Marry Lies: Prologue

The Fountain, Part One

Miles

Paris, One Year Ago

You’d think taking a three a.m. stroll around the Eiffel Tower would lend me some solitude and quality alone time. Instead, there’s a naked woman a hundred feet away from me, traipsing through the Fountain of Warsaw at Les Jardins du Trocadero. I’d watched her with interest from a couple hundred yards away as she set her things on the ground and quickly stripped down to nothing. Averting my gaze like a gentleman, I began walking in the other direction, but then I stopped.

I suppose you could say my curiosity got the best of me, as it always does.

My opinion of the general public is low. People are unreliable, insatiable, and self-interested. Of course, that also includes me, but I’m just delusional enough to consider myself smarter than most people. It’s rare for something to pull me out of my structured routine—rare for something to pique my interest. Once it does, I have to see it through.

If I gave into every whim, I’d never get anything done.

Which is why I’m both fascinated and irritated with the naked woman in the fountain—especially because she’s leaning her head back and smiling.

I’m not naive. I know every large city has its fair share of miscreants. Still, something about that large, infectious smile has me taking a few steps toward her. There are a couple of other people passing through the Jardin, but otherwise, it’s just me and this lunatic. As I get closer, I realize she’s submerged past her neck, so I feel less like a voyeur as I walk closer. The first thing I notice is that she’s young. Pretty, but in an objective sort of way. Not my type. She has curly, blonde hair piled up on top of her head, and she looks carefree and at peace.

The way she’s floating, completely still in the water, uncaring…

I could never do that.

I could never do something so stark raving mad.

A flurry of emotions pass through me: wonder, intrigue, envy… and then that envy twists around inside of me and turns into resentment. I will never get that luxury, even if I wanted it.

I could never let people see me. All of me.

When I’m about twenty feet away, I stop walking. A small part of me wants to get closer to ask her what the hell she’s doing. Surely there must be a reason. But the other part of me is telling me to walk away.

What could I possibly have to say to her?

And more importantly, why does a very small part of me want to talk to her?

This is the problem with my curiosities. I’m focused and eagle-eyed. No one else is looking at the naked woman. The people around us haven’t noticed. But when something catches my attention, I can’t forget about it. I can’t help but look. I can’t help but want it.

As a little boy, I once saw this teddy bear in the shops of Beverly Hills. It was small, and it had a little red beret on its head. I thought about that bear for days. Weeks. I begged my mother to take me back so I could get it. Chase, one of my younger brothers, kept trying to show me all of his shiny, new toys to make me feel better.

I didn’t want more toys.

I wanted one special toy.

So in a way, whenever I feel that same tug of longing, that same burning hunger, almost nothing can stop me from pursuing it.

And yes, I went back for that bear. It was my favorite toy for years. I’m sure a therapist would be able to connect the dots between my quiet, scheming mind as a child, and becoming the CEO of my own firm by the time I was twenty-five. I never settle for less.

“Aren’t you boiling in that suit?”

Her voice startles me—the British accent is soft and lilting. I press my lips together and refuse to tell her that yes, I’ve been boiling all day. Paris isn’t usually so hot in October, and yet it was abnormally warm today.

“I’m fine.” I rock back on my heels as she tips her head slightly backward, exposing her neck.

Just as I open my mouth to ask about the fact that she’s skinny dipping in a very public—and probably very germ-infested public fountain—she speaks.

“Let me guess,” she says brightly. “You’re American?”

I nod. “What gave me away?”

“The suit, as well as the general air of importance and arrogance.” I open my mouth to argue, but she beats me to it. “Here on business, then?”

“I guess you could call it a business trip,” I tell her, walking closer.

If you can count visiting my father as a business trip.

“What brings you to the Eiffel Tower in the middle of the night?”

I step closer, letting my eyes rove over her. The dark water is hiding anything indecent, but the light from the Eiffel Tower highlights the softness of her exposed body, the way her skin glows with pale gold undertones.

I can’t stop staring at the way the shadows fill the hollow of her neck. Her smile grows with each passing second, like she knows I’m captivated against my will. There’s both a delicacy and a strength in her smile—like I shouldn’t be watching her.

Which, of course, makes me want to watch more.

“I can’t sleep,” I tell her honestly.

“Me either.” She stares at me as she floats in the water. Her eyes wander over my suit. “I don’t see a wedding ring, so I’m going to assume you’re single.” I open my mouth to retort but she continues down her list of assumptions. “And you’ve walked over to me, which is a red flag. If there weren’t other people around, I might find it creepy. But… based on that forehead crease and the way you’re frowning, I’m going to assume you often wallow in melancholy, hence the middle-of-the-night stroll.”

“I don’t wallow in melancholy—”

“Well, maybe not entirely. You’re here talking to me, so there’s something interesting about you somewhere underneath that stuffy suit. Am I right?”

My lips twitch but I don’t smile. I don’t particularly enjoy that she was able to size me up so easily. Normally I’m the one sizing people up.

“I can neither confirm nor deny your assumption.”

She snorts. “You sound like all the posh blokes in London. I can neither confirm nor deny…” she trails off, mocking me.

“Do you enjoy hearing yourself talk?” I ask briskly.

“Some people lack the ability to laugh at themselves. That’s where I come in,” she teases.

I stare at her and clench my jaw. Is she serious? She’s the one swimming naked in a fucking fountain.

If anyone has the right to judge, it’s me.

“I hear there are public showers at the train station,” I bite back. “In case you didn’t know that. I can only assume you’re either without a home or completely unhinged.”

She laughs. “Of course you would think that. It’s called having fun. Have you ever heard of it? Try not to spontaneously combust.”

I glower at her. “You’re ridiculous, do you know that?”

“I’m well aware.”

My eye twitches. I slowly walk closer until I’m at the edge of the fountain, and I glance over to the pile of hot pink clothes on the ledge. Such an assaulting color, just like her personality.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your fun,” I say quickly, glaring at her before turning around.

“Isn’t there anything you want to do before you…” she trails off. “Some big adventure, or something simple like getting a tattoo?”

I spin back around to face her. “Oh, so we’re getting deep now? Alright. The answer is yes, of course there are still things I want to do. And how do you know I don’t already have a tattoo?”

She laughs again, pulling her hair out of her bun and dipping it into the water so that it floats behind her. “Do you?”

Before I can bark a response, she stands, exposing her top half.

I immediately avert my eyes and listen to her wet footsteps as she heads toward her clothes. I sneak a quick glance a few seconds later. Her back is to me, clad only in high-cut underwear. I begin to salivate as I take in her round ass, her strong thighs…

My lips part as she slides the tank top over her head and down her torso. As she busies herself fixing the fabric, I have time to take in the backs of her thighs, her hourglass shape, and the way her wet hair sticks to her straight spine. I look away again.

“Thank you for being a gentleman,” she says a minute later, and I snap my eyes up to hers. She’s grinning as she slides her feet into the sandals laying by the edge of the fountain, fully clothed in pink sweatpants.

“A warning would’ve been nice,” I grit out. But I don’t regret it.

“And miss seeing that expression on your face?” she teases, tying a matching pink zip up sweatshirt around her waist. Her hair is still dripping, creating wet spots on her white tank top. The water makes the material transparent, and I get a brief glimpse of pert, little nipples before she crosses her arms over her chest.

Well, fuck me.

“What expression?” I ask, keeping my tone serious.

She giggles. “That one.”

I frown. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

This makes her laugh more. “God, you really are anal-retentive, aren’t you?”

Letting out a frustrated breath, I shake my head before rubbing the back of my neck. “Compared to what? You? I’m sorry but I’m not about to strip down and show off my cock to random strangers.”

I’d never let random strangers ogle me.

That same flurry of resentment twists through me at the thought. Even if I wanted to be carefree, I couldn’t.

She grabs her purse and walks over to me. I take a step back as she approaches, but then I stop moving as she gets closer. When she’s a few feet away, my eyes rove over her face, spying a small beauty mark on her left cheek. Her high cheekbones are glowing in the light of the Eiffel Tower, and the corners of her mouth are turned upward. I try not to notice her delicious, peach-shaped ass and the way her sweatpants cinch at her waist, accentuating her curves. Her wet hair is curling around her hairline, the color so blonde it’s nearly white.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she asks, her eyes studying my face. I’m not sure I like being scrutinized by her. “Do you have any tattoos?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Not surprising,” she breathes, almost wistfully. “Why mar that perfect body with ink,” she adds, teasing.

How ironic. I’m already marred.

My jaw ticks. I should just walk away. She’s a nobody. Just a random stranger.

I cock my head. “You’re a hypocrite, you know.”

Something defiant sparks behind her eyes. “Oh really? How so?”

I don’t particularly enjoy the fact that I always have to be right. I’ve learned to read people over the years. In my line of work, I need to be able to sense when someone is uncomfortable. I’m not proud of the fact that I use it to my advantage. I am cunning, and I know exactly what to say and how to word it. Others might see me as manipulative. But I consider myself driven. And in this case, it’s clear that this woman is hiding something. I’m not sure what, but I intend to find out.

“You’re here at three in the morning when the Jardin is empty. If you really wanted to make an impact, you’d be here at noon on a Saturday,” I finish smugly.

“I’m not here to make a statement,” she retorts. “I’m here for me.”

I step closer, and I see the way she inhales sharply at my close proximity. The ball is in my court again, where it belongs.

“And what reason could you possibly have?”

She swallows, and I watch the way her throat bobs. I probably shouldn’t be scrutinizing her so harshly. But her words got under my skin. I like to think I’m above the bullshit of stereotypes. That I’m different. That I don’t care about inferior things.

But she’s catalogued me so easily.

“Go on, then,” I say, my jaw tight.

Her shoulders lower slightly. “It’s just something I wanted to check off of a list,” she says simply.

The zest is gone, and suddenly, her body language is all different than before. Physically deflated.

And fuck. It makes me feel… guilty. Like I owe her an apology.

But I don’t owe her a damn thing.

“Well, I should go,” she says quickly, looking at me. “Enjoy the rest of your stay in Paris. Hopefully it will be less eventful for your buttoned-up persona. Wouldn’t want you to spontaneously combust, after all.”

I open and close my mouth. The audacity—

“Doubtful,” I retort. “I loathe Paris.”

Now she’s looking at me like I murdered a brood of puppies.

“Bloody hell. Are you telling me there’s a person in existence who loathes Paris? How is that possible?” she asks, astonished.

I let out a cruel laugh. “Bad memories. It was my mother’s favorite city, but my mother isn’t alive anymore, so it’s not like I can share it with her. And my father…” I snap my mouth shut. Why the hell am I telling her all of this?

She’s quiet, and when I look back at her, she’s still staring at me like she’s trying to figure me out. Her nose is slightly wrinkled, and her eyes are narrowed and disbelieving as they search my face.

“I can’t believe you just said you hate Paris,” she mutters.

My lips twitch. “Yes, well, we can’t all be romantics.”

She scoffs. “I’m far from a romantic. But the culture, the history, the people…”

“The culture is a marketing tactic by the French tourism board, the history is appealing, sure—but so is most of Europe—and the people are, as a whole, very rude,” I conclude, watching her face fall even further.

“Bollocks,” she utters, shaking her head. “Are you always so surly?”

I scowl down at her. “I’m not surly.”

She hollows her cheeks. “Whatever you say.”

“You don’t know me.”

Walk away, Miles. The bright, shiny toy is not worth it.

Crossing her arms, she arches a brow. “You’re wearing a Prada suit, Dior loafers, and your Cartier watch is obnoxiously expensive. I may not know you, but I know your type.”

I bite my tongue as I look down at my cufflinks, adjusting them to give myself a chance to retort. It takes a lot to ruffle my feathers, but when they’re ruffled …

“Do you often make assumptions about people you’ve just met?” I ask, my voice frosty.

She doesn’t cower or falter. Instead, she stands up straighter and glares right at me.

“Was I wrong?” she counters, glancing down at her painted nails as if she’s bored. Jesus, even her nails are bright fucking pink. “I happen to know a lot of blokes like you. London is full of them.”

I huff a laugh and shake my head. “You’re ridiculous.” Rubbing my neck, I glower down at her. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m probably worse than the men you know.” Her eyes widen slightly, and I enjoy the way she physically shrinks a bit at my words. “You seem to have me all figured out. So, tell me, who are you?” I ask, tilting my head.

She gives me that unsure look again. The one that makes me feel irrationally angry at myself for making her uncomfortable.

Fuck, what am I doing? Starting a fight with some woman in the middle of the night?

Just as I open my mouth to apologize, an older man walks up to us with an armful of bracelets to sell.

“No, thank you,” I tell him, grabbing the blonde’s arm and dragging her to the other side of the fountain.

“He probably saw your fancy watch from a mile away,” she says, laughing once we stop walking.

I clench my jaw when I stare down at her. “Right. And I’m sure he hardly noticed the naked woman,” I deadpan.

That shuts her up.

“When do you leave Paris?” she asks. Her wide, curious blue eyes find mine. There’s something hopeful in them. And fuck me, the irritation melts away.

“Tomorrow. Or, later today, I suppose. I’ve been here two days too many.”

Her lips press together into a playful pout. “No wonder you don’t like Paris. You’ve hardly been here long enough to appreciate it.”

“I’ve been to Paris plenty of times, and I always prefer to leave as soon as possible.”

She makes a noise that sounds halfway between indignance and annoyance. “Well, it seems I can’t convince you otherwise.” Her eyes are twinkling as she looks back up at me. “Have a safe flight home.”

I bite the inside of my cheek as she turns and walks away. But some small, dead part of me wishes to continue arguing with her. My trips to Paris are depressing and uneventful, and for whatever reason, I’ve enjoyed the banter between us.

Fuck, maybe I need more friends.

I speak before I can think. “Convince me? You haven’t convinced me of anything except how not to engage with the naked woman in the fountain.”

I see her stiffen a few feet away. She spins around, smiling.

It’s like she smiles with her whole body. Open, accessible, lively.

She’s the complete opposite of me—but for some reason, I can’t ignore the magnetic pull between us.

“Oh, look who’s being cheeky,” she says, crossing her arms. “Truthfully, I didn’t think you had it in you with that stick shoved so far up your arse.”

I chuckle, feeling the tension of my whole body relax at her words. At our stupid argument. That familiar, hungry tug in my navel makes me take a step forward. And then another. I take in her posture—her narrow waist and wide hips. Her slender neck. Her pillowy lips. Her hair that’s starting to dry in loose ringlets and how her curls are twisted and crinkled across her forehead. She is delicate and ethereal. Something about her plucks some chord inside of me, and I scrutinize her face harder.

I don’t know her, but I can’t stop the curiosity eating at me. I can’t stop engaging. It’s like Icarus and the sun.

Maybe this could be a fun fling.

One night of revelry before I go home.

Like I said before, she’s not my type, but a small part of me wants to prove her wrong.

I can be fun. I know how to have fun.

I just don’t have time for fun. But here? Now?

Why not?

I can show her a good time.

If she’ll have me, that is.

My lips tug into the cocky smirk—the same one I can weaponize so easily when I want to—and I take a step closer.

“Convince me, then,” I murmur, holding my hands out in front of me as a show of my surrender. “If you had half a day in Paris, what would you do?”

She seems a bit unsure as I move closer—so close that I could reach out and touch her face. But instead of retreating, she takes a tiny step into me.

“I’d spend the day wandering around Île Saint-Louis. It’s a neighborhood on a small island in the middle of the Seine. I’d grab some ice cream at Berthillon, and I would just sit on a bench and soak it all up.” She has a far off look on her face as she spouts off her favorite things to do.

“You’d sit and eat ice cream?” I ask skeptically. “You wouldn’t go anywhere else?”

She shrugs, and her face loses its brightness for a second as she pulls her lower lip between her teeth.

“I don’t go places in Paris. I let Paris come to me.”

I roll my eyes. “Really? Ice cream?”

She arches a blonde brow. “Have you tried it?”

“No, but—”

“Then you can’t form a proper opinion, can you?”

Being this close to her, I can smell her perfume. It’s light. Classic. A hint of jasmine.

I’m surprised she doesn’t smell like a swamp monster.

Still, if I’m going to win her over, I need to be nicer. Cocking my head slightly, I let my eyes bore into hers. I’m not as cocky as Chase, but I’ve also never been rejected. I know that objectively, I am good looking, and I can smooth-talk my way into and out of any situation. I’m particular about my sexual partners and the things I like to do in bed, which means I don’t sleep around much. But, when I decide I want someone—for whatever purpose—I make it happen with whatever I have at my disposal.

Which is why I take a small step forward. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and a lovely scarlet flush spreads across her cheeks and chest. Licking her lips, her eyes grow slightly darker when I look down at her.

“If wandering around Île Saint-Louis is your favorite thing to do, will I be seeing you there later today?” I ask, smirking. “Or, perhaps, you’d like to come back to my apartment to dry off?” I add boldly.

Her pupils darken. “I’d like that,” she says slowly, tilting her head slightly as she smiles up at me.

And fuck me, because that smile might be the death of me.

I reach out for her elbow and pull her to the street. “My driver is off tonight, but I can call us a taxi,” I tell her, feeling impatient and frenzied.

Arguing with her was … exhilarating.

I can only imagine what she’s like in bed, and my cock throbs when I think about bending her over and showing her just how spontaneous I can be.

We both walk to the avenue in silence, but every time I look over at her, her bottom lip is between her teeth, and her eyes are bright with anticipation, like we’re both being driven by the same sense of urgency. And every time our eyes meet, the pull becomes stronger.

This is either the dumbest or best thing I’ve ever done.

When we get to Av. des Nations Unies, I flag down the first taxi that I see. As soon as it pulls to the curb, I open the door and gesture for her to climb inside first.

Brushing against the side of my body as she gets in, her eyes meet mine for a split second. My cock stirs at her hooded eyelids and those red lips. Everything inside of me pulsates, and there’s something undeniably alluring about the way she’s watching me.

I tell the driver the address of my apartment quickly as I climb in behind her. I’m barely seated before she climbs on top of me, wrapping her legs around my hips and straddling me. My arms encircle her automatically, and before I can speak, she kisses me.

I groan as I buck up into her, my hands squeezing her thighs and moving her against me. Her soft curves mold to the contours of my body, and I reach up into her damp curls, fisting a handful. She’s kissing me with a hunger I can’t quite place. Not that I care. I move my mouth against hers, tongue searching as I devour her soft lips.

“Pas dans le taxi!” the driver says loudly.

We both ignore him as her hands come to the placket of my suit pants, bypassing my shirt and jacket completely.

Good girl.

I let her unbuckle my belt, thrusting against her small hands. My cock is straining against my boxers, and the only thing I care about right now is tasting her, feeling her, driving her onto my shaft—

“Ceci est votre dernier avertissement!” the driver warns.

She sighs with pleasure against my lips, and I wonder if the driver is going to physically kick us out, or if he’s spewing empty threats. Because I can’t seem to tear my lips away from hers—can’t seem to find any fucks left to give.

I let out a low chuckle when I think of how I’ve never been in the position of being watched.

Normally, I’m the one watching.

“Fuck,” she whispers, her breath shaky. Her hands fumble with the zipper of my pants. “I can’t wait,” she says breathlessly.

Lightning bolts of excitement flash through me. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone so enthusiastic to be with me, and it turns me the fuck on.

“You want me to fuck you here?” I mumble, my lips wandering to her jaw and sucking the soft flesh into my mouth, tasting her.

“Yes,” she whispers.

She tastes like heaven and hell, a nectar all my own, like it was made for me.

A soft whimper escapes her lips as her hands pull at my zipper.

I throw my head back in ecstasy, but she grabs me and pulls me to her lips for another kiss. My hands find the band of her sweatpants at the same time her hand reaches into my suit pants. Breathing heavily, I wait for her to pull my cock out, not caring that we’re in public.

Not caring about anything but being inside of her.

But instead of tugging my cock free, she pulls away from my lips as her eyes flick between mine, as if asking permission.

“Yes, fuck yes,” I tell her impatiently.

Giving me a sly smile, her hand comes to my chest, and I go still under her touch. I don’t realize her intentions until it’s too late—until her little fingers are unbuttoning the collar of my shirt.

No, no, no.

My hand flies up to grab her wrist, intending to wrench it away, but at that exact moment, the taxi lurches to a stop.

“Sortez! Sortez!” the taxi driver yells, and the lights come on inside the cab.

In slow motion, her bright eyes rove over my face, and then, to my horror, they land on the bit of scar tissue visible above my shirt collar, trailing the thick, jagged line to my jaw. It probably wasn’t visible by the fountain, but in the stark, artificial light, I’m sure it stands out.

Shock—or probably revulsion, more likely—is evident in her delicate features.

I reach over for the handle of the door, wrenching the door open and pushing her off me a little too roughly. She stumbles out of the cab before me. I throw forty euros at the driver, and he looks up at me in surprise just before I slam the door.

When I stand up and the taxi speeds off, my eyes find hers. In the darkness of the street, she looks so small and vulnerable. Gone is the playful, bright light behind them. Her arms are crossed, and she’s looking down at her feet.

Like she’s ashamed.

“I’ll hail you another taxi,” I say gruffly, my eyes flicking up to the street.

“Okay, thanks.” She clears her throat and takes a step back, some kind of unreadable expression passing over her face. Bowing her head, she keeps her eyes on the ground as shame fills me, turning my skin hot and fiery with humiliation. “I’m sorry if I came on too strong,” she adds. “I’m not far from here. I don’t mind walking.”

When she looks up at me, her expression is … different. Closed off. Sad. With furrowed brows, she takes another step back, her eyes glancing once again at my scars. That tug gets stronger the further away she gets—like I’m being pulled by some invisible string—and fuck, it’s a shitty feeling knowing that she’s repulsed by me.

She wouldn’t be the first.

I’m just about to snap back with something cruel and rude—something about how stupid it would be to walk home alone this late—when she takes another step away and opens her mouth.

“If you do go to Berthillon, get the caramel-ginger.”

And with that, she turns around and walks away, leaving me feeling wholly unsatisfied and entirely dejected for the first time in my life.

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