Page 143 of Money Reigns
His hands skim down my waist, over my hips, anchoring me.
“…so I can peel this dress off you myself.”
My pulse stutters. My body answers before I can speak.
Paris outside.
Warren Beaumont wrapped around me inside.
And for one dizzying moment, I don’t know which one is more dangerous.
***
The car slows, tires whispering against smooth cobblestone. My breath catches as the wrought-iron gates rise in front of us, tall and black and gleaming like something out of a period drama. Beyond them, stone. Not just a house. A mansion.
An hôtel particulier, I think I heard Warren call it. But that doesn’t prepare me for this.
The gates swing inward and the driver eases us through. The courtyard opens like a secret garden, perfect rows of trimmed hedges, white roses climbing the walls, every detail manicured within an inch of its life.
My chest tightens. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous. But there’s nothing warm about it. Even the flowers look like they’ve been told how to bloom.
I lean closer to the window, whispering, “This doesn’t even look real.”
Beside me, Warren doesn’t move. His hand rests over mine, solid, unmoving, but his jaw is tight. Too tight.
The car stops in front of wide stone steps. I tilt my head back to take it all in—the tall windows, the carved balconies, the crest above the massive front doors. It looks like it was built to outlast time itself. Built to judge anyone walking through those doors.
I suddenly feel small in my fancy dress. Like a girl playing dress up who has no business being here.
The driver gets out, circles the car. Warren beats him to it, opening my door himself. His hand extends, palm up, commanding and protective at once.
“Olivia.” His voice is low. A reminder. A promise.
I slip my hand into his, and the second my heel hits the stone, his arm comes around my waist. He pulls me in, grounding me before I can spin too far into my own head.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear. His scent curls around me, sharper here, against the cold Parisnight. “Remember what I said, we go in, smile, eat their dinner, then we’re gone. Back to the hotel. Just you and me.”
I nod, though my stomach still twists.
Warren leads me up the steps, his hand firm at the small of my back. The massive doors swing open before he even reaches for them.
A butler stands there, tall, gray, and impossibly formal, bowing just enough to make me feel like I’ve stepped into another century. “Monsieur Beaumont. Mademoiselle.”
The foyer unfolds like a cathedral—soaring ceilings, marble floors that gleam under the light of an enormous chandelier, and portraits on the walls that all seem to look down their noses at me.
I’m still trying to take it in when she appears.
Vivienne Beaumont glides into the room, tall, thin, every movement deliberate. Her hair, dark chestnut with not a strand out of place, frames a face that’s sharp in a way beauty can be when it turns to intimidation.
She doesn’t look at me at first. She goes straight to her son, kissing Warren once on each cheek. “You’re late,” she says, her voice soft, but laced with disapproval sharp enough to cut. “Your brothers arrived twenty minutes ago.”
Then her eyes trail to me. Assessing. Calculating.
“And who is this?”
Warren doesn’t flinch. His arm tightens around my waist. His voice is steady, deliberate.
“Olivia Baker. She’s mine.”
