The Scent and The Siren

thirteen

"Juliette Vivienne, what were you thinking? How could you drive around Manhattan so wantonly on your own in that death trap?" My mother chastises me over the hands-free infotainment as I slow down my brother's sexy Koenigsegg along the road towards turning left onto Museum Mile.

"Relax, mamma. It's just a car. Not a spaceship." 

"You know how I feel about you driving a car. You have no regard for your mother's concerns whatsoever. I am appalled by your dismaying behavior."

I have been driving around Manhattan nonstop for the past hour. I hate driving in the city, but I'm glad I did. I feel a little better than when I fled the charity ball to escape his highness getting a hold of me again. 

I shudder at the memory. His scent prevails dominantly on my skin, passing through the dinner jacket he draped around me. It bothers me how deeply I am attracted to him and how vulnerable he makes me.

Where does all my courage go when his touch is ensnaring me? Why do I feel this fierce animal magnetism persists even after knowing how much he possibly detests me? Why do I react to his presence like being swallowed by the strong gravity of a black hole?

"Stop treating a 29-year-old like some fucking adolescent driving a car for the first time." I groan, feeling utterly dismayed by her ceaseless melodrama. "I'm almost home, so why don't you go take your precious beauty sleep time?"

None of my family members have driven a car despite being licensed drivers. My brother is an exception. It's like an unspoken Rothschild code. In fact, until a couple of years ago, before I moved to Paris, I'd never driven a car myself, apart from the time when I'd learned it to seek a driver's license. I was always chauffeured. 

She huffs a snort. "My heart is in such sheer agony because of your errant behavior."

I roll my eyes. "Good night, mamma. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Make sure you don't skip your PM routine. We don't want your flawless skin to suffer the consequences of sleeping with makeup on." Her voice returns to her usual haughty cheer. "Good night, my precious. I love you so much."

"You're so damn aggravating, and I love you despite that."

Swinging the car into the charming tree-lined driveway in the heart of Carnegie Hill, I park it in the reserved resident parking by the curbside. 

I am removing my seatbelt when I come to still witnessing the sight before me. 

I recognize the glossy black Bugatti La Voiture Noire parked at a little distance on the opposite curbside. A tall, well-built figure is leaning against the door in the dark, looking the other way.

Light-headed with an instant rush of blood from my head, I sway a little in my seat, blinking my eyes. 

It is him. 

I would recognize him even in the darkness. My senses would find him in a crowd of millions, even with a blindfold covering my eyes. 

My fingers curl tight around the seatbelt as I stare at him in silence, watching him casually lounging against the most expensive car in the world that's only owned by two other people apart from him, one of them being my brother.

He is speaking to someone on the phone and is wearing a dinner jacket similar to the one lying next to me on the seat. As if capable of hearing my thoughts even from this distance, he turns his face in my direction. 

My breath hitches as my acute sensitivity heightens with the sensual anticipation of how this fiery night might end. This man makes my insides melt, and just like countless other women, I realize I am not immune to him as if it wasn't obvious already.