“My French must really be rusty.” He switched to English. “I meant dating services, asshole. Discreet dating services for high net worth individuals.”

“Oh. So you’d like me to date someone who is specifically looking for a rich man?”

Evan let out a pained sigh. “Never mind.”

“Just drop it, okay?”

“It’s dropped.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

We sat in silence.

“Well,” Evan said eventually, “I guess I’ll just go. Boat has to leave the marina promptly at 5 a.m. on Tuesday if we’re going to keep the security protocols in place around your itinerary. You need to be on there by Monday night. Whether or not we have an au pair by then.”

“Yes, boss,” I said.

“Cute.”

I looked at my watch. “I have a call.”

The chair scraped as he pushed it back and stood. “Great chat.” He headed across the yard to talk to Gérard. I knew he personally spoke to everyone who worked on the estate and made sure they knew to look out for potential trespassers and tele-lenses in trees. He’d also be taking over as my driver, since I was giving most of the rest of the staff time off.

I poured another glass of sparkling water and took my laptop over to the shaded loggia where we had the outdoor living room. I went through my security protocols to open my laptop and found the email from The Tabitha MacKenzie Agency in Charleston, South Carolina and clicked the meeting link.

My own image came up on the screen. My dark hair needed a trim. My eyes and the circles under them showed the strain. Not even the exercise and sunshine could erase the fact I’d been working around the clock the last few weeks with my team in Sophia Antipolis to get our latest innovation packaged up for presentation to investors. And several times a week Dauphine still awoke with night terrors. Maybe Evan was right about taking a vacation. Not to go on a date—God knew, my libido had dipped to nothing—but simply to fucking sleep.

After a few seconds my image shrank to the corner and Tabitha Mackenzie’s friendly face filled the screen.

“Monsieur Pascale,” she greeted.

“Xavier, please,” I responded. “How are you?”

She grimaced. “Doing all right. I’m so sorry about the previous nanny. I’d never have referred you if I’d thought the agency would be unreliable. I got your email request, and I’ve tried …” She looked down and seemed to have misplaced something. “Hold on. I left your file in the other room.”

She moved away from the screen, leaving the view of an architecturally elegant, but minimally decorated, high-ceilinged living room. There was sound of a heavy door opening and latching closed. And then suddenly a red high-heeled shoe shot past the screen and hit the wall.

My eyes widened.

“Mother-fucker,” came a woman’s voice off-screen.