Page 59 of Break My Rules

“Champagne, sir?” the flight attendant offers the bottle, flashing both of us a friendly smile.

“Why not?” Saint replies, relaxing in First Class beside me. “Tessa?”

I jerk a nod, my stomach already tied up in knots thinking of the mission I have ahead of me. The attendant pours us both glasses, and sets out a fruit plate, too, before moving on. I can’t help remembering my flight to England, before all of this began: a long, cramped trip across the Atlantic, with scowling stewards, crying babies, and stale pretzels. Now, I’m reclining in style, after being whisked through the VIP lines at the airport and offered warm towels and fancy snacks at every turn.

It's a shame I’m too tense to enjoy it.

“We’re almost there,” Saint says, giving me a reassuring smile. “It’ll be a smooth landing.”

I manage a faint smile. He thinks my nerves are because of flying and has held my hand every step of the way. I haven’t told him the truth.

I know he still hopes that we’ll be able to clear Max’s name somehow.

I understand his loyalty. The men have been friends for years. Nobody wants to think someone they trust is capable of such terrible things. And despite his conflict, Saint has been with me every step of the way: backing me up in all my investigations, willing to destroy his friendships to uncover the truth.

I can see how it’s eating him up inside, having to question everything, and mistrust the friends he’s counted on for years. Even I hated having to suspect Hugh, before his alibi confirmed he's not the man I’m looking for. Saint needs this whole thing to be over just as much as I do.

It’s why I have those little vials from Phillip stashed in my makeup bag. I need to be sure.

Sure enough to make Max pay for what he’s done.

The plane hits a tiny pocket of turbulence, making me startle. Saint squeezes my hand rightly. “It won’t be long now,” he reassures me, and he’s right.

This trip is make or break for me. Soon enough, Max is finally going to answer for his crimes.

* * *

We land in Marseille,and speed through Customs. Saint has rented a classic sports car for us to drive, and he relaxes behind the wheel, speeding through the pretty French countryside, dotted with farmhouses and historic villages, earth-toned in the October sun.

“My family has had the house since before I was born,” Saint says, clearly happy to be here. “I think some of my favorite memories are from the summers we would spend here. My father would work from the European headquarters nearby, and my mother would go hit the shops in St. Tropez, so my brothers and I had the place to ourselves. We’d spend all day horsing around in the pool, and walking into the village to flirt with all the French girls who were way out of our league. Well, out of mine and Robert’s,” he adds, with a nostalgic smile. “Edward charmed the pants off them all, of course, even though his French was atrocious.”

I smile back, trying to relax, too. Even though my thoughts are racing with my plans for Max, I can appreciate the beauty of our surroundings. In any other situation, I would be trading tales about family summer trips, and asking to stop at one of these adorable villages to sip a glass of wine and sit at a table on the town square.

But this isn’t a vacation for me, and fury still burns in my bloodstream, so I just gaze at the beautiful spread of green fields and woodlands, counting down the miles until Saint turns down a long driveway lined with the cool arch of Cypress trees.

“Here we are,” he says, with obvious affection in his voice, as we pull up outside a gorgeous chateau. It’s built from sand-colored stone, with red clay roof tiles and large windows framed by shutters painted in a French blue trim.

“It’s lovely,” I agree, climbing out of the car. “Like something from a postcard.”

“I think that’s how my parents found it,” Saint remarks, grabbing our bags from the trunk and unlocking the front door. Inside, the décor is warm and French, with tiled floors, white walls, and antique furniture in shades of cream and blue. Saint leads me through the large open living room to the big farmhouse kitchen in back, with views over the swimming pool and gardens. “My mother likes to tell the story of how she found a painting in a gallery, an oil painting of this house. She fell in love with it, and so my father surprised her by tracking down the artist, and then buying the house for their anniversary.”

I blink—at the lavish gift, and the idea that his ice queen mother could be sentimental about anything. Saint must see my expression, because he chuckles. “I know, I can’t believe it either. But I suppose my parents were young and in love, once, anyway.” He pauses. “My father’s fucking Valerie DeJonge,” he says abruptly.

“What?” I gasp.

“Is, or was, he swears he’s ending it, but yeah… He was paying her off from the Ashford company accounts—that’s how I found out.” Saint sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “As if I didn’t have enough to be dealing with right now. I have to hide his dirty secrets, too.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, moving to wrap my arms around his waist. I hold him close, wanting to support him. “That’s a terrible position he put you in.”

“It’s feeling rather familiar, these days,” Saint says ruefully. I tilt my head up and give him an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly.

He kisses the top of my head. “Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Saint stands there a moment, just holding me, then finally draws back. “I suppose we should get started with what we came here for,” he says, and pulls out his phone. He dials, putting it on speaker phone, so I can hear Max’s voice when he answers.

“You’ll never guess where Tessa and I just landed,” Saint says. “We’re in Provence for a break. You still around?”

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