The Brookvilles

By Rianna Shaikh

A rendezvous in France finds Sophie Becks in a whirlwind of romance entwined with family gossips and overstated chateaux. Her overly austere father and her mother, the First Lady of the Brookvilles, push her in the direction of accepting the proposal of Luc: a Frenchman with exquisite taste for lifes fineries and a lifestyle she is well accustomed to.

While Sophie and her cousin Pierre jaunt to the coast of St. Jean Cap Ferrat in France, will she be tempted to reunite with her ex--an Arabian playboy--or steady herself for the oath of I do?

A life of decision awaits. Most importantly, she must choose between the love that once beckoned or her upbringing in an clat society that most can only dream of. Destiny is calling--will Sophie Becks be able to keep up in her Christian Louboutins? Or will her fathers last request throw her into a life untraveled?

Quelle vie!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jun 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480829206

Rianna Shaikh

Rianna Shaikh has been fortunate enough to be a writer in both children’s and adult literature. If she’s not writing, she’s spending her time chasing rabbits in Louboutins while sipping tea, though she would kindly suggest you do not do the same. The Brookvilles is her second novel in the Wall Street to France series.

Book preview

1

Marseille

As we traveled along the road to Marseille, I attempted to lose myself in the sweet French air and lushly romantic landscape. Was it even possible that the beauty of France could make me forget all the heartaches and loss I’d had over the last year? The waves of great despair and the complexity of the many emotions that roiled through me were no match for the company of Pierre. Spending time with my dear French cousin, Pierre, was like taking a walk through a long, winding desolate park, hoping for flower gardens and getting more endless dirt instead.

As we stopped for a rest, I wandered over to a fountain in the middle of the quaint French town. Passersby in their old torn shoes, suspenders from the 1980s, and with their vintage briefcases, attempted to smile at me; no doubt trying to see if I was a foreigner of some wealth, I imagine.

Lost in my thoughts, I was startled by the very strong and melodic voice of a man standing behind me.

"Bonjour, my beautiful lady. You are far more beautiful than the harbors in the summer and the blossoms of roses."

Smiling out of reflex, I continued to look off into the distance ahead, not sure if I had the energy or desire to encourage him, whoever he was.

Those are indeed beautiful things you speak of, but unfortunately, I’m lost in my own thoughts at the moment, I replied, not turning around.

"D’accord, he responded. Though it’s definitely nice to be in the presence of such beauty in a place of such beauty, non?"

I turned around and was struck by his intense smile and Greek godlike look in a suit. Yes, a Greek god speaking British-accented French!

I’m Sophie Becks, I offered,  …and you are? I paused, acting as if I always met strange Greek godlike, well-dressed men at fountains in the French countryside every day of my life.

I’m Chad, and unfortunately or fortunately, depending on your perspective, I’m not French, just so you know.

He stood in front of me, wearing a gray tailored suit, a dark shirt pressed to perfection, spit-shined brown shoes with some name on the silver buckle, and his dark hair shining in the sunlight of France. His face had little golden hair stubbles, and his eyes were green with hues of brown. Lost in his presence, I wanted to smack myself back to a realistic Tuesday a.m.

I’m not taken by Frenchmen, just so you know.

No, then what sort of men are you taken by? he said with a gentle smirk.

Reaching over to fix my collared shirt, he added with softness in his voice, I know that you are Pierre’s cousin, and it isn’t in the cards for us. But, needless to say, it was an absolute pleasure to meet you, he said bringing my hand up to his lips.

With a gentle, yet firm brush of his full lips on my bare hand, I tried everything I could not to swoon. Me? Swoon? Oh, yes, indeed! I had to keep my composure under all circumstances, so I looked away just as Pierre approached us.

"There you are Soph; I couldn’t find you. Oh bien, you’ve met my lawyer, Chad. Allons-y, let’s walk this way, I want to show you the next building I’m adding to my collection."

Pierre shook Chad’s hand, and Chad’s eyes met mine for just a moment more. I silently bid farewell to the fine-looking, aristocratic lawyer with the British accent.

The roads resembled a straight, dark grey cobbled path lined with tall black English lanterns at the edge of the walkways. I walked along, lost in the beauty of the French people going about their day-to-day activities.

So Sophie, how do you like this village? As the click-clack of my stiletto heels hit the cobblestone ground, I searched my own heart for an answer to his question. Hmm, I had hoped for more enthusiasm for this place, but in truth, found myself bored to shreds. Well, let’s just say that there are no stocks or men to yell at, and no million-dollar portfolios to watch …

I guess it’s lovely, you know, I muttered.

"Bien! You are beginning to like it here?" He said, nodding with more enthusiasm than a Wall Street broker.

I guess so, Pierre.

You guess? Come on, you gotta get excited about something.

Me, excited about anything? Absolutely non, non, non!

We arrived in front of a building with all the charm and grace of the Chelsea neighborhood in New York. It had shutters and iron rails, with flowerpots at the windowsills, and had handmade doors from the eighteenth century. I lowered my black Prada sunglasses, smiled at the building in admiration, and then looked at the sky above it. With the bright blues of the sky and the cotton whites of the clouds, it indeed looked like something out of a French country picture book.

Just then, a beautiful French brunette in her fifties opened the door, dressed elegantly with a silk scarf tied at her throat. It looked like it would choke her to death. How did she manage to breathe?

"Bonjour, you must be Pierre?" the beautiful woman inquired.

"Oui, bonjour, and this young lady is my dear American cousin, Sophie."

"Bien, bonjour Sophie," she replied.

We all shook hands, and then followed her through a white-paneled hallway, with black and white marble floors. Pierre’s eyes gleamed taking in all the fine details and objets d’art: the finest money could buy.

I do like this property very much; what’s your asking price? he inquired.

It’s on the market now for 6.5 million euros, the lady answered with such feigned nonchalance that I knew she was really desperate to get the sale.

That’s excellent, Pierre, I whispered in his ear. Isn’t that just pocket change for you?

He laughed and pinched my sun-kissed cheeks.

"One moment, Madame," he said to the lady, and pulled me off to the side of one of the formal downstairs spaces.

We stood in front of some silk balloon drapery that covered the French windows, and as I pulled them to the side, I could see the harbors and was shocked at how beautiful the view was.

Well, this is certainly worth the millions. Are you planning to live here, Pierre?

No, this is going to be an investment, my Sophie.

Geez! If we all invested like he did, we’d have bloody fabulous portfolios indeed!

Then I spotted the mahogany French doors that led out to the balcony and peered through them to the harbor.

Pierre! Look at this, it’s fucking outrageous!

Surely, I could have used a more refined word for such beauty, yes? Well, who cares about decorum? Sometimes fuck is the most accurate word to use.

Yes, I continued. This is what I fucking live for, I added for emphasis.

Pierre stood beside me with his dark suspenders, pink shirt, his mafia-style Gucci aviators, and his supermodel pose, and smiled. Welcome to my country, Sophie; let’s have lunch and then settle in for a few days. I have a few contracts to sign and people to yell at.

We said goodbye to the elegant French lady, and Pierre told her he would be in touch. As we walked down the cobblestone street, I could feel Pierre looking at me. I stared off at the little yachts and the women in their voluminous hats, bigger even than the ones found in the Hamptons.

This is what you do, Pierre? spreading my arms wide to encompass the houses and harbor. Like, for a living? I inquired of him.

Yes and no, Sophie. I live for this little hobby of mine, and I’ll probably die doing this too.

Die doing this? I guess that’s what they call passion, isn’t it?

He smiled and threw back his head as he laughed, Yes, this is what every man wants: passion, excitement, money, success, and power. That’s my joy.

For a second, I thought I was speaking to Duren, except that he would have added, And you are all that I really want, Sophie. Such Wall Street bullshit!

What about you, Sophie? Pierre pondered. Where’s your excitement in life? Have you lost your passion?

I kept walking, not sure how to answer him. I wanted only adventures and innuendos; that was all. I could no longer care a pinch about money, power, and all that comes with such nonsense! And did I say love? No. It’s because I still had the ill aftereffects of that fiasco somewhere within me.

Walking back to our Porsche while sipping sparkling water, I skimmed through my telephone to see that I had missed a call from Jan. It looked like ridiculousness had finally found me, and I was feeling too serious to even smile about it.

Pierre glanced at me and spotted the frown on my face.

Your boyfriend is missing you, I presume? he asked.

I looked over at my French cousin and smiled.

My boyfriend? Wouldn’t that be utterly boring? I tried to sound droll and rolled my eyes.

Hmm, yes, your boyfriend, or boyfriends are looking for you, my dear American Sophie?

He drove the streets like Robin did on a good day, which meant at a ridiculously crazy rate of speed with the sound of some classical music playing in the background. How exactly did the grand sounds of piano and cello make you want to drive like a maniac racecar driver? I had no clue, but Pierre was the classic example of fashionably eccentric; he made a normal man look boring and flat.

A few more minutes of his rough turns and abrupt stops, and we were at the front of the villa. Need I say any more? It was palatial and peaceful on the outside, and most sedate.

You like this Sophie? Pierre inquired.

It’s beautiful and such, and I’m sure it’s very beautiful on the inside as well. Yours?

No, it’s my father’s; it’s his bachelor pad. That’s the American terminology for it, right?

Smiling at him, I knew that our eyes met in an awkward way. Something between us felt odd.

What is it Soph? Tell me. This moment had wrapped me in the many vines of roses threaded through my mind. I remembered Zur and his baby nonsense, which had melted all of the ice in the deep recesses of my personality. I couldn’t afford to wonder what was meant to be, because if I did, I’d be lost somewhere between here and Dubai.

Soph, what is it? Pierre asked again.

Nothing, nothing at all, I responded. Shall we go in and see what fine taste your father has acquired?

Looking at me, Pierre replied smiling; Spoken like a true Becks.

Indeed, I said wryly. We’ve all been well trained.

He grabbed my Birkin handbag for me, and walked up the cobblestones toward the entrance of the home. The path leading to the entrance was adorned with huge black iron planters, with urns, hanging vines, and with delightful flowerbeds—far from shabby. The entrance was a massive door washed in blue, and with a great big rusted iron doorknocker.

Walking inside, the home was very masculine and plain; it felt like it was a faraway castle missing its king. My dear uncle, the king—go figure. Not bad for a bachelor pad, but it does need a face-lift!

That’s such an American line. If it’s not face-lifts, it’s Botox; right, Sophie? Apparently Pierre loved the gossip mags.

Within minutes, Pierre had set up his laptop with its various wires and mini-printer magnificence.

Very impressive, Pierre, but why not sit back and relax? I asked. We’ve only just arrived moments ago.

His assistant handed him a glass of wine, and me a glass of something sparkling.

Thank you, Roe; you’re so kind, but I’m afraid I only drink …

Yes, I know, sparkling water with lemon, she replied quickly.

Oh, well in that case, I smiled broadly, cheers to the workaholic!

I heard that, Soph. I have a lot to do right now. Why don’t you look around and choose any bedroom you desire.

Right, boss! Roe and I shall figure things out.

As I walked around the massive home with Roe I realized how good it was to have company.

So Miss Sophie, Roe began, what exactly do you do as a profession?

Two minutes passed by in silence, and though I felt no need to impress dear Roe, I responded in a hushed tone, I’m currently without profession. This was met with another awkward silence.

Oh, I see, she responded diplomatically.

I laughed, as I knew what she was thinking: You must be a total loser.

Yes, I was pleased all right, because where I came from, my 4.5 million-dollar salary was just pocket change for my notorious daddy.

So how does it feel to be a Becks without a check? Roe said, trying to make light of the situation.

She was poised, but dear God, someone should have trained her a little better.

Walking into a room with dark drapes and an open window, I was satisfied in all manner to be there. I placed my Birkin on the puffed, brown down comforter, and slipped out of my Jimmy Choos, I couldn’t recall ever feeling so exhausted.

"It feels good to not need to be so, you know—frou frou—and carry on long dreadful conversations about stupid things that sound like high society dribble, I replied. I actually feel quite normal not having a million dollar career hanging over my head, you know?"

Roe was as quiet as a bird standing near a cat that had gotten out of its cage. Opening my suitcases and hanging up my dresses, she looked over at me in an odd way. Her weirdly shaped eyes spoke to me. Roe was in her midtwenties, very thin with long, curly red hair and wore shoes an American woman would never buy: but she did have personality. I’ll give her that. And personality can get you things your money can’t, or so I’ve heard.

Miss Becks, will you be needing anything else? Roe asked politely.

Nope, I’ll be just fine, Roe. Thank you for listening.

Yes, I was lonely. She nodded her head and left.

It was 5:30 p.m. when hours drifted by like clouds without any sense of time. I couldn’t bear to think of much. Pierre, I’m sure, was still stricken with work, Roe had made herself scarce, and I lay in bed with my blue and white pintuck shirt and nothing beneath my hips.

Closing my eyes, I lost myself as I sunk into deep rest. Suddenly, the chime sounds of a violin began playing on my phone. It was softly playing the sounds of Sweet Surrender by Sarah McLachlan, except with strings.

Hello?

Sophie darling, is it you?

I paused, as thoughts of my high-society life in Long Island flooded my brain.

Yes Jan, is it you?

Yes darling, it is. My words felt stolen, and for some reason I felt a flood of emotion wash over me; but I held it together breathing out the negative. I cleared my throat, and even her waiting silence felt like a war bubbling beneath the surface.

I know you left suddenly and without a goodbye, and the truth is, I regret the way it all went down. I’m very sorry, darling.

I didn’t want to be aloof, or say the wrong thing, but why did she do what she did knowing damn well I’d be so affected?

I am clearly going through a lot of things in my life at the present, and I too am sorry for what you did. Looking for clarity in such muddy waters didn’t resonate well with me.

Sophie, it wasn’t what I did; it was what your brother and I did. Clearly, we are adults and I realized that I did not put our friendship first, but …

Please don’t try to justify that; it’s behind us and I wish you well in finding yourself, whether it’s with Ker or your million other men. I was being judgmental, but darling, that’s all I have ever been.

Sophie, I want you to know that I’m getting a divorce, and your brother and I are moving forward together.

Now I was completely stunned. Isn’t that lovely that I was excluded from so much that was going on in my arrogant family? My mother at this point, and for the first time ever, had moved above Jan in my respect list rankings. That’s just insanity!

Are you crazy? I yelled into the phone at Jan. You have a good life with a respectable man who you also happen to be married to. Why on earth would you divorce him for my sad, pathetic brother, who, FYI, is worse than you when it comes to waking up in strange beds?

At least we both laughed at my comments, but it wasn’t good laughter—it was painful. For Pete’s sake, I’d love her like a mother forever.

You know, I’ve never really been happy with all the things that money could buy, and for the first time I feel really close to someone.

I wanted to embrace her, but I couldn’t embrace anyone even if I tried.

I need time, Jan, to find peace in it all, and I don’t know what to say, but I do wish you both well.

Friendships come and go, I guess. Don’t they, Soph? Jan replied sadly.

Just like everything else, I thought to myself. One minute you are higher than the Empire State Building, and the next, you are waiting in line for a sale at Target.

"Hmm, my life was a wreck when I left, and now you’re ruining your life with my brother? Let’s see what happens, OK? Say bonjour to my brother, will you?"

I will darling, and stay well, Jan replied.

And with the sound of a click, she was gone, and my mind was down the rabbit hole just like Alice in her wonderland.

Is it really true?—that happiness cannot be bought, and time can heal what’s broken? Before I say it’s bullcrap, I’ll give it time.

Sophie, it’s suppertime; will you get clothed and come on down? Pierre’s voice called out through the door.

Pierre was all about time and schedules, and sometimes I thought he needed medication to calm him down.

Pierre, I’m not hungry. Why don’t you dine without me, and I’ll join you for tea, OK?

Is that a question, my dear Sophie?

"Pierre, please don’t dear me, I’m trying my best with all this transition bullshit. If only I had kept my panties on, I’d be in a better situation right now." What an oops that was!

Right! And now, this is where I, Pierre, step in and be a gentleman. I’m opening your door.

Pierre walked in and stiffly put his arms around me; I assume it was his way of offering comfort.

Jesus, Pierre, it’s fine. Don’t get weird on me; I beg you.

Me, Sophie, weird? Have you seen yourself lately?

I began laughing uncontrollably. Thank God, because this trip to Marseille was even weirder than my entire relationship with Thomas.

I appreciate you, Sophie, and being a partner with me in this business is a solid—that stupid bloody genius that was my partner—I made a serious error mixing business and pleasure. Sure, it was pleasurable sleeping with her; but fucking bloody shit, was she a whore!

You slept with your partner, Pierre?

Did I? I wrecked my entire business by ignoring a very basic principle.

He was livid, and I sat in bed laughing as he pranced around angrily ruminating about his affair with his sexy partner with boobs.

This was lovely for me, though, as my mistakes looked better when stacked next to his. I suddenly felt better about losing my Christian Lacroix business notebook. Heck, I was beginning to feel heaps better about the men that had hurt me—okay that I had hurt …

And for the cherry on top, she sued him for half of the business!

So Chad was a hero then, wasn’t he, Pierre?

He saved me in many respects. By the way, he’s coming for dinner, so you might want to sharpen your look. He’s a great catch. He plays polo in Auteuil, professionally.

And I do like polo and its players, I replied.

Don’t you, Sophie? He held my hands up, and I jumped out of bed.

Thank you for pulling me out of my sadness.

Isn’t that what family is about, Sophie?

Sure, but family can be unreliable; look at mine, millions of miles away and nobody gives a shit.

Walking to the closet, I looked for something appropriate to wear. I could not think sexy, I was all sexied out. There was nothing left after Zur so I opted for my pink skinnies, a shirt with gold buttons, and a pair of classic Manolos—with, of course, my pearl and diamond earrings from mummy dearest.

Pierre waited out on the tiny princess balcony off my bedroom, and upon my arrival from the dressing room, he was on his telephone making calls and getting work done.

You clean up well, Mademoiselle Becks! he said with enthusiasm.

Yes indeed. That’s what I do, dear cousin. I clean up well. My laughter could probably be heard throughout the halls.

My dear cousin Pierre placed my arm in his, and we walked down the ancient iron and marble stairs, as Roe sat in the foyer playing the piano for our arrival. She was a classic, if anything. I was momentarily impressed.

2

Greensleeves and Sir Chad

At 7:00 p.m. sharp I was helping Marie, the housekeeper, set the dining table when I heard the front door echo through the foyer as it clanged shut. It was to be a formal dinner, and as my upbringing would have it having the mother I had, I knew how to set the table to perfection. After all, formalities and affluence was my cup of tea. Sure, maybe from my mother’s cup, but I could still drink tea like a lady any day of the week.

I placed the silverware on the table and lit the gold and crystal candelabra. I then added some roses to the dinner table neatly arranged in a blue Versace vase I found in the kitchen.

Mademoiselle Becks, there you are. I found tea; it’s English breakfast, if that’s all right. Monsieur Becks was never very fond of tea, Marie exclaimed.

As I placed the silk, striped table linen on the table, Marie stood beside me with tea at hand.

It’s not a problem, I replied. This will do. Merci, Marie.

Pierre and Chad walked into the dining room, and I could see Pierre staring at me and laughing to himself. I think he was beginning to take a great liking to me, and at this point my fan club was almost nonexistent. Sir Chad was brilliant in his dark-colored, custom-fit, slim, sexy man pants, leather loafers, a tawny-colored belt with gold buckles, and a dark purple shirt with gold buttons. I smiled to myself, enjoying how his eyes seemed glued to me in a deep, piercing way. I looked away from him, though, because I knew better. The only piercings I wanted these days were the ones in my ears.

As I walked toward Chad and Pierre, Chad stepped forward, bearing in his hands the most beautiful tulips wrapped in a ribbon. Well wasn’t he just a pack of smarties?

Miss Sophie, these are for you, he said.

"Aren’t you a charmer then? Tulips? Thank you, it’s very mind. I mean kind," I whispered, as he kissed the palm of my hands. I was blushing. Uh-oh!

We stood in the elegant, formal living room adorned with paneled dark wood from floor to ceiling and original oil masterpieces that hung on the wall. Pierre poured champagne, and I drank my cup of bland tea with lemon.

I’ve finished the paperwork, Pierre announced, and now we can go over the terms of the contract, and then, onto the celebration!

Sophie, would you like a glass of wine? Chad questioned as he held the bottle of Bordeaux aloft, smiling like he was about to get laid.

No, thank you; I’ll pass. Drinking isn’t really my cup of tea as of late.

Actually, I’d become a grand drunk after moving into the Becks’ Château. We’d sit around drinking the most exquisite wines and champagne and do nothing at all. Of course, at times we argued about Chloe getting herself into a twelve-step program pronto; but heck, who are we to judge? We drank just as much. In fact, why even bother drinking tea; let’s just hit the bloody bottles and be done with it.

Chad picked up his glass of champagne and followed Pierre to the other room, his eyes speaking volumes to me nonstop.

Sophie, come sit with us, Pierre commanded.

I walked over and sat down near his beautiful desk. Pierre was signing some forms Chad had given him, when suddenly, he looked at me and placed paperwork before me.

What’s this, P? I was concerned. I felt like a wife suddenly being handed divorce papers without any prior knowledge.

P—that’s my new nickname, my dear Soph?

"Yes, I’m tired of Pierre. It isn’t exactly short, non?"

Well, let’s focus on the important things. This is a legal partnership between us, and I’d like you to be my partner until you no longer care to be.

I think my presence here is enough, I replied. I don’t want to be your legal partner. I think it’s fine the way it is.

Maybe I should have been flattered, but I wasn’t. To me it felt a little like a marriage—you know—tying legal knots and such. And we all know that marriages are not as reliable as Prada handbags. Duh!

Please, P, I don’t think this is really necessary, but I do appreciate the kind gesture.

Would you excuse us, Chad? asked Pierre.

As Chad left the room, I could see the concern in his eyes. It was almost as if he knew I was about to try to reason with the devil.

Sophie, Pierre began, as he stepped out from behind his mahogany desk and turned toward the window. He looked flawless. His hair was slicked back, his shirt was tucked in impeccably, and his belt buckle gleamed in the light from the window.

I reached for my cup of tea and sipped on it delicately, as if I were sitting next to the Queen.

Sophie, you know that I want your happiness, but more than that, I want you to be a success at everything you do. That’s why I’m offering you a partnership in my multimillion dollar investments. You could be a huge asset to me and my company. He turned to me, and I thought about how unappreciated I felt with my nuclear family, but here with Pierre, I felt very needed indeed.

I’m beyond honored, Pierre, but is this because my father asked you to ‘fix’ my situation and protect me from messing my life up any further?

Pierre paused and looked at me in a protective, yet authoritative way; in fact, this felt just like a visit to my father’s office, except that Pierre was younger and better at his approach. To my father, your work ethic was valued higher than your self-worth or your bloody happiness. Sure, they meant well as parents, but they inevitably lacked the nurturing gene. But let’s not dig further into any of that nurturing nonsense. It simply doesn’t exist in the Becks lineage.

I stood up, walked to him, and gently put my hand on his arm. You are amazing and kind, but I don’t know what you want of me. I can’t commit to much outside of something I know I enjoy. After all, it’s the whole point of my trip here. I’m not really sure where I’m headed. Moments of silence echoed off the office walls.

Sophie, you loved him, didn’t you? Pierre inquired as he took his hands out of his pockets and grasped mine.

Who, Pierre? I asked, looking into his eyes, not sure whether he was referring to Zur or Duren, or God knows who else.

Your Dubai guy—the playboy your father despised.

Well, I was stunned that he knew more than I had anticipated; but nevertheless, it’s no secret that I did have great emotions for my dear Arabian love. I loved him, and if this were a better world, I’d be in his arms forever. Alas, it isn’t, and the situation boiled down to nothing at all. We were both from different worlds, and I was an idiot to not see that coming.

Did I love him?—perhaps more than my parents cared to know.

He smiled, and I nodded at him. I think we both understood each other.

Yes of course, but furthermore you know that he was no saint, Sophie. And I think he was no match for a Becks to begin with.

You know, I used to think the same thing, Pierre, until I fell in love.

Staring at the walls made of cherry paneling, I felt no emotion as I thought of my father. It was like watching a man play polo without a horse—missing something important.

You can’t have it all as a Becks; you know that Soph. And if he had really loved you, sorry to even stick my nose in, but he would have never let you go. Even though he was from that family of his, I’d say it was a lucky escape.

Was my Zur that bad? Had I been so blinded by love that my moral standards had been submerged in the mud at the bottom of a lake? It appears that I had been in love with someone who was not only a playboy, but was a notorious somebody from the Middle East, complete with bodyguards. Jeez, why couldn’t we just love who we were supposed to love? Just keep it simple, right?

Yes, I have come to realize that I may have spent my adult life having inappropriate, but temporarily fulfilling relationships with men that last for approximately twenty-four hours.

He laughed, and I had a sudden idea.

Let’s get Chad in here, I blurted out. I could use that partnership right about now. I intend to make more money than you. I can spend 6.5 million dollars on an investment in my spare time.

And I am honored to have you on board, Miss Becks, smiled Pierre.

Chad walked in smiling. So, then, are we fine? he inquired.

Yes, we are fine. What did you think would transpire, Mr. Nar-co? I had hoped that I had gotten his name right.

No, it’s Monarco, Chad corrected me.

Hmm, pretty fancy and formal for an Englishman like yourself.

I’m glad you are both getting to know each other, Pierre interrupted, but time is of the essence. Shall we sign away, Sophie?

I grasped the ink pen off his desk as I pulled the contract closer to me. I didn’t care to read it; I trusted him and really felt I was simply filling in for someone who had messed up. I wasn’t as fond of real estate as I was of stocks and the great iron bull, but little did I know I knew nothing about anything.

"Well congratulations, Sophie, you just climbed on board with the best salesman in France! Bonne chance!" Chad said, with a smile as perfect as if his face were on the cover of a billboard in Times Square. He was sexy and had a clever, immaculate look, and his sexy British accent was starting to have an effect on me. And congrats to Pierre, Chad continued, the place is yours!

It turns out that Pierre was indeed in contract to buy the place near Côte d’Azur; a location with views better than JLo’s behind.

We led ourselves to the dinner table, where Marie had a fine meal ready. Thank heavens! Broiled lamb, broccoli steamed with garlic, baked fingerlings with herbs, all started with a Waldorf salad with walnuts, apples, and goat cheese. Yes, it was a superb meal. Needless to say, I would have eaten everything on my plate if Prince Charming Chad hadn’t been staring at me, seemingly lost in my eyes. Whilst sipping on a glass of red Bordeaux, and trying to cut my lamb with a silver fork and knife, I tried as hard as I could to not delve back into Chad’s soul. Chad gazed at me with longing, and all I could have thought of was Zur. They weren’t at all alike. I don’t think anyone could have come close to Zur, but I looked away from Chad, fleeing from the urgency of my desire to be taken again.

Sophie, can you hand me the gravy? asked Pierre.

Oh yes, here you go. I handed it to him, as my eyes looked anywhere else but at Chad.

Minutes became hours, and I grew tired. I excused myself from the dinner table, and retreated to the kitchen, where Marie was busy with her nighttime rituals. Roe was working on her laptop at the kitchen table.

May I help, Marie? I inquired.

Oh no, Miss Sophie. I shall do this work, she replied, waving me away.

You go on out and socialize with the very handsome, astoundingly gorgeous … Roe began.

And of whom are we speaking, Roe? I responded quickly, making Roe blush.

Was Roe in love with our Chad? Well, she can have him for free, and I mean that in the most indecent way possible.

Is it Chad that you speak of so highly? I said with a smile.

Oh, forgive me, Miss Sophie. I find him rather like, um, you know, quite super.

Roe, the only super man is Superman, and he’s definitely not Superman—he’s just a bloody lawyer.

Yes, of course, she said, opening the dishwasher, pretending to help Marie; and the nonsense had begun.

Chad, who was the very essence of shining British sexiness, came waltzing in the room.

Well, ladies—so where shall I place my glass?

I looked at Roe, smiled, and walked out of the kitchen.

Sophie, Chad asked quietly as I passed him. Would you like to have my company?

No, Chad, but Roe may. And I walked out of the room and towards the foyer.

As I reached the foyer, I could hear Greensleeves being played on the piano. Rounding the corner, I found Pierre at the piano, and I stood behind him placing my hand on his shoulder. I began humming the familiar tune. Pierre took my hand and pulled me next to him on the bench. We had become close when I had moved to Provence. At first, I thought, What a character! But then, we began spending more time together, and we realized how much we had in common.

Did you like it? Pierre asked when he had finished the song.

Indeed! And you didn’t mess up even one note, you charmer.

Pierre reached his hand out to me and stood up. I followed his lead and stood up next to him. Surprisingly, Pierre clapped his hands together twice, and the sounds of a symphony started.

Shall we, my dearest cousin?

I couldn’t stop laughing, as we danced merrily to the fast beat of Annie’s Tomorrow.

As I sang along in my head, I contemplated the romantic prospects of loving tomorrow.

Under the grand antique chandelier, we danced slowly, taking in all the dim lights of Marseille. It wasn’t just