Page 92 of Charmingly Obsessed
She’s laughing. A soft, breathless, beautiful sound.
She’s laughing, and I am dying…
36
Chapter 36 Mykola
Before heading to our lunch at Guy Savoy, I take care of some… off-the-books business. On the other side of the river.
There’s an exclusive members-only club in Paris, a Soho House outpost, and I’m willing to bet it’s where I’ll find the elusive Vesuvius.
My brilliant, beautiful, and occasionally naive wife thinks I’m doing absolutelynothingto prepare for our upcoming, high-stakes meeting with Royce.
She simply doesn’t know that all it really takes to get any invitation I need, to open any door I want, is to track down the legendary art world fixer and information broker,the Collector, Vesuvius Rodin. Well, that, and a quick, discreet call to my Centurion card’s dedicated concierge service.
But Vesuvius, with his network of spies and his encyclopedic knowledge of secrets, has more real, tangible influence than the entire bank.
“Oh, it’s a girl!” I exclaim with genuine delight when Nyogo, the perpetually cheerful, and surprisingly well-informed, head doorman at Soho House, proudly shows me pictures of his newborn daughter on his phone. “Look at you! Now you’ve got three queens in one family!”
“One of them is definitely the queen of troublemakers, Monsieur Mykola,” he groans, adjusting the collar of his ever-present, impeccably tailored doorman’s coat. “She has her mother’s lungs. So, when will we see you join our humble, sleep-deprived ranks?”
“You’ve already heard the news, my friend,” I pat his broad shoulder. “Oh, the ‘work’ is in full swing, believe me. We’re hoping to produce a playmate for your little princess. Lock in that best-friend contract early… maybe even a marriage contract down the line.”
“You must introduce me to your lady, Monsieur!” he calls after me as I cross the busy, cobblestoned street diagonally, dodging a swarm of angry-looking Vespas.
“Consider it done, Nyogo! We’re in town for two weeks! We’ll be back!”
I keep a close, almost obsessive eye on the numbers on my phone’s lock screen – the time. I don’t particularly want to be late for my meeting with Diana back at the hotel. She’s never late. For anything. I swear, punctuality is hard-coded into her DNA.
But I’ll probably be late anyway.
Because I make a quick, impulsive stop at a charming, old-world children’s bookstore I happen to pass. There’s a particular series of intricate, beautifully illustrated coloring books an eccentric art collector I know raved to me about for half anevening during a communal, and very boozy, dinner in Fiji. A total exclusive. Limited edition. Diana will love it.
If being a husband is a full-time job, then sign me up as a goddamn careerist. I’m aiming for Employee of the Fucking Century.
Vesuvius, it turns out, has apparently grown too good for Soho House now. So typical of him. Fine. There’s a decent chance I’ll run into the slippery bastard at the art gala instead. I’ll corner him there.
I race back to the hotel, leaving Hugo, my Parisian driver, and the car behind. It’s faster on foot at this hour, through the tangled, congested streets of the city.
I don’t wait for her at the hotel’s ridiculously chic, and notoriously overpriced, bar. I stroll deeper into the opulent, cavernous lobby instead. Hoping to… intercept her. By the main elevator bank.
But she’s already coming down the grand, sweeping marble staircase. And that pushy, overly familiar, blonde American guest relations manager, Kelly, is talking to her. Again. Diana’s shoulders are set in a straight, rigid line. Her smile is polite, but tight.
I wait, lingering in a shadowed alcove, until that American woman finally, reluctantly, leaves.
I watch as Diana turns, heading towards the lobby bar, towards me.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I say, stepping out of the shadows, my voice a low, teasing purr, deliberately startling her. “What’s your name? Does your already impressive wardrobe, perhaps, require a new drawer? A woman with your style must be fighting for closet space. I happen to have an empty half.”
She’s walking ahead of me, carrying a serious-looking leather tote bag. She’s dressed in a chic, tailored blazer, her hair pulledback into an old-fashioned, endearingly playful ponytail that bounces with every step.
Her public face is flawless, as always. Composed. Elegant. Unreadable.
I start walking backward in front of her, matching her steps, doing my best to charm, to cajole, to win her over. Again.
“My husband is a very jealous man,” she says, her voice curt, her gaze fixed straight ahead, as she shifts the heavy bag to her other hand.
I circle around to her other side, falling into step beside her. “Not an idiot, then, your husband. But I’ll be more jealous. And,” I add, leaning in closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I run much faster.”
