Page 95 of Wreck Me

We come to a stop outside the chateau.

It’s half the size of my house in Dublin, but it has a certain charm. Lavender bushes flank the driveway, their scent brushing my nostrils as the chauffeur opens the door for us.

A large wooden front door swings open and Lucien appears, clutching a glass of red wine in his hand. Maybe if he hadn’t been drinking his profits, and making bad investments along the way, he might not have been in the position where he had to sell. Oh well, his loss is our gain.

The rumour is that, regardless of how many generationsof the Moreaus have owned the family business, his wife is more than happy to part with it. As a native New Yorker, she’s desperate to get back to her roots, especially now her son has established a business there.

‘Bonjour! It’s five o’clock somewhere, non?’ Lucien lifts his glass in a toast as I help Scarlett out the car. She looks positively delectable in a cream linen dress that stops an inch above her knees. Her tanned, toned calves are accentuated by heeled wedges. She looks every bit the billionaire's wife. And I can’t wait to make her precisely that.

‘Amen to that.’ It’s the kind of axiom that keeps the whiskey–and apparently wine–corporations in business.

I introduce Scarlett as I wrap an arm around her shoulders and we take the steps together.

Scarlett extends her hand but instead of shaking it, Lucien brings it to his lips and presses a lingering kiss on the back of it.

‘My darling, it is a pleasure to meet you.’ His hazel eyes rove all over her as she offers a polite smile. ‘I’ll greet you the French way.’ The cheeky cunt actually presses his weathered lips to my wife-to-be’s cheek. And then again on the other one.

A growl rumbles in my chest. ‘Thank fuck we’re not French. It’s safer for everyone.’

Laughter rolls from Lucien.

I fire him a potent glare and he stops abruptly. ‘Let me give you the tour,’ he says, ushering is inside. We step into a hallway which boasts high ceilings, exposed beams and terracotta tiled floors. It’s exactly as I imagined it.

Lucien gives us both a glass of wine for the tour. We start in a grand salon with an enormous fireplace. Scarlett’s eyes glaze as she stares at the ashes like she’s seeing something that isn't there.

I place a hand on her lower back and she jumps. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes. Sorry.’ Her fingers play with the cross around her neck that she refuses to remove. I make a mental note to ask her about it as Lucien leads us to the next room, a formal dining room, half the size of my own. It’s quaint, but I kind of like it. Judging by Scarlett’s coos, she does too.

Perhaps, I’ll keep this as a holiday home for us. There’s no point being the oldest Beckett if I can’t have first dibs on the company’s acquisitions.

Lucien shows us to our room to freshen up and tells us to make ourselves at home, encouraging us to take a look around the grounds on our own. The walls are painted a sunshine yellow and there’s a balcony offering stunning views of the sprawling estate.

‘He’s quite a character,’ Scarlett says, opening her suitcase.

The memory of him kissing her sets my jaw tense. ‘He’s either brave or stupid.’

‘Oh relax, the man is old enough to be my father,’ she scolds.

‘We both know you don’t mind an age gap.’ I arch my eyebrows pointedly.

‘There’s anolderman and anoldman.’ She tuts, changing into a pair of flat pumps.

‘I don’t like people touching what’s mine.’ I cross the room and place my hands on her hips. She tilts her face up, reaches on her tiptoes and kisses my lips.

I trace a finger along her jawline, then lower over her long elegant neck. ‘When I first saw you dance, all I could think about was getting you on your knees for me, but the truth is, it’s you who brings me to my knees. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for you.’ I lower my fingers to the silky soft skin on her chest and inch them between her breasts.

‘Are you love birds okay in there?’ Lucien’s voice travels from along the corridor.

‘We would be if you’d leave me long enough to bury myself in my woman,’ I hiss.

This is why, traditionally, I don’t stay in other people’s houses. But with no hotels within forty miles, it was a matter of practicality, as well as politeness.

‘We’re fine. Just coming,’ Scarlett singsongs back loudly as I scowl. ‘Where are your manners?’ she whispers to me.

‘That was what I suspected.’ Lucien chuckles. Dirty old man.

‘Where arehismanners?’ My thumb jerks towards the door and our host’s echoing laughter.

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