Page 60 of Break My Rules

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Max cheers. “In fact, I’m having a party at mine. The more the merrier.” There’s noise on the other end, music and laughter, and female voices calling Max’s name. Clearly, the party is already underway.

Saint looks to me, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. I nod.

“We’re on our way,” he says, and notes down the address from Max before hanging up. “Are you sure?” Saint checks, looking at me. “We’ve been traveling all day, we could get settled in here tonight, and meet up with him tomorrow.”

“No, I’m good,” I insist. “I can’t sit around the house, however lovely it is here. I wouldn’t be able to relax, anyway.”

Besides, if Max has been partying for hours, his inhibitions will be low.

Low enough to reveal the truth about that night—without me having to take any additional measures?

I hope so.

The sun is sinking lowerover the ocean by the time we make it to Max’s place, on the outskirts of Cannes. As we drive through the streets, I can see that the coastal town is a totally different vibe to the laid-back, picturesque French countryside. Here, it’s flashy, with loud bars, and glamorous people strutting their way to dinner, dressed in fabulous outfits, wealth on obvious display. And when we reach Max’s beach house, set high on the cliffs, it’s a dramatic, modern building, looming over the bay with walls of glass, and an infinity pool glittering on the edge of the terrace.

The party is in full force when we pull over, music pounding down the street, and the winding road so full of parked Lamborghinis and Mercedes we have to park and hike the last section on foot.

“Typical Max,” Saint comments with a smile. “He could have been raging three hours, or three days already.”

Gorgeous young people spill out of the house onto the terraces, dressed in everything from skin-tight dresses to streetwear, with one guy walking around in a massive ski jacket and boxers—and nothing else. My trusty black slip dress looks practically demure in this crowd, and I feel a flicker of nerves as we step into the huge, modern foyer, holding Saint’s hand tightly.

Everything’s at stake now. I can’t make a wrong move, and risk finding the truth.

“Hello, hello!” Max greets us, emerging from the crowd barefoot in linen pants with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel. He’s got a bottle of liquor in one hand, and a cigar in the other: every inch the playboy heir. “Get yourself a drink, some caviar, we have everything you need right here. Weed, women, wine. My man Gino is around here somewhere, if you’re looking for something a little stronger,” he adds with a wink. “Make yourselves at home.”

I hang back, as Saint greets him with a back-slapping hug. Max has always been loud, and louche, but a predator? I didn’t think so.

Now, I see him through new, wary eyes.

“Tessa, darling, glad you could make it.” Max kisses me on both cheeks, and I have to force myself not to recoil from his touch.

“Great place,” I force a friendly smile, looking around. “So this is where you’ve been hiding?”

“Escaping more like, but shhh, don’t tell my father,” Max puts a finger to his lips in an exaggerated whisper, “or he’ll drag me back to London to listen to more of Lionel Ambrose’s in… dominatable speeches. No, that’s not right. Indubitable?” he asks, frowning. “Interminable!”

Saint chuckles. “Just how many drinks have you had?”

“Not enough, my friend. Never enough!” Max leads us through to where a huge living room opens out onto the terrace. The pool is full, despite the chilled autumn air, with models strutting around in teeny swimwear. “I heard the Ashford wankfest went down a treat,” Max adds with a smirk. “Apparently, you and Hugh were very good boys, did the family names proud.”

“I refrained from bringing scandal on them all, at least. Barely,” Saint adds, shooting me a private smile. I remember my private tour of his father’s office and feel a wistful pang.

Somehow, it was all so much simpler before I knew about Hugh’s alibi.

Before I had to face the stark reality that Wren’s attacker could be right in front of me, lazily collapsing on a massive white couch, and demanding that they change the music, with a regal air.

“There you are, darling,” Max cries, looking behind us. “See? I told you it wasn’t all insipid Eurotrash.”

“Oh, Tessa, thank God!” Annabelle launches herself at me with enthusiastic air-kisses. “I amsohappy to see you. I know zero people here tonight; I don’t know where Max finds them!”

“I just send out the Bat Signal, and the cool people appear,” Max declares.

“And by ‘cool’, he means every model, DJ, and wannabe crypto king on the French Riviera.” Annabelle giggles, dragging me down onto one of the couches, then fishes in a huge glass bowl filled with ice and cans for matching mini champagne bottles. “Cheers,” she beams, and I feel a fresh wave of conflicted guilt.

I’ve been so focused on Max, I hadn’t thought about Annabelle in all of this. She’s set to marry him next month; it’s supposed to be the dream wedding of the season.

Soon to be a nightmare, if I have my way.

I catch Saint’s eye and give him a look. We’re not here to kick back and have a good time. We’re on a mission.

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