Page 1 of It Happened In Paris

PROLOGUE

“You’re beautiful,Viv. Adrien’s a fool. If I had a woman like you, I would—” He stopped short.

“You’d what? Marry me? Whisk me away to your castle?” I teased the suave billionaire who had been a good listener and easy to talk with. He proved exactly who I needed as I left Adrien behind at the club. Besides, I didn’t see Adrien following us. No texts or calls either. I broke up with him and it was as if I suddenly ceased to exist to him.

Well, screw that bastard.

“Yes. All of it. We’d have the best of everything. I’d ensure you led a charmed life. You’d have whatever you wanted. If you were mine.” Richard’s words were unbelievable, that a man like him would offer me, well, basically the world. This was crazy, like living a dream tonight walking through Paris with him. “Only the best for you, Viv. I promise.”

As he finished, the lights of the tower lit up above us, and we laughed at the magical moment, as if the tower knew, right then, to bless us.

He picked me up and swung me around, and when my feet hit the ground, it was more like I landed in the clouds as his lips found mine. Soft, brushing, testing at first, then ending ina tangle of tongues and passion. Richard knew how to take a woman’s breath away…

1

TRUSTING INSTINCTS

RICHARD BUCHANAN

About Seven Years Ago

Somethingabout this deal with Club Aces didn’t feel right as I reviewed every detail in my phone. I drew up a long list of pros and cons in my head, running like a lengthy bar tab.

My newest investment opportunity—outside of Buchanan Energy—had led me to Paris, the City of Love. The Bardeaux’s had been family friends with my parents, though I hadn’t spent much time with their youngest son, Adrien, the majority owner in this exclusive club serving Europe’s young elite.

My team had thoroughly vetted his plan to expand the club into Germany, London, Rome, and Madrid. On paper, the proposal looked attractive. Unfortunately, I wasn’t fond of Adrien. Throughout our lengthy negotiations, he came off as an arrogant son of a bitch—a big talker running a business desperate for a boost. It struck me as weak, leaving my decision about the deal hanging in limbo.

So I had arrived early, ahead of the party he was throwing in my honor this evening, only to sit back, observe, and get a true feel for the place; I’d see how my gut reacted.

Patrick Buchanan had always urged me to trust my instinct, convinced it was almost always right. I couldn’t have wished for a better father and mentor, and I missed him every single day.

As I’d taken over the role of CEO for our family energy company, I applied everything he had instilled in me over the years when I’d eagerly followed him to the office, and my work ethic paid off. People no longer called me “Patrick’s boy,” but by my name instead—Richard Buchanan—finally, I had earned significant respect in select New York circles.

Yet the taste for more persisted. Not more Macallan in my lead-crystal glass as I sat at the gold and marble bar of Club Aces in the heart of Paris, scrutinizing the club’s operations—but a deeper craving.

I hungered for the rush of closing another deal, for the exhilaration of winning a negotiation—and I didn’t give a damn about those preachy win-win ideals. The exchange of money left me intoxicated. Ruling the business world had become akin to a drug, and I the most consummate workaholic.

“Un autre?Another?” The bartender asked with a thick French accent, holding the bottle of Macallan at the ready to top off my glass. I nodded, then pivoted on my barstool to survey the crowd and soak in the club’s ambiance.

My father used to say that a quiet observer could learn a lot, and by the time the party kicked off, I expected to have decided. I’d either return home tomorrow with a sealed deal with Adrien or walk away with my losses.

Then a stunning woman approached, her eyes flicked first to me, then to the bartender behind me.

“Where is he?” she demanded as she leaned onto the stool beside mine. An American, it seemed—long legs, pouty red lips—and her eyes burned like blue flames.

“You should not be here, Viv.Allez. Go home,” the bartender lowered his voice, his thick French accent hissing his words.

“Oh, no? Why? So I can’t see that cheating man of mine with another woman?” she snapped.

“Don’t cause a scene.Pas ce soir.Not tonight. He won’t like it,” he warned.

“I don’t think I care anymore. Now give me a shot of tequila,” she commanded, taking over the stool like a woman ready to ignite the night.

“Non. Allez,” he replied.

“Give the woman a drink. Now,” I ordered, my tone serious.

He relented and reached for the cheap bottle.

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