Saving His Blackmailed Lover. Maureen Child

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      Mac led Adam toward his truck while Violet stayed behind with Deacon and Cecelia. “I’m so sorry, Cecelia,” she said. “This whole thing with Maverick is getting out of hand. I can’t imagine who would want to hurt everyone so badly. And the way people reacted...it’s not right.”

      Cecelia came out from behind Deacon, still clinging to his arm. “Thank you, Violet.”

      The redhead just nodded sadly and followed Mac and Adam out into the parking lot. Cecelia watched her go with a heavy sigh. “There goes one of the five people in town who hasn’t turned on me.”

      He hated hearing that kind of defeat from her. Cecelia was his fighter. He wasn’t about to let Maverick beat her down. “You know what you need?” Deacon asked. “You need to get away from here.”

      She nodded. “Yeah, I’d like to go home if you don’t mind.”

      Home wouldn’t help. Word about her would just spread through town like wildfire, and soon everyone would know. Her parents would show up lamenting how embarrassing this was for them and making Cecelia feel even worse. Her friends would drop in to commiserate and reopen the wounds she was struggling to heal. No, she needed to get the hell out of Royal for a few days.

      “I have another idea.” Deacon took her hand and led her to his car. After the scene with Adam, he was too worried to leave her alone in case a partygoer came out of the club and had something nasty to say. When they got to his car, he opened the door and helped her in. “You’re not going home.”

      She looked at him in surprise. “I’m not? Where are we going, then? To your place?”

      Deacon shook his head and closed her door. He climbed into his side and revved the engine. He had bigger, better plans than just hiding her away at his wood-and-stone sanctuary. “I guess you could look at it that way.”

      He pulled out of the parking lot and picked up his phone. He dialed his private jet service and made all the necessary arrangements while Cecelia sat looking confused and beat down in the seat beside him.

      Finally, he hung up and put the phone down. “It’s all handled.”

      Cecelia turned in her seat to look at him. “You said we were going to your place, but that’s back the other way. Then you have some vague conversation about going home for a few days. That doesn’t make any sense. Where are we going, Deacon?”

      He smiled, hoping this little mystery was enough to distract her from the miserable night. “Well, first we’re stopping at your place so you can pack a bag and grab your passport.”

      He turned in time to see her silvery, gray eyes widen. “My passport? Why on earth...?”

      Deacon grinned. This was a turn of events he hadn’t expected, but it was the perfect escape. She needed to get away, he wanted to show her his crown jewel...it all worked out. By the time they returned to Royal, perhaps some new gossip from Maverick would crop up and make everyone forget about Cecelia’s birth mother.

      “Yes, and once you’re packed, we’re going to the airport where a private jet is waiting to take the two of us to one of my other properties, the Hotel de Rêve.”

      Cecelia sat in shock beside him. It took a few moments before she could respond. “Deacon, your other hotel is in France.”

      He pulled into her driveway and put the Corvette into Park. “Yes. Hence the need for your passport. Pack for the French Riviera in the spring.”

      She shook her head, making her blond waves dance around her shoulders. Cecelia had really looked lovely tonight, in a beautiful and clingy gray lace dress that brought out the gray in her eyes, but he’d barely had time to appreciate it between the mingling and the drama.

      “No, Deacon, this is crazy talk. I can’t go to France tonight even if I wanted to. The Bellamy opens in two weeks. I have so much to do—”

      “Your staff has things to do,” he interrupted, “and they know what those things are. You’re not carrying furniture and wiring lamps into the wall. You’re the designer, and most of your work is handled. Shane will oversee everything else, I promise. You and I are getting out of this town for a few days to let this whole mess blow over. End of discussion.”

      The way Cecelia looked at him, he could tell it wasn’t the end of the discussion yet. “Couldn’t we just go to Houston or something to get away? Maybe New Orleans? No one would know where we were. We don’t have to go all the way to France, do we?”

      Deacon disagreed. He turned off the car and got out, opening her door. “Yes, we do.”

      “Why?” she persisted as she stood to look at him.

      “Because I don’t own a hotel in New Orleans. Now get inside and pack that bag. The plane leaves for Cannes in an hour.”

       Eight

      Cecelia woke up in a nest of soft, luxury linens with bright light streaming through the panoramic hotel room windows. Wincing from the light, she pushed herself up in bed and looked around the suite for Deacon. She could see him on the balcony reading a newspaper and drinking his café au lait at a tiny bistro table there.

      She wrapped the blanket around her naked body and padded barefoot to the sliding glass door. The view from the owner’s suite of the Hotel de Rêve was spectacular. The hotel was almost directly on the beach, with only the famous Boulevard de la Croisette separating his property from the golden sands that lined the Mediterranean Sea. To the left of the hotel was a marina filled with some the largest and most luxurious yachts she’d ever seen. To the right, beautiful, tan tourists had already taken up residence on the beach.

      The sea was a deep turquoise against the bright robin’s-egg blue of the sky. There wasn’t a cloud, a blemish, a single thing to ruin the perfection. It was almost as if the place wasn’t real. When they’d first arrived the day before, Cecelia wasn’t entirely certain that this wasn’t a delusion brought on by jet lag. But after a quick nap, Cannes was just as pretty as it had been earlier. Of course, enjoying it with the handsome—and partially clothed—hotel owner hadn’t hurt, either.

      “Bonjour, belle,” he greeted her. He was sitting in a pair of black silk pajama pants, and thankfully, he seemed to have misplaced the top. His golden tan and chiseled chest and arms were on display, and now she knew how he had gotten that dark. If she spent every morning enjoying the sun here, she might actually get a little color for her porcelain complexion, as well.

      Cecelia didn’t know why she was surprised to find that he was fluent in French, considering Deacon had lived here for several years and had to interact with guests, locals and staff, alike. She supposed it just didn’t align with the Deacon she had once known—covered in motor oil or rinsing cafeteria trays—although it suited Deacon perfectly as he was now.

      It made her wish she had kept up with her French studies after high school. She’d quickly lost most of her vocabulary and conjugation, really being able to function now only as a tourist asking for directions to the nearest restroom. “Bonjour,” she replied in her most practiced accent. “That’s about all the French I have for today.”

      Deacon laughed and folded his paper, which was also in French. СКАЧАТЬ