too.
‘Your Highness?’
She blinked through the painful haze to find Beni still stood over her, waiting expectantly.
‘Apologies, Beni. Ça va, merci.’
‘You are sure?’
No, she wasn’t sure. She wouldn’t be sure of much for a long time—how she felt, who she could trust, what was real, what was fake, but as far as her need for a drink went, she was done for the night.
‘I think I’ll head on down, Beni.’ She smothered a yawn—at last, sleep beckoned—and rose from her cushioned haven, the scent of the night lifting with her. Far from natural, the fragrance drifted from the inside out...the hotel’s signature scent. Bold and woody, a touch of citrus too. Expensive but heavenly.
She gave him a smile filled with her gratitude. ‘Thank you again for this evening.’
‘So long as you need the rooftop—’ he gave a nod of respect, his brown eyes soft ‘—it will be here for you.’
If only her own parents had been so generous. She swallowed the tears that she refused to let fall. She’d cried enough over them, and she was done grieving for what she’d never had in the first place. A family. A place to call home. A real one.
‘Bonne nuit, Beni.’
She tugged the lapels of her jacket around her throat to ward off the chilly autumn breeze now that she wasn’t protected by the decorative trees that bordered the roof terrace and stepped away.
How crazy it was to think that once upon a time, she had thought herself in love with a handsome young prince. A real-life prince with a horse and a carriage and a castle to boot.
She gave a choked laugh, mocking herself like all the others, and pressed her fingers to her lips, steadying herself as she checked Beni hadn’t noticed.
If he had, he made no show of it as he cleared the table she had used. Her mini sanctum. She didn’t have a lot of spaces to hide away in, and whether Beni knew it or not, it really was quite precious. As was the suite she was staying in one floor down. Louis’s suite. One of her oldest and dearest friends. One of her only friends, if she was honest. Because as she’d swiftly learnt, fame brought out the worst in the best of people; private stories sold in exchange for a price or a royal favour or two.
The crown had cost Cassie her friends, her family, her identity, her financial independence and her freedom, but she was on a mission to take it all back...save for the family and friends. Those that hadn’t stuck by her were not worth keeping. But the rest...she’d get there. She would.
She weaved her way through the empty tables and headed for the lift. Too tired to take the stairs. Another good sign that sleep would come easily tonight.
The ornate brass doors welcomed her in, and she stepped inside, stretched out her tired limbs as they closed around her. Breathed in the soothing hotel scent and let it calm her as the lift slid to a gentle stop on her floor and the doors opened.
She walked out, head down as she searched her bag for the key, when something made her still. A sixth sense, a prickle along her spine—she was used to having her space invaded when she was out and about, the odd stalker or excitable fan getting too close and then security having to intervene. But the hotel was locked down. No one got to this floor without a pass, and at this time of night, there should be no one else around but...
Her lashes lifted, head slow to follow as her mouth fell open, because there, straight ahead, was a man. A very tall, very broad, very naked man.
The first thing Hugo became aware of was the cold. The second was a soft ping. The third was a gasp. A very horrified, very feminine gasp!
His eyes flared wide. Every sense now alert as he registered his reflection in the French windows ahead; his nude silhouette against the dimmed lights of the Champs-Élysées far below. And that’s when he realised, the ping was an arriving elevator car and the gasp—
Oh, Mon Dieu!
He spun to face the woman who’d stepped out of the lift. Dressed in tailored black to her knees, nude tights, classic heels, she stood as regal as a queen...of the haunting, screaming kind!
Her handbag hit the deck as he watched, her belongings spilling free as she pressed her hands to her ghost-like cheeks and the elevator doors slid closed.
‘Oh, Mon Dieu!’ he repeated aloud, clamping his hands over his front. ‘Je suis désolé!’
Perfectly arched brows disappeared into a sweeping dark fringe, and unthinking, he stepped forward. Her eyes darted down and she stumbled back, one hand blindly reaching for the elevator button. ‘Don’t come any closer!’
‘Pardonnez-moi!’ He scanned the hallway, wishing that for all it was opulent and timeless, it had something he could readily use as a shield. He discounted the bronze bust on the console table—too weird. The baroque lamp. It was plugged into the wall. The bin. Just, no. And grabbed an ample-sized vase complete with high-rising white foliage, thrusting it before him as he turned to face her again.
‘Please.’ He spoke English with her, blowing a stray white frond out of his face. His allergies were not going to appreciate this up-close encounter. But they had nothing on her and his nakedness. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I live here.’
Cascading brown waves shimmied with her panicked head shake as she batted the button, which seemed to be having no effect whatsoever. Was she even hitting it? He’d be taking that up with hotel maintenance come morning...
‘I do,’ he stressed, focusing on more pressing concerns—panicked hotel guest versus his indecent exposure. ‘Just here!’
He nudged his head in the direction of his very closed, very locked penthouse door.
He swallowed a curse. ‘And it appears, I am now locked out.’
She eyed the door, her hand ceasing its attack on the elevator button as she lifted it to the pearls around her neck. Did she think he was going to rob her? A naked robber? Was that a thing?
He shuddered and hurried to explain. ‘I know this looks bad. And I’m not making this up. I sleepwalk. And just now, as far as I knew it, I was stepping into a cab, going who knows where with who knows who, when the elevator went ping and you gasped and I came to. I swear it.’
The fear in her big round eyes eased a fraction. He couldn’t make out their colour in the low light favoured by his hotels at night, only that her perfectly applied makeup accentuated their alluring shape and size...the kind a man could readily lose his mind in.
And yes, he had to be half asleep if that’s the thought he was entertaining while the chilling draft from the ancient glass continued to assault his very exposed ass.
‘Then why haven’t I seen you before?’ She gifted him the side eye with a hint of fire. Hallelujah.
‘I’ve been away on business for the past month. I got back a few hours ago. You can call Vincent on the front desk. He’ll confirm it. In fact, do call Vincent because I don’t have a key on my naked person and I really don’t want to terrorise the rest of the building by going down there like this. Terrorising one hotel guest is enough, and as I own the place, it really won’t look good for business.’
Her mouth twitched. The pink glossy shape pulling back into one dimpled cheek, a hint of colour creeping in—Dieu merci!
‘You own the place?’
‘This and many others. Oui.’
‘You are Chevalier of Chevalier Clubs?’
‘I know, yes. It’s very original. I’ve heard it all before. ‘
She laughed softly and damn if the sound didn’t warm him all the more. He needed more of that.
‘I’m just relieved I can trust you to be well behaved while I call in the cavalry, Mr Chevalier.’
‘You can call me Hugo. I think we’re long past the need for surnames here...’
She didn’t comment as she dipped to the floor, not once taking her eyes from his as the elevator doors eased open behind her. He half expected her to scurry back inside and get the hell away while awaiting said cavalry. But she didn’t. She swept up her belongings, dropping all but her phone back inside her bag.
He was right about her regal air. Every movement was so carefully poised, the way her knees stayed pressed together, her head remained high, her shoulders held back. There was something about her too. Something familiar...achingly so...
Or was it just the late hour, the hazy remnants of his dream messing with his head? His memories? The warped world between reality and make-believe...because if he’d met her before, surely, he’d have remembered her name at least.
And what was a woman like her doing wandering the halls of the hotel at such a late hour, or early, depending on how one looked at it. Alone too?
She looked like she’d been to dinner, or the theatre, a function perhaps. Her appearance too pristine to be doing the walk of shame. Too composed to—
And what are you even doing debating her presence when you’re the one stood in the public corridor? Butt! Naked!
He watched as she dialled the front desk, her elegant long fingers making light work of the task before her eyes returned to his. Her gaze thankfully more bemused now as she lifted the phone to her ear and Hugo rocked on his feet. Wondered where to look. As first meetings went, this had to be up there with the most embarrassing, most memorable...
And still, the question remained. There were only two penthouse suites on this floor. His and Louis Cousteau’s. And she wasn’t Louis’s type. Wrong sex for a start.
‘Vincent, c’est Cassie...’
Cassie. The name softened her somewhat. Made her more...accessible. He listened as she spoke to his night porter. Her French seeming to come easy, though there was an awkward stumble when she got to the state of his...he cleared his throat...undress.
Hugo pulled his shoulders back as a shiver threatened to roll through him. He couldn’t do much about the head-to-toe goose-bumps, though, or the rapidly shrivelling... Oh, dear. Throat clearing could be quite habit forming—who knew?
‘He’s on his way.’
She slotted the phone into her bag and Hugo gave an abrupt nod, which in turn sent the floral fronds right up his nose. He scrunched his face up, battling a sneeze, battling it...battling it—
‘A-Achoo!’
She flinched. ‘Bless you.’
‘I’m sorry!’ He turned his head to the side, swallowed another. ‘Allergies.’
‘Oh, dear, perhaps flowers weren’t the best choice of a shield.’
‘Short of pulling the lamp out of the wall, I didn’t have much choice.’
She looked around too and then stepped forward, shrugging out of her jacket as she went. ‘Here.’
Now he was the one taking a back step. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’
There was no way on earth he was going to put her clothing anywhere near his—
‘It’s fine.’
She was a stride away, jacket held out, decorative vase the only thing keeping her from getting another eyeful. This time, up close and personal.
Maybe he should install coat stands complete with coats throughout his hotels for such random eventualities in future...hell, he’d settle for an umbrella!
‘I promise not to look...’ she said, her eyes meeting his as her delicate little throat gave a delicate little bob ‘...not again anyway.’
What on earth was she doing?
The only man she’d ever seen naked in all her adult years was her ex, the Prince. But if anyone deserved to wear the title visually, it was this man.
He was a solid wall of muscle. Tall. Broad. Fierce. And she would have said Eastern European, but his accent was all French. Thick and seductive and...and she really should have stopped at one martini.
She turned her head away, eyes averted as her skin prickled and warmed. Every millimetre aware of him being so very close. So very close and so very naked.
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
And as he moved, the air shifted between them. Her senses strained. The soft clink of the vase against the marble ridiculously loud as he returned it to the side. The heat of his fingers sweeping like fire against hers as he took her jacket from her outstretched hands. His scent invaded her nostrils. He’d showered recently. He smelled clean, masculine, and her head...her head was busy visualising far too much. The reflection in the gold elevator doors, distorted, but revealing enough. Especially when her memory was all too willing to fill in the blanks.
‘Thank you, Cassie.’
Her lips parted with her breath. To have a stranger address her by name...it had been too long. Louis still called her Cassie. Always had. Always would. They’d been friends long before the crown. But this man...this Hugo Chevalier. She wanted to kiss him. Not a good idea.
She opted for a much safer smile, turning back to him as she secured her arms around her middle. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘But now you’re cold...’
He gestured with one shoulder as he tied her jacket around his waist, his brow furrowed in concern as he took in her bare arms and tight grip. Her clenched jaw likely too.
‘I’m fine.’
She tried to keep her eyes level with his, but this close she could see every exquisite detail of his face...and the man was, well, he was bewitching. Maybe there was something mystical to this whole witching hour after all, because she was losing her ability to think straight.
From his dark cropped hair with the slightest peak that gave him a heart-shaped brow...a kind brow. To his dark eyebrows that arched over eyes that spoke of a strength, a steeliness, but also a sweetness...and how was that even possible? They could be grey or blue. It was hard to tell in the low light of the hall.
He had a kind nose too—straight and smooth. And a mouth that softened into a smile that made her stomach turn to goo. The dark stubble that bracketed his mouth and followed the sharp cut of jaw seemed suave and deliberate. The man liked to look good. Knew he looked good. Just like Georges. Which should put her on edge.
But how could she be on edge when he was the one naked and locked out, her tiny jacket his only protection...
‘I think it looks better on you,’ she murmured, a teasing quirk to her lips.
He chuckled, his pecs giving a delightful ripple that had her palms tingling against her arms.
‘Once again, I do apologise. I’m sure this is the last thing you wanted to come home to.’
‘You’re just lucky it’s me and not Louis. I don’t think he would have been so kind as to offer out any form of a shield.’
‘Louis is a friend of yours?’
‘Oui. He’s kindly gifted me his place until I...’ Her gaze drifted to the Champs-Élysées beyond the glass as her thoughts drifted to her unpleasant reality and she beat them back. ‘Until I can find myself a more permanent home.’
With a career that she had yet to get off the ground...
‘Are you looking to stay in Paris?’
She frowned at him. Did he really not recognise her?
At first, she’d been too stunned by his nakedness to think about him recognising her. Then she’d been too caught up in getting him covered up. But with him calling her ‘Cassie’ and the continued ease? An ease that shouldn’t really exist. He was still very much naked, and her jacket wasn’t covering all that much. And seriously, those abs and those legs...they looked like they could crack a—
‘Cassie?’
Gulp. She tugged her gaze back to his. ‘Pardonnez-moi.’ She really wasn’t used to such a fine specimen of a man this close and this naked. ‘What were you saying?’
His eyes lit with something—something she wasn’t all too sure she should be identifying with. ‘I was asking if you’re looking to stay in Paris?’
‘I’m looking to stay in...’ she repeated dumbly, wondering if she could stay a whole lot longer if these were the kind of encounters she might experience with the owner of her current abode...which was a wholly inappropriate thought to be having. Once again, she blamed Beni’s excellent martinis.
And thank heaven for the ping of the elevator at that precise moment.
She sprang back. ‘Vincent!’
Hugo’s mouth, a rather deliciously full mouth for a man, quirked to the left and flashed a dimple. ‘Funny place that...?’
‘I should let you get back to your bed.’ She backed up, all the way to Louis’s door, scrambling for the key in her handbag. ‘I hope your sleep is much more restful from here on out, Mr Chevalier.’
‘Wait! Your jacket...’
She waved him away—oh, God no—eyes anywhere but on him as she fumbled over the lock. Telling Vincent the situation over the phone was one thing, having Vincent witness the ex-Princess of Sérignone in a deserted hallway with the naked hotelier, aka his boss, was something else.
Especially with the flush of colour she was now sporting from the chest up.
The door finally sprang open and she sprang in.
‘Goodnight, Mr Chevalier. Sweet dreams!’
Because she was sure to have plenty.
Though perhaps sweet was the wrong descriptor for the hot and tangled mess of Cassie’s sheets that night...