Page 35 of Closer

“Oh.” He grimaces. “Yeah, I did that.”

“You rude, arrogant, son of a whore.” I narrow my eyes. If looks could kill, I’d have razed him where he stood. “No apology? Nodédommagement?”

“I have another cello, it’s yours. I talked to your agent. That was clever putting her number on your card to avoid stalkers. Seems I broke a really fucking expensive instrument, huh?”

“My father gave me that ‘instrument’.” I use quotation marks to denote my distaste of the word. A cello like that is never just an instrument. It played like a dream. It had character, and charm, something he could never possess or understand. “I can never get it back.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.”

I blink in surprise. Stunned that the word “sorry” is even in his vocabulary, and annoyed because I don’t forgive him, I don’t want to, but I’m the one feeling like an arsehole all the same. “So, all of this—the plane ticket, the promise of the money—all of it was just a ruse to get me here so you can give me a cello that could not possibly be worth anywhere near as much as the one you destroyed?”

“No. I want you ... here.” His lip twitches, as if he’s fighting a smile. “To play for me.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “I don’t think you can afford me.”

“Oh, I can afford you.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take you at face value.”

He cocks his head to the side.Always so arrogant. “Why the hell wouldn’t you?”

I laugh, but quickly realise he’s dead serious when a muscle ticks in his jaw. I shake my head. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Try me.”

“You reek of wine, and ...” I wrinkle my nose and glance him over. “And body odour. This house likely isn’t even yours, and you’re a self-proclaimed rock star.”

“I’m not self-proclaimed anything. I am a fucking rock star. A multibillion-dollar recording artist.”

“That’s cute.”

His perfect dark brows arch. “Cute?”

“It’s cute that you’re defensive over your silly heavy metal music.”

“Okay, for a start, it’s not heavy metal, and it sure as fuck isn’t silly. We have millions of fans; thousands of women would kill to be standing where you are right now.”

“Thousands?” I ask sarcastically. He nods. “Then why don’t you call one of them to come play for you? I do not have time for this.”

“I’ll double it.”

“What?”

“I’ll wire half to you right now, and the rest when the week is done.”

“You’re not even wearing pants; how exactly do you plan on wiring me fifty thousand euro?”

“No, I said I’d wire half now and half when the week is up. Insurance that you won’t throw a bitch fit and leave me high and dry, and fifty thousand euro poorer.” He folds his arms across his chest and leans in the doorway with a grin that I want to slap clean off his face. The bastard still has not done up his robe, and it’s distracting. His cock is practically swaying in the breeze like the heavy pendulum of a grandfather clock. “You understand?”

“Again, you’re not wearing pants, you’ll forgive me if I can’t take anything you say seriously right now.”

“You seem awfully interested in my lack of pants, Angry French Girl, this isn’t going to be a thing for you, is it?” He brings his pipe to his lips and puffs again, this time blowing smoke rings in my face as if he were a cartoon character. “But you know what, if you’re going to be this big of a pain in my arse, maybe we should just call it quits right now?”

My heart sinks.I need that money. I’m not walking away. No matter how ... infuriating he may be. Fifty thousand euro is enough to set my family up for a long time. I could record, I could afford to take care of mon père and hire help for Maman, and best of all, I could afford to steal Bastien’s best players from his orchestra and pay them to play for me.

“No,” I snap. “Twenty-five now, and twenty-five at the end of the week.”

He nods. “And you play whenever and wherever I want?”

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