The Prince I Love to Hate: A Steamy Romantic Comedy (The Heir Affair Book 1) by Iris Morland (learn to read books TXT) 📗

on a bunch of old blankets. “Probably shouldn’t have gone in headfirst,” I muttered to myself. I sneezed, dust motes flowing around me.

“Are you all right?” Olivier called.

“Yeah.” I sneezed again. “It’s really dusty in here.” Which was a sign that this guy who Olivier had sold the clock to had vacated this place a while ago.

The shop—what was left of it—was covered in fabric on the little bit of furniture left over. With little light coming in through the windows, it took me a second to get to the door that opened to the stairwell. It was a different one from the one that led outside. The stairs themselves were clearly very old, and I had to admit, I much preferred Olivier going up them than me doing it.

I opened the door to outside to find Olivier waiting for me. He took in my appearance and said, “You look terrible.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“No, I mean—” He brushed his thumb across my cheek, making me freeze in shock. “You’re covered in dirt.”

“That’s what happens when you land face-first into a bunch of dusty blankets.”

I did my best to clean up my appearance, but apparently, I looked so ridiculous that Olivier thought I’d attract too much attention upstairs.

“We don’t want people to think we’ve broken in. You look just like someone who’s snuck inside,” he said.

I didn’t have a mirror, but based on the amount of dirt and dust on my clothes, I had to reluctantly agree. “Go, go,” I said, shooing him. “Before we get caught and get thrown in the Bastille.”

Olivier headed upstairs, and I watched his nice ass flex until he turned a corner on the rickety staircase. I hoped he could charm whoever worked up there into giving him the information we needed. If he failed, we were back to square one.

Taking out my phone and turning on the flashlight, I returned to the abandoned store. There were handwritten signs in French scattered about the floor with prices on them. There were a handful of chipped bowls on one table that had seen better days. When I heard something scurry across the floor, I froze in my tracks, half-expecting a giant rat to lunge at my face.

But no rat materialized. Sighing, I kept exploring, drawing my finger through the thick dust, wondering how long it had been since someone had been inside here.

As I wandered, I found a tiny hallway near the west side of the store. A door was ajar, and inside I found what looked like an office. Except there was nothing but a rickety chair and a keyboard that was probably older than I was. On the opposite wall stood a metal file cabinet.

I started opening the cabinet drawers, but there was nothing but empty file folders in the top one. The second: the same. But when I reached the third one, I found a stray envelope that had gotten wedged between the folders and the drawer itself.

I felt a little guilty opening the envelope, but what choice did we have? Besides, I had to do whatever I could to find my da. When I unfolded the three documents, I scanned it, my heart beginning to pound.

It was an insurance document. And on the last piece of paper was an address with the name of the dead man we were searching for: Charles Durand, owner of Antiquités Durand.

An address. We had an address. I nearly tripped over my own feet as I burst from the office, heading for the stairway door.

But then I heard loud voices outside, and straining to hear, I could make out what sounded like Olivier yelling.

I ran outside, wishing I looked less dirty and rumpled, making certain to stuff the envelope into my back pocket.

A dark-haired man was standing with his arms crossed as Olivier spoke. The man just shook his head and replied with what sounded like a negative.

When I came through the alley, the man gave me one look and scowled. He turned back to Olivier, his voice rising. I was pretty sure I heard a word that sounded like “police.” Great. That was the last thing we needed.

“Who is this man, honey?” I laced my arm with Olivier’s, clinging to him like a vine. “Why is he yelling at you?”

“He’s accusing me of breaking and entering,” said Olivier with a sniff. “I assured him he was mistaken.”

The man’s accent was thick as he said to me, “You are very dirty. What were you doing?”

I sniffled, my chin even quivering. “I fell. Look at my hands.” I showed him my skinned palms. “My husband would never do something like you’re accusing him of. An employee allowed him inside to speak to someone upstairs.”

The man’s gaze went from me to Olivier and back again. He looked skeptical now.

When I managed to eke out a tear, the man took a step back. “Apologies, madam. I was wrong.” He shot Olivier a dark look, but then he scurried back to wherever he came from.

Olivier let out a long sigh. “That was smart thinking,” he said, sounding genuinely surprised.

“I have my moments.” I wanted to show him the envelope, but not right this second. “Let’s go before that guy really does call the cops on us.”

We managed to find a bench to sit on in the Champ de Mars, the famous park you could view from the top of the Eiffel Tower. The sun was warm enough that I fanned myself with a pamphlet a vendor had given me. Groups of people sat on the perfectly manicured lawns, some picnicking, others simply catching up on their tans.

Olivier looked grim. “I didn’t have an opportunity to speak to anyone. That man you saw me with was instantly suspicious and almost threw me out of the building.”

I was giddy with excitement. Pulling the envelope from my pocket, I handed it to Olivier. “Look what I found, though.”

Olivier took out the papers, scanning the text. His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Clever girl,” he muttered. He added