The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy, #1)

by Sara Cate

This book is dedicated to your praise kink.

Jack

Neither of them wants to say anything about this mysterious email their father sent everyone yesterday asking us to meet at Geo’s bar promptly at eight. Ronan Kade co-owns the sex club where I’ve been working for the past seven years. He’s also my godfather, and his son, Julian, has never been my biggest fan. The feeling is mutual.

My younger sister, Elizabeth, took my wife’s death last year as hard as I did. She looked up to Em like a true sister and even lived with us during Em’s brutal passing. But when she needed me the most, I went to a dark place for a long time. I should have been there for my sister and my daughter, but I just couldn’t. I could hardly be there for myself. And now, my only goal is to get my four-year-old daughter out of Paris and go back home where we belong. If this email from Ronan means what I think it means, I might have my opportunity.

I’m starting to feel restless as the awkward silence engulfs the table. My hope is that Ronan is about to announce his official retirement, naming his son his successor, which would mean I’ll be free to leave. There’s not a chance in hell I’ll work for Julian Kade.

We all look down in unison. “It’s an email from Dad,” Amelia says softly with a smile. Julian rolls his eyes without picking up his phone. “I’ll read it,” I say, clicking the notification. “Dear Kids,”

“This message is for all six of you: Julian, Amelia, Jack, Phoenix, Elizabeth, and Weston⁠— “This letter is a long time coming, and I'm sure you've guessed by now what it's about. With the help of my business partner, Matis Moreau, I’ve managed L’Amour for the past two and a half decades. It is time for me to officially retire. “I’ve spoken to Matis about this, and we both agree that you should make the club yours now.”

“I’ve known you all since you were born. Your parents created a legacy, and you were raised together like a family. You came to Paris with a dream, and you’ve all worked so hard at L’Amour. But what I see now are six adults who have lost their way. You’ve grown apart, and each of you has lost something you can never replace. I know how that feels. “I see your potential. Each of you brings something special to the table. If you really worked together, you could make a club even better than what your parents created. “There is nothing more powerful than family. The six of you are a family, whether you see it or not. There are three of you missing from this letter—Liam, Austin, and Scarlett. They are choosing another path for their lives, but this offer extends to them, should they choose it. And I hope they do.”

“That is why I am passing the club down to all six of you. You can do what you want with it. Change the name. Make it yours. The only catch is that you have to run it together for at least a year.

“This isn’t a punishment. It’s an experiment. I watched your parents’ club save lives, and I’m hoping this one will save yours. “One year. That’s all I ask. After the year is up, you can do what you want. “I’m begging you to give it a shot. “Find your family, and make this your home.

“The point is…Ronan is right. We could make something great. We all bring something different to the table. Amelia has the design and marketing skills, and West can run the bar. Nix has the business brains. Elizabeth…” My sister doesn’t turn my way, even after I utter her name. Swallowing my grief, I continue. “Elizabeth has danced in shows all over Paris. She can head the entertainment.” “And what about me?” Julian asks from behind me. Turning away from the table, I stare at him. Standing at my height, I am toe-to-toe with the one guy I can’t stand. The idea of working with him repulses me, but this isn’t about me. It’s about making this harebrained scheme work in hopes of getting my sister back. For her, I can endure a year with the most pretentious, arrogant, self-absorbed asshole in Paris. “You, Julian,” I say, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be my partner.” “Your partner?” he asks with a scoff. “Yeah. You and I will manage it together. And after the year’s up, those of us who want to leave can leave. Then you’ll have it to yourself.”

I don’t care whether the club thrives or fails, and I don’t genuinely believe Ronan’s message about finding some deeply hidden worth in working together. These people aren’t my family. My family fell apart the day my wife died. Now, there’s only one family member I’m concerned about in this room, and I’m doing it for her. Running this club with Elizabeth means getting to see her and talk to her and hopefully repairing our broken relationship. Once I do that, I’m taking my daughter back home to California where we belong. The rest of them can do what they want with the place. One year. I can get through one year.

“Wait,” Amelia cries, and we all lower our shot glasses. “Dad said we could rename it. So what should it be?” The answer comes to me immediately. “Well, he said our parents created a legacy. So I say we do the same.” “Legacy,” Phoenix replies with a proud smirk. “I like it,” Amelia chirps. “To Legacy,” Weston cheers.

Rule #1: You’ll almost always find something exciting inside a book.

Camille

Ten months later

The measly pay is enough to get me by until I can get out of this village for real and go somewhere better. Maybe London. Maybe Paris. Maybe Rome. But it’s not like a lonely girl with no parents, no money, no education, and no skill can just pick up and leave the village where she grew up. My stubborn curiosity and poor drawing skills wouldn’t get me far.

After another quick glance around, I flick open the front cover of the book and draw a tiny black cat with a spiky mullet blowing a bubble on the inside. It makes me chuckle as I finish the doodle before closing the book and sliding it back into place. The drawings are just something I’ve always done. My father used to call them my little signature. He’d find them all over the house when I was young, shouting at me from the kitchen when I’d forget the rules: no furniture, no walls, no floor.

As I thumb open the front cover to find the title page, something falls from between the pages and lands on the floor. I put the pen back in my pocket as I lean down to retrieve the beige envelope. I stare at it curiously, turning it over to see the messy, scrawled handwriting on the front. It’s addressed to a woman—Emmaline Rochefort. The top of the envelope is ripped open, so as the song in my ears changes to something slower and more romantic, I put the book back on a random shelf and peer into the envelope. Inside, there is a folded piece of paper and a small square photo. It feels like an invasion of privacy, but I can’t help myself as I pull them both out. Flipping the photo over, I stare down at the couple smiling back at me. It’s a young, handsome man with his arm around the shoulder of a beautiful brunette woman. They’re both grinning, cheeks pulled tight from ear to ear and bright, pearly white teeth showing.

At the very top, it says, Dear Emmaline. The letter is scrawled in messy English. I can’t stop thinking about you, it starts. But I stop reading there. It would be an invasion to keep reading. Turning it over, I find the closing sentence sweetly signed: Love, Jack

And every free moment I have, I pull it from my pocket and glimpse another line. I miss you so much. I never expected to fall in love with you. Please come back.

The woman, Emmaline Rochefort, must have lived here in Giverny. The man, Jack St. Claire, has an address in Paris. How did an English-speaking man in Paris end up writing a love letter to a French woman in a small village? The answers might be in the letter itself, but for some reason, it feels forbidden to read it. It’s so personal. So intimate. Whatever he wrote on that paper is meant for her eyes only, even if it did somehow end up in the bookstore where I work.

From there, I scroll, and my heart sinks. I miss you, Emma. You’re in our thoughts forever. Gone too soon. Prayers for your family. Comment after comment after comment of some random person online sending messages to an account as if they can speak to this person beyond the grave. I’m hit by a twinge of grief. Not for this woman I don’t even know, of course. But seeing this immediately brings back memories of my father’s restaurant’s social media page. One day, it was filled with photos of his famous pan-seared fish, and the next, it was flooded with messages like these. Gone too soon. Prayers for your family. We’ll miss you, Laurent. Messages he’ll never read but words of sorrow that just needed to be expressed.

And then I find what I’m really looking for. It’s a photo of the beautiful woman, adorable little girl, and a dashing man standing together on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur. They are bundled in wool jackets and hats, and like the small photo on the table in front of me, they look happy. They look like they’re in love. Even without reading the letter, I feel some sense of comfort in knowing this happy couple stayed together. Even if she passed away.

I doodle on the wine label and wait for my pasta to cook. All the while, I think about the couple. How do people find love like that? What did that woman have to do to get a handsome, seemingly successful, and, from what I can tell, normal man to give her so much attention? The only men I can get to look my way are creepy old men or chauvinistic young guys who only see tits and ass and fail to notice I have a face and a personality.

I won’t settle for a life of contentment with someone else just to have a partner. I want fireworks and magic. I want to stare into someone’s eyes and feel seen. I want to find a soul that matches mine.

But I feel like I know Emmaline and Jack. Not to mention I am in possession of something that once belonged to her. Something special. What if he’s been looking for this letter? It’s silly of me to think this way, to think that some strangers in a photograph mean anything to me. What if I could return this letter to him? It may seem insignificant to most, but he clearly loved her enough to write it. He must be sick with grief, and this letter could be one small token of remembrance.

Why can’t I take the train to Paris and give this man a letter I found? Why wouldn’t I? If he were mine, I’d want someone to do the same for me.

Rule #2: Get out of town once in a while.

Camille

It’s a one-hour train ride to Paris, and my plan is to arrive in the city, go straight to the apartment listed on the envelope, and return the letter. Perhaps I could spend a couple of hours around the city before boarding the train tonight and coming home.

Papa used to say I was like a little hummingbird, constantly flitting from one place to another, and that someday I would fly too far if someone didn’t hold me down. I was always running off, sneaking out, staying out too late, and ditching school. I certainly didn’t make it easy on him. But he was never too angry. He’d shake his head with a tsk, but he was never one for punishment.

Still, I climb the stairs to the second floor and gently rap my knuckles against the surface. My limbs are shaking, and it’s as if I forgot how to breathe entirely. Behind the door, I hear a little girl shouting something I can’t make out, and a woman replies in an assertive tone. The door flies open, and to my surprise, a beautiful woman with long red hair stands before me.

“You must be here for the nanny position,” the woman says in hurried English, cutting me off. “Please, come in.” The hand in my pocket freezes. Nanny position? Just then, a small child pops up to the right of the redheaded woman. She has piercing blue eyes and perfectly combed brown hair that reaches her shoulders. “Bonjour,” she greets me sweetly.

“Please, come in,” she urges. It’s her authoritative tone that shakes me from my stupor. I don’t understand why, but I take the steps forward into the stranger’s apartment. Think, Camille. What are you doing? Why are you here? “My name is Phoenix Scott,” the woman says with an American accent. “I’m Mr. St. Claire’s business partner. I’ll be conducting the interviews for the position. What is your name?”

Just then, I hear heavy footsteps from above, and I glance up toward the staircase to see someone walking by. It’s clearly a man in a dark blue suit, but at this angle, that’s all I can make out. In a flash, he’s gone. “Was that…Monsieur St. Claire?” I mumble awkwardly. The woman glances up toward the stairs. “Yes, but he won’t be coming down,” she answers in a rush. “Oh.” “Please have a seat,” she says, guiding me toward the sitting room with two oversized armchairs near a marble fireplace.

I’m a trespasser. An interloper. I’m not supposed to be here. I only came to return a letter. And now I’m sitting in their home under false pretenses.

I just want a small glimpse. I’d only like to lay my eyes on him—for reasons even I don’t understand. If I’m caught, then I can simply claim confusion or say I got lost. Climbing up the stairs one by one, I get about halfway, and it’s high enough to just peek into the office on the left. And there he is. He’s pacing the room and speaking, sounding frustrated and controlling. I assume he’s on the phone, but I’m not focused on his words. Instead, I’m staring at the broad expanse of his shoulders and the sharp line of his cheekbones. He’s even more handsome in person than in the photo. But there’s a darkness in his eyes, heavy circles underneath, and new wrinkles at the corners. He’s aged, and not just by time. The effects of grief are apparent in his weathered features. His posture is rigid and straight, and I watch the way his right hand balls into a fist before releasing, over and over again.

“Enchantée, Bea,” I reply with a half-smile. “How old are you?” “I’m five. Are you going to be my new nanny?” she asks. She has on a lavender chiffon dress with pristine white tights and shiny black Mary Jane shoes. Her hair is meticulously combed with a part on the side and a matching purple bow pinned just above her ear. “I don’t know,” I reply as I kneel down in front of her. “Can I tell you a secret?” She nods emphatically. “I’ve never been a nanny before,” I whisper. “I didn’t even know I was going to be applying for this job today.”

“Do you like unicorns?” This makes me chuckle. “I love unicorns.” “And fairies?” “Of course.” “Want to see my room? It’s painted with fairies and unicorns.” “I should probably wait here,” I start, but the girl takes my hand and tugs me along with her. Her shoes clap loudly against the floor as she pulls me deeper into the apartment, down a hallway, and into one of the bedrooms.

“My papa works a lot,” she says. “Phoenix says I need someone to play with when I’m not in school because Papa is too busy to play with me.” There’s sadness in her voice when she says this that tugs on my heart. I suddenly remember that this poor child lost her mother at only three years old. She probably doesn’t even remember her.

“I’m not going to be your nanny,” I say softly as I cross my arms over my chest. “Why not?” she asks. “Why don’t you want to be my nanny?” “Well, it’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that…” My voice trails, unable to find a good enough reason for her. “Your papa is going to find you a very good nanny. I’m sure a lot of people have applied.” “He’ll pay you a lot of money,” she says, and it makes me chuckle. “And you can stay in our extra bedroom. And we can bake cookies and have sleepovers and play games.” “That sounds very fun,” I reply softly, which isn’t a lie.

“Do you have experience with children?” she asks. “I curate the children’s department at our bookstore, but other than that…no.” She glances up at me skeptically. “Any certifications…or training?” I shake my head. “No.” “What makes you qualified for this job?” she asks plainly.

This could all be a mix-up, or it could be fate.

“I didn’t have a mother growing up,” I say. “So I can understand what life is like for Beatrice. I know what it’s like to feel like a part of you is missing, but I was lucky enough to have a father who instilled confidence in me. I may not be…certified or trained, but I’m trustworthy and curious and fun. And I’d love her like my own.”

“That was lovely. Thank you.” After a minute, she adds, “You should know the position is live-in. Beatrice would require around-the-clock attention with breaks, of course, in the evenings and on Sundays. I think that’s all for now. Do you have any questions?”

“Great,” she says as she stands. “We will be in touch.”

Rule #3: Don’t look back.

Camille

Loneliness settles in like mud seeping into my pores, caking every part of me with this solitude. It’s not just that I’ve been stuck in my village for the past two years—it’s that I’ve been utterly alone throughout it all. The friends I did have I pushed away. When relatives call, I don’t answer. I’ve isolated myself, and it took me this long to realize