Raphael's Fling: A Sexy Romantic Comedy (The Darcy Brothers) Read online

  Raphael's Fling

  Alix Nichols

  SAYN Press

  Contents

  Also by Alix Nichols

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part 2

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Excerpts

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Alix Nichols

  The Darcy Brothers

  Find You in Paris

  La Bohème

  You’re the One

  Winter’s Gift

  What If It’s Love?

  Falling for Emma

  Under My Skin

  Amanda’s Guide to Love

  The Devil’s Own Chloe

  Get your free story!

  Details can be found at the end of this book.

  Copyright © 2016 Alix Nichols

  SAYN PRESS

  All Rights Reserved.

  Editing provided by Write Divas (http://writedivas.com/)

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

  Created with Vellum

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  How did I come to this?

  I sigh, smooth my clothes one last time, and head for the cream, leather-padded door.

  “Mia, wait!” Raphael calls after me.

  I halt and turn around.

  He opens his chiseled mouth as if to say something, then shuts it, and gives me a tight smile. The smile of a person having second thoughts on the advisability of what he was going to say.

  Well, I’m not waiting around for the result of his inner deliberation. There are two bulky reports on my desk and a few dozen emails I need to go through before I can leave tonight.

  Ergo, time is of the essence.

  I resume my hike across Raphael’s vast office until I reach the door. It unlocks smoothly and without a sound, bless its high-tech heart. After a sneak peek in the hall to check if the coast is clear, I slip away without saying good-bye to Raphael or Anne-Marie, his faithful PA.

  Just like a lawbreaker.

  Well, maybe not a lawbreaker, but definitely a reoffending violator of the Workplace Code of Honor. In particular, of Rule #1, which says: “Workers shall not have sexual intercourse with their hierarchical superiors, inferiors, or posteriors.”

  While there’s some controversy over the exact meaning of “inferiors” and “posteriors,” everyone knows that a “superior” is more than just your immediate boss. The concept also covers your boss’s boss, your boss’s boss’s boss’s boss, and the Boss of Them All—the CEO.

  It’s a very sensible provision, by the way, and one I totally approve of and adhere to.

  As I rush down the hallway, my heels clicking on the marble floor, I realize I should’ve put my observation in the past tense. As in, “I used to adhere to.”

  Having repeatedly broken the Code’s first rule since March makes me a rogue and a hypocrite of the worst kind.

  How did I fall so low?

  Here’s a clue: it’s Rudolph the Reindeer’s fault.

  God knows I hadn’t planned on this when I landed the world’s most unexceptional job as assistant to the daily bulletin editor at DCA Paris. DCA stands for “D’Arcy Consulting and Audit.” Yup, the same “d’Arcy” that’s sandwiched between “Raphael” and the rest of his fancy name on my lover’s official letterhead.

  Having sexual intercourse with Raphael d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, a gentleman and a libertine, was the last thing on my mind when I started at DCA. In fact, it was nowhere near my mind.

  Despite my murky past, that’s not who I am. Nor does my life need more complications right now.

  Trust me.

  Pauline Cordier’s familiar silhouette takes shape at the end of the hallway just as I reach the elevator and push the button. My heart skips a beat. If my direct supervisor sees me on this floor, she’ll assume one of the following two things: (a) my presence here is work-related, meaning I’m going over her head; or (b) my presence here has nothing to do with work, meaning I’m sleeping with one of the senior managers.

  Needless to say, both alternatives are equally conducive to me getting sidelined, ostracized, and ultimately fired.

  I take a deep breath and give the approaching figure a furtive glance.

  It isn’t Pauline.

  The woman doesn’t even look like her, now that she’s closer.

  Phew.

  You may not believe me, but I wasn’t sure what Raphael d’Arcy looked like when DCA hired me. Having scanned his official bio in preparation for my job interview, I had formed a vague image that boiled down to “young, well-born, and well-dressed.” The specifics of the founding CEO’s background and appearance hadn’t lingered in my mind. I doubt they’d even entered it.

  Because they were not important.

  All I wanted from Monsieur d’Arcy was a job at his firm that gave me a monthly paycheck to complement the pittance my school calls a scholarship. That way, I could finish my doctoral program without having to sleep under bridges or borrow money.

  Parisian bridges can be drafty, you see. And damp. As for the stench, courtesy of well-groomed dogs and ill-groomed humans, don’t even get me started! On top of all that, bridges offer no suitable storage space for research notes, photocopies, and books.

  In short, they suck as accommodations.

  As for the borrowing, my parents taught Eva and me that debt must be avoided at all costs. Their “debt is bad” precept proved stronger than the knowledge that everyone lives on credit in Western societies today.

  Except my parents, that is.

  Then again, they live in rural Alsace. Life’s a lot cheaper there than in la capitale, so they were able to make it into their fifties without a single loan to cloud their horizon.

  I step off the elevator on the second floor, relieved that no one saw me in Top Management’s Heavenly Quarters, and my phone rings. Considering that I’ve been sneaking out like this for two months already, the probability that someone will see me and that it’ll reach Pauline’s ears is growing by the day.

  It freaks me out more than I care to admit.

  As I answer the phone, Raphael’s deep, sexy timbre breaks me from my worries.

  “You left your panties here,” he says, sounding amused and smug at the same time. In short, his usual self.

  “No, I didn’t—”


  Oh crap. I did.

  “I’ve got five minutes before the managerial,” he says, “so if you want to come back and collect—”

  “No!” I look around and lower my voice. “It’s OK. I’m sure I can make it through the afternoon without them.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that. The question is whether I can make it through the afternoon with the knowledge you’re without them.” He pauses, as if pondering the question, and then adds, “And with them in my pocket.”

  My stomach flips.

  Something achingly—yet delightfully—heavy gathers low in my abdomen, reminding me of what Raphael and I had been up to a mere half hour ago. Suddenly, every step I take makes me aware of my pantyless condition. The friction of my skirt’s silky lining against my bare skin makes it prickle. My breathing becomes strained, and my heart thumps in my chest.

  As I struggle to calm myself before entering the office I share with two other assistants, I picture myself in Strasbourg in our family physician’s immaculate office.

  “What’s my diagnosis, doctor?” I’d ask after he’s examined me.

  “Not to worry, mon enfant! You’ll live.” He’d push his regular glasses to his forehead and put on his reading glasses. “You have a textbook case of lustium irresistiblum.”

  “Please, can you make it go away?”

  He’d smile and shake his head, updating my file on his computer. “It’s like a viral cold. It’ll clear up on its own, eventually.”

  And that, my friends, is the second clue to the mystery of how I got here.

  It appears I’ve caught a virulent strain of lustium irresistiblum for lady-killer Raphael d’Arcy. And with my luck, we’ll likely get caught before it clears.

  “Got to go,” I whisper into the phone and hang up.

  I take a few long breaths to chase my arousal away before I enter the office.

  Easier said than done.

  The things Raphael says, the things he does to me… They don’t just excite—they break into my brain and muddle it up on a deep, molecular level. Throwing ethical norms against that kind of invasion has been as effective as attempting to shoot down the Death Star with foam darts.

  But I’ll keep on trying.

  Till the bitter end.

  Chapter 2

  I spent the first month at DCA Paris without a single sighting of Le Big Boss, as the assistants in my department call him. This is not surprising, considering the six floors and about as many layers of hierarchy that separate us. If we had ever bumped into each other in a hallway, he wouldn’t have known me from a bar of soap and I wouldn’t have recognized him.

  Then the traditional Christmas party arrived. The organizing committee decreed it would be a costume event, and anyone who dared to turn up without a proper disguise would be sent home.

  By a stroke of luck or misfortune, I happened to own an old costume just perfect for a Christmas party—Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. It was a fluffy onesie that came with a set of antlers adorning its roomy hood that covered the top half of my face and an elastic-band red nose. The costume had been in my parents’ attic since I’d graduated high school. It begged to be worn again.

  I shouldn’t have listened to its pleas!

  Had I known where that brown faux-fur onesie would land me, I would’ve never worn it to the office Christmas party. Heck, I would’ve never gone to that party to start with! But in the absence of a crystal ball to foresee the future, Rudolph had seemed like a great idea.

  When I entered the meeting room, which had been transformed into a dance floor complete with a disco ball, it looked anything but Christmassy. Scantily clad Santa babes, provocative elves, and seductive angels—to say nothing of Playboy Bunnies—were gulping down champagne and undulating their lithe bodies to the beat of “I Know You Want Me.” Many of them were also singing along and winking at their dance partners, I know you want me, You know I want cha.

  Their male coworkers weren’t far behind. They sported costumes representing an assortment of shoulder-padded Marvel superheroes with an occasional bare-chested Santa thrown in. Nearly every one of them drank, danced, and flirted with the ferocity of someone determined to get lucky.

  In other words, much fun was being had.

  “The name of the game is Locate Le Big Boss,” my office mate Delphine said, handing me a glass of bubbly.

  A champagne cork shot through the air, a little too close for comfort to my face. I ducked, spilling the contents of my flute and making Delphine chuckle.

  Straightening up, I looked around. “Maybe he isn’t even here.”

  “Word on the street says he is.” Delphine winked, refilling my flute. “Barb and I have been trying to figure out which Iron Man he is, based on stature and voice.”

  “Personally, I think he’s neither,” a tutu-clad black swan said, planting herself next to us.

  Upon closer examination, the swan was Tanya, a junior auditor famous for her illustrious conquests.

  “Personally, I think he’s Père Noël over there.” Tanya pointed at the tall, fully dressed Father Christmas stroking his white beard and chatting with two Playboy Bunnies in the corner of the room.

  “You may be right,” Delphine said, contemplating the group. “I’ve heard Raphael’s latest fling was one of those ménage à trois deals that every man dreams about.”

  I smirked. “So you think he’s trying for an encore?”

  “The hell he is.” Tanya put her chin up and pulled down her areola-revealing top. “His next fling will be me.”

  With that, she strode toward Père Noël, her head high and her step bouncy. I couldn’t help picturing her firing at will from her jutting boobs, decimating the bunnies, and snagging Le Big Boss.

  At least for the night.

  “Have fun, ma cocotte,” Delphine said to me, moving away to greet a newcomer.

  I marched away from the champagne cork crossfire and imminent Bunny Massacre. Since I hadn’t the slightest intention of locating Raphael d’Arcy, I stayed away from superheroes and Santas the entire evening, gravitating toward the older and more conservatively dressed colleagues. At some point, I danced with a fellow onesie-clad snowman who had an oversized carrot for a nose. But mostly, I sipped champagne and talked politics with the over-fifty crowd.

  The problem was said crowd thinned quickly after midnight. By one in the morning, it became hard to find someone more interested in having a conversation than in making out. Not that anyone—male or female—would want to make out with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

  My second problem was that I was growing increasingly warm and uncomfortable in my faux-fur costume. I would’ve left—I should’ve left!—then and there, but Delphine and I had agreed to share a cab ride home, seeing as we live in the same arrondissement.

  Unfortunately, by the time I was ready to leave, Delphine was engrossed in an advanced flirtation with The Hulk, who looked a lot like her longtime crush, Alberto.

  There was no way she was leaving now.

  I sighed, refilled my flute, and stepped out onto the dark balcony. Removing my red nose, I turned my face up to let the fresh December air cool it. Five minutes later, I was having a blast all by myself on the balcony, which was more of a terrace, as far as I could make out in the dark. My body temperature had dropped, and my champagne-soaked brain had cleared enough to realize that the random balcony I’d escaped to offered the best view of Paris I’d ever seen.

  My night was beginning to look up.

  Looking out over the parapet, I downed my champagne and admired the brightly lit city when someone stumbled out and came to stand next to me.

  It was the snowman I’d danced with earlier.

  He gave me a nod and touched his beer bottle to my flute. “To your good health.”

  “And to yours,” I said, trying to figure out how drunk he was.

  And if I was peeved or pleased at his arrival.

  Peeved, I decided. Definitely.

  Unlike us staid reinde
er, snowmen were fickle creatures.

  They could melt down on you any time.

  Chapter 3

  “Rudolph, buddy, I feel for you,” Snowman said, turning to me. “It’s a fucking sauna in there. Is it always that hot in our offices?”

  I shook my head. “It’s the fairies’ fault.”

  “Er…?”

  “Linda and Cat,” I explained. “They were too cold in their filmy numbers, so they turned up the heat about an hour ago.”

  “I see.”

  Snowman drew a little closer and placed his beer on the parapet. His face was still completely hidden by his headpiece, but judging by his voice, he was at least twenty years younger than I’d thought when we danced briefly. He hadn’t opened his mouth then, so I’d assumed he was older based on his funny costume and wacky dancing style. It reminded me of the snowman in Frozen and demonstrated a level of self-mockery uncommon in men under forty.

  My fellow workplace-warming victim held out his hand. “I’m Olaf the Snowman. You can call me Olly.”

  Ah, so I’d been right about Frozen.

  “I’m Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” I said. “And you absolutely cannot call me Rudy.”

  We shook hands, my brown mitten against his white one.

  Olaf removed his mittens and took a swig of his beer. “Ooh, this is good. I was melting in there.”

  I gave him a sympathetic smile.

  “I dare not ask how you felt.” He pointed an unexpectedly attractive hand at me. “What with all that fur on your chest.”

  I shrugged. “Like a Laplandic reindeer parachuted to Africa.”

  “You’re new at DCA, right?” he suddenly asked.

  “Uh-huh. You?”

  “Not anymore.” He tilted his head to the side. “Auditor?”

  “God forbid. I’m terrible with numbers.”

  “What then?”

  “Editorial assistant.”