She glanced down at the strappy high-heel sandals she wore along with a sack dress she’d belted at her hips. “This is nothing,” she said as he took her hand and began to walk. “You wouldn’t believe the miles I walked in heels while I was waitressing.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Waitressing?”
She grinned, happy to have surprised him. “At La Roue, in Paris.”
He hailed a cab.
“We can walk,” she said. “I understand from Francesca the penthouse is very close, isn’t that right?”
A cab snapped to a halt in front of the curb. He opened the door for her.
“You’re getting a blister on your right ankle,” he said deadpan when she gave him a questioning look. She glanced down. He was right. The skin around her ankle strap was abraded and red. When had he noticed? She sighed in relief a moment later when she settled in the air-conditioned cab and did a double take when she noticed his small smile as he studied her.
“What?”
“Tender feet,” he said. She blinked at the unexpectedly seductive sound of his deep, resonant voice. “You were always getting blisters as a girl.”
“My mother forgot to get me new shoes for the summer. I was growing like a weed that year.”
Annoyance crossed his bold features. “All that money, all those resources, and yet she neglected you,” he said. He noticed her blank expression. He shook his head slightly, banishing a bitterness that confused her.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said impulsively, hopeful at the sound of his disdain toward her mother.
“Yes.”
“You never . . . you didn’t sleep with her ever, did you? My mother?”
Her heartbeat quickened when he just stared at her for a moment. She’d wanted to ask him that very question for a long time, but also dreaded the answer.
“No. Absolutely not,” he said with quiet forcefulness.
She exhaled in relief. She nodded, believing him completely for some reason. “Because I know she probably tried to seduce you that summer when we were in Nice. Probably other times, too. It’s what she does. I’m glad to know she failed with you. She certainly never did with any of my other boyfriends,” she laughed.
He closed his eyes briefly. “Elise, I’m sorry.”
She shrugged, striving for an offhand manner. “We can’t pick our parents. Unfortunately.”
An awkward silence ensued. She suspected he was feeling sorry for her for having such a vain, substanceless mother and wished like crazy she hadn’t brought up the topic.
“Have you really started running?”
She just nodded, thankful he’d noticed her discomfort and changed the subject.
“I’m proud of you. You need something to discipline your body, your mind . . . something to make you proud.”
He held her stare. Her heart throbbed in her ears once . . . twice. Suddenly, he was looking out the window and the intimate moment had passed. She inhaled as if all the oxygen had been vacuumed out of the cab for a few seconds and abruptly replaced.
“It does make me proud,” she said, regaining her balance. “So did waitressing. Why were you surprised I worked as one?” she asked as the cab zoomed down Upper Wacker Drive.
“Because you have one of the largest trust funds in Europe, perhaps?”
“They say yours is larger.” When he didn’t respond to her provocation, she sighed. She’d heard from her mother that Lucien hadn’t touched the funds since his father’s incarceration, but obviously it wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss. She knew he’d compiled his own fortune, so he had less reason than she to worry about trust funds. “I can’t access my trust fund until I’m twenty-five,” she explained lamely.
“What will happen to your newfound work ethic when that happens?” he mused, turning in profile to her, his light eyes reflecting the rays of the sunset off the flowing river. His mildly patronizing manner irritated her. Did he still question her ability . . . her drive?
“I’ll be dutifully employed as a chef. That’s my hope. Would you like to make a bet about my dedication to my career?” she teased lightly.
“What sort of a bet?” he asked. This, too, he considered a joke. Little did he know she had plans for what she wanted to do with her fortune and her life. Good ideas. Worthy aspirations that would pay tribute to a very special man’s life.
She was just worried about having the clarity, the focus required to bring her plans to reality. She’d never done anything so . . . big before. What if, in the end, she really was like Madeline Martin—worthless fluff?
“Twenty thousand euros to me if I’m still gainfully employed as a chef one year after I have access to my trust fund and am leading a meaningful life. Twenty thousand to you if I’ve succumbed to the lures of wealth and am leading a wastrel existence.”
He turned, his gray eyes sparking. Ah, now she’d gotten his attention.
“I’ll take that bet.”
“You’re still doubting my dedication, aren’t you?”
He shrugged, and her gaze flickered with interest to his powerful chest and shoulders contrasting with a narrow waist and flat abdomen.
“I just thought the potential loss of twenty thousand euros might strengthen that dedication of yours . . . just in case you should find it running thin,” he said with a silvery sideways glance.
“I’m going to win,” she challenged, suddenly completely confident now that she’d made the bet with Lucien.
“I’m inclined to believe you.”