A Kiss On Tiptoe

You can resign the moment we’re married,” Harold Greystone announced, as if the matter were already settled. “Your only duties will be keeping my house in order and delivering a son within the first year. Daughters cost too much, so we’ll stop at one boy.” He delivered the decree while dabbing croissant flakes from his lips, his belly straining the buttons of a bespoke shirt that had clearly surrendered years ago. At thirty-nine, Harold’s hair had retreated to a wispy crown, and his eyes carried the dull gleam of a man who believed money could buy anything, including youth. Vivienne Laurent sat opposite him in a Marseille waterfront café, forced into this meeting by her stepmother Margot, who feared her twenty-four-year-old stepdaughter might actually choose happiness over obligation. Harold had spent the first ten minutes complaining about Vivienne’s smoky eyeliner (“too theatrical”), then spent the next ten mentally undressing the rest of her. The moment she crossed her long legs, his complaints evaporated. “And your height?” he asked, leaning forward with the eagerness of a man calculating future bedroom logistics. Vivienne swirled the last of her espresso, voice cool. “One-seventy-eight.” His face lit up like a child handed the exact toy he demanded. “Perfect. I’m barely one-eighty-one on a good day. You’ll have to rise on tiptoe to kiss me, exactly how I like it. I’ll still bend if I must, of course.” Every woman in Marseille knew that when men bragged about being “one-eighty,” the tape measure usually shrank a solid eight centimetres once the shoes came off. Vivienne arched a brow. “You seem unaware that most women prefer not to crane their necks like giraffes just to reach their husband’s mouth.” Harold’s smile faltered. At that precise moment, the café door swung open and a man stepped inside who made the afternoon light look dimmer by comparison. Over six-foot-four, shoulders filling the doorway, dark hair pushed back by impatient fingers, the kind of bone structure that belonged on marble statues, not mortals. He moved like he owned the air itself. Vivienne’s gaze locked on him and refused to let go. She stood without thinking, chair scraping loudly against terracotta tiles, and crossed the café in four deliberate strides. “Excuse me,” she said, voice honey over steel, “mind if I steal you for thirty seconds? I need to prove a point.” Raphael Moreau glanced down, way down at the stunning brunette suddenly in his space. One dark brow lifted in silent question. Before Harold could protest, Vivienne curled her fingers into Raphael’s silk tie, tugged him down to her level, and brushed her lips against his in a kiss so swift and searing it left scorch marks on the air. She stepped back, turned to Harold, and smiled like a woman who had just won the war. “See?” she said sweetly. “That is the height a man should be if he ever expects me to kiss him on tiptoe.” Harold’s face went from pink to purple. He shot to his feet, chair toppling behind him. “You little..! Who the hell do you think you are? I’ll make sure every matchmaker in Marseille knows what a cheap…” Raphael’s low voice cut through the rant like a blade through silk. “Careful,” he murmured, eyes never leaving Vivienne. “Finish that sentence and you’ll be picking your teeth off the floor.” Harold sputtered, grabbed his jacket, and stormed out, muttering threats that dissolved the moment he hit the sunlight. Vivienne finally looked up, really looked up at the stranger whose tie she still held hostage. She released the silk, offered a slow, dangerous smile, and said, “Thank you for the rescue, Mr…?” “Moreau,” he supplied, the corner of his mouth curving. “Raphael Moreau. And you just made my entire afternoon.” Perfect, Vivienne thought with vicious satisfaction. Once Margot heard how she’d humiliated Harold Greystone in front of half the old port, no respectable (or even semi-respectable) suitor would touch her with a ten-foot barge pole. She delivered one last kick to Harold’s ego with the heel of her stiletto, spun on the spot, and flashed the towering stranger a dazzling smile. “Thanks for the assist, handsome. See you around, Marseille’s a small city.” She was already halfway to the door when a large, warm hand closed around her wrist like a velvet shackle. “Running off after using my mouth without permission?” Raphael Moreau’s voice rolled over her, low and rough like gravel soaked in cognac. “That’s new.” A shiver raced up her spine and detonated at the base of her skull. She turned slowly and finally looked, really looked, at the man she had just kissed. Good God. He was carved from midnight and sin. Sun-kissed olive skin stretched over razor-sharp cheekbones, a jaw that could cut diamonds, and eyes the color of burnt amber under thick black lashes. Everything about him screamed money, danger, and very expensive trouble. Vivienne swallowed. “I… tend to act first and think later. Occupational hazard.” His mouth curved, slow and lethal. “I noticed.” Before either of them could speak again, the black-suited man at Raphael’s side ended a call and stepped forward, face grim. “Sir, change of plans. Sophia’s flight was diverted; storms over the Alps. She can’t land until tomorrow at the earliest. The engagement banquet is tonight. Your grandfather is already asking questions.” Raphael’s expression froze. The temperature around him seemed to drop ten degrees. Vivienne felt the shift like a cold wave. Engagement banquet. Of course. Men who looked like that didn’t walk into random cafés single. She tried to tug her wrist free. He didn’t let go. Raphael’s grandfather, the legendary Armand Moreau, had survived two wars, three bankruptcies, and one near-fatal heart attack eighteen months ago. The old lion had agreed to the transplant on one ironclad condition: his thirty-year-old grandson would be married within three days of getting engaged, or the entire Moreau shipping empire would pass to charity. Sophia Valenti, the polished, camera-ready heiress Raphael had hired to play the part of perfect fiancée, was now stuck somewhere over Switzerland. Raphael’s gaze flicked down to Vivienne’s mouth, then back to her eyes. Something dark and desperate flickered there. He still hadn’t released her wrist. Vivienne arched a brow. “Anything else you need from me, monsieur? Or are we done here?” Raphael’s grip tightened for a fraction of a second, then loosened just enough to slide his thumb across the frantic pulse at her wrist. “Actually,” he said, voice velvet and steel, “I think we’re just getting started.” Raphael’s assistant, Lucien Valois, stared at Vivienne as if she’d materialised from thin air. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Sir,” Lucien tried again, voice tighter, “we are out of options.” Raphael’s gaze never left Vivienne’s face. Something cold and calculating slid behind the amber, then settled into ruthless decision. “This one,” he said simply. “We’ll use her.” Lucien’s eyes widened. “She’s… not exactly…” “She’ll do.” Vivienne felt the shift like a trap snapping shut. “Use me for what, exactly?” Raphael stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “You stole a kiss. Now you owe me. Take responsibility.” Her pulse stuttered. “Responsibility? I didn’t sign up to be your scapegoat because you got handsy with your own tie.” He tilted his head, amusement flickering. “My first kiss in public in fifteen years, and you just claimed it on a whim. Be honest. Was it really your first ever?” Vivienne lifted her chin, defiant. “Twenty-four years on this planet and I saved it for today. Congratulations. You just became my origin story.” A beat of silence. Then the corner of his mouth curved dangerously, and delighted. “Perfect.” Before she could blink, Lucien was barking quiet orders into his phone. Four black-suited men appeared from nowhere and formed a silent wall around her. Vivienne’s heart slammed against her ribs. She had expected shouting, maybe a slapped face, possibly a viral video of her little stunt. She had not expected to be smoothly, professionally kidn*pped. The venue was the Château de la Croix, a cliffside palace of glass and stone overlooking the Mediterranean, the most exclusive address in all of Provence. Tonight it belonged to the Moreau dynasty, and every light in the place blazed for one reason: Raphael Moreau’s engagement announcement. Guests in couture and diamonds whispered behind champagne flutes. “Who is the girl on Jeremy Holden’s arm? She looks like she wandered in off the docks.” “Different from the polished creature we were promised, non?” Raphael, dressed now in midnight-black tuxedo that cost more than most cars, walked onto the marble dais with Vivienne’s hand locked in his. Cameras flashed like lightning. He lifted a microphone, voice carrying effortlessly over the stunned crowd. “Bonsoir, mesdames et messieurs. Allow me to present the woman who will become my wife, Vivienne Laurent.” A collective inhale sharp enough to suck the oxygen from the room. Vivienne’s blood roared in her ears. She had wanted to ruin Margot’s plans. She had not planned on becoming the counterfeit fiancée of Marseille’s most powerful, most untouchable bachelor in front of four hundred witnesses. Raphael leaned down, lips brushing her ear, voice velvet and venom. “Smile, chérie. You started this. Now we finish it together.”