Page 151 of The Stranger

I throw out my hand and bend forward, rather than step closer. I don’t want to risk being anywhere near his throat. He might accidentally-on-purpose find my fist in it. “It’s Dr Whittington, actually.”

Luc’s eyes sharpen. He looks unimpressed.

I smile the most pleasant smile I rustle up from my arsenal. “I’m the nanny, but only temporarily.” Cue sliding him a stinking look. If you think I’m staying here any longer, you’re mistaken, friend.

“How intriguing.” The woman’s gaze travels over me again, slower this time. “I don’t remember you telling me you had a new nanny,” she adds, glancing his way.

“Because we haven’t spoken in a few weeks.”

“Terrible rogue,” she says, puckering her lips as she squeezes his cheek. “We’ve exchanged dozens of texts. You might’ve mentioned you had a new nanny. Especially someone as interesting as Dr Whittington here.” She releases Luc only to come closer, her hand lingering on his arm until the last possible moment.

“Rose, this is Amélie,” he says begrudgingly. I wait to hear him add, “my oldest friend” or “my sister”or “my bestie”. Something! But nope. Maybe it’s just as well because the way she’s looking at him isn’t exactly sisterly. There’s something avaricious about those brown eyes.

She offers me her hand. “Enchantée, Docteur Whittington.”

Her fingers close warmly around mine and there they remain a fraction longer than convention dictates. Some kind of challenge?

“Likewise,” I answer, meaning and sounding the opposite. I do have things I’d rather be doing right now. Like cleaning my toenails. Reviewing Felix’s taste in porn. Or stabbing this asshole with a butter knife.

“What kind of docteur?”

“Sorry?”

“What kind of docteur are you?” The second times she asks, her question is accompanied by a tinkling laugh.

“Medical.” I don’t add my specialty.

“Pretty, clever, and useful.” She glances back at Luc as the information means something.

“Yeah, I suppose I have been useful.” I slide him a loathsome look. “For an old codger like him.”

Even her laughter sounds expensive. “This is so… interesting.”

“I’m not sure Monsieur du Beaumont thinks so.” I clock the way her eyes dart between us and begin to worry he might’ve invited one of his freaky friends to join us. Upping the ante, so to speak.

“That’s the thing, cheri. You never can quite tell what’s going on behind that handsome facade of his.”

“So I’m beginning to find,” I mutter. “If you’ll excuse me.” I begin to turn but don’t get far.

“Luc, this is excellent!”

If you say so.

“Why didn’t you say something!” she all but exclaims.

His answer is cool by contrast. “What is there to tell?”

I slide him another drop-dead look.

“Because friends share.” Her attentions glide my way, and I instantly bristle.

“I don’t bloody well think so!”

“Oh my God!” She claps her hands together, clearly delighted. “This just gets better and better.”

Luc’s expression hardens. “Amélie, behave yourself.”

“I’m being myself. I remember when you used to like that girl.” For some reason, her retort sounds like a cat slinking about the ankles. She slips beneath his arm again, laughing as she settles herself there. Luc doesn’t exactly return the embrace, but he also doesn’t set her aside. I’m not sure there’s a difference, not given the way I feel. Which is spiky and sad and confused. Regretful and wretched and probably another dozen things.