Page 5 of Sunrise Malice

“Maybe, okay? I don’t know. We’ll see. It was good talking to you.” I turn to walk away. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get over that first impression, even if my reasons for this marriage are still valid.

“It was nice talking to you as well, Brianne. And by the way, I love that list of yours. We have a lot in common, mon minou.”

I stop in my tracks. My feet go cold and my blood hammers in my ears.

I slowly turn, but Julien’s already striding away.

No. No no no.

He didn’t see it.

He couldn’t have?—

I unlock my phone. It goes straight to my messages app.

There’s a single text thread with a contact called Julien Moreau on the screen.

A strangled moan drags itself from my throat as I stare at the two texts sent to his number.

The first is a simple message.I look forward to checking off all your filthy little boxes, mon minou.

And the next is a screen shot of the list.

The dirty list.

Every single filthy entry.

I am going tomurderKim. If she hadn’t tipped him off, there’s no way he would’ve gone looking for something.

But he sent it to himself. The bastard must’ve swiped into my previous apps, screenshotted it, and sent it to himself.

Which means he has a list of all my stupid, weird, mostly-joking-but-kinda-not sexual fantasies.

All I want to do is melt into the floor and disappear.

Chapter 2

Julien

Fall wind blows across the private tarmac of the O’Hare Airport. The small twin-engine jet taxis toward my position near a large hangar and comes to a stop not far away. Several of my men stand at attention further back, all of them impeccably dressed in expensive black suits and wearing dark sunglasses.

Jean, my second-in-command, stands by my side. We’ve known each other for a long time, ever since we were young boys picking pockets on the streets of Marseille. If I’m the face of the Moreau Family in America, then he’s the shadowy brains behind the scenes.

Together, we run this organization with ruthless efficiency.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Jean asks. He doesn’t look at me, only stares at the plane. Airport staff push a set of stairs over to the main door.

“Years,” I say, acting as though I can’t recall, but I remember the exact moment. It was six years ago, two days before I came to America for good. That was a very bad afternoon.

“I can’t recall the old man ever leaving France,” Jean notes.

“He pretends like he’s some great French patriot, but really he’s lazy and a prick.” I take a deep breath but my bravado hasn’t helped my nerves.

Six long years. I remember being a child and standing in his study, looking at him looming behind his big desk.

I’d never seen something so resplendent or powerful in my entire life, and at the time I thought he must’ve been the most impressive man in the world. I was nothing more than a street urchin back then, barely literate, more feral rat than human, but he took me in anyway, bought me tutors, and molded me into the man I am today.

Without him, I don’t know where I would be.

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