Page 41 of My French Love Affair

He’ll organise big events like these, he’ll book out entire beach clubs and make sure that no expense is spared when it comes to food and drink. He’s taken dozens of women on luxury shopping trips, flown them out to expensive resorts, booked five-star suites and draped them in Chanel and Cartier - all under the guise of his own generosity.

But when the bill arrives, it’smycard that’s charged.

It’s happened so many times that I’ve stopped keeping count, each time just as irritating as the last.

Still… he’s sober. At least as far as I know.

And that's what matters.

Jacques has stayed away from cocaine for a good few monthsnow. He’s still reckless, still a leech, still chasing the high of partying with the rich and famous - but if all it costs me is money, then so fucking what?

At least he’s healthy.

At least he’salive.

“You look miserable,” Jacques’ voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present.

I glance at him. He’s already got a whiskey in hand -of course he does- and a knowing smirk pulling at his lips.

“You’re lucky I’m even here,” I reply dryly, taking a sip of my water.

“Oh, come on. You love it. The biggest pre-race party in Monaco, and it’s all in your honour.”

“It’s inyourhonour,” I correct him. “You’re the one who planned this disaster. I just happen to own the fucking house.”

Jacques chuckles, clapping a hand on my shoulder.

“Exactly. And what’s the point of having all this, hm? You can’t just lock yourself away in training camps forever. You need to let loose. Enjoy yourself. Drink. Dance. Get laid.”

I arch a brow. “Is that what you’ve been doing?”

His grin widens, his eyes glinting.

“Well… I did spend last night with the brunette.”

The brunette.

I remember her from the beach club -

Because she was sitting with the blonde.

Myblonde.

The hot, sharp-tongued English woman. The one who stolemy car at the airport.

The one I’d covered in strawberry daiquiri.

I should have ignored her. That would have been the logical thing to do.

But logic had nothing to do with it. Not when I saw her walking up to the bar last night, her honey-blonde hair catching in the low light, her dress hugging just enough to make my fingers twitch.

I wasn’t the only one.

A few of the lingering men Jacques had invited into our booth and introduced me to had also taken notice. I could feel their eyes tracking her, scanning her like a potential investment.

That alone had irritated me.

So, I made sure I got to her first.

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