The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy, #1)

by Sara Cate

I’m sitting at a table in the back of the store, doodling a lizard climbing the side of the Eiffel Tower on the inside of a pamphlet, when I glance up and see a familiar face passing through the front door. Jack St. Claire strides into the small, musty shop as if he owns the place. He doesn’t see me at first as he marches straight to the front desk. My jaw drops, and heat floods my cheeks as I tear my feet down from the table and nearly tumble over in my chair, knocking a stack of books to the floor in my clumsy attempt to be discreet.

“I’m Jack St. Claire,” he states, and I bite my lip at the sound of his voice, deep and husky. I am practically shrinking in his presence, so I press my shoulders back and lengthen my spine to make up for the commanding loftiness of his stature. “I know who you are,” I reply quietly.

“My daughter likes you.” “Me?” I murmur, touching my chest. He nods. I’m filled with warmth at the thought. Picturing her in her pristine purple dress and shiny black shoes makes me smile. “I like her too,” I reply before pinching my bottom lip between my fingers to hide my grin. “She must speak only English in our home. Will that be a problem?” My brows furrow, confusion piercing my ability to think clearly. Disoriented, I shake my head. His next words don’t do much to clear up my confusion. “I did a thorough background check on you.” Funny. I did one of my own on you too, I think but definitely don’t utter out loud. Sternly, he continues. “You never went to university. Never left this town.”

“I stayed to help my father with his restaurant,” I reply, although I’m not sure why. I don’t owe this man an explanation of my life choices. At the mention of my father, he glances back into my eyes as if he knows. Was that part of his thorough background check? Again, he looks like he wants to say something but stays quiet.

Finally, he bluntly states, “You start on Monday. Phoenix will call you with more information.” Time stops as I blink at him numbly. I start on Monday. Start what? Did he just tell me he’s hiring me as a nanny? “Wait, what?” The broody veil lifts momentarily as he clarifies, “You got the job, Miss Aubert.” But then it’s quickly replaced as he settles his brows together. “Don’t let me down.”

Rule #4: Don’t get carried away.

Camille

My feet are leaving the floor, Papa. And there’s no one to hold me down.

Phoenix is standing out front with Bea when we pull up to the building. The little girl, clothed in a slightly more casual blue dress today, hops up and down excitedly as the driver opens my door. As soon as my feet hit the cobblestone street, Bea comes running toward me as if we’re old friends reunited. It tugs at my heart to see how quickly she’s latched on to me. “Camille!” she squeals as she throws her arms around my legs. “Bonjour, Bea,” I say as I lean down and give her a proper hug.

“How was your trip?” she asks. “Très bien, merci,” I reply, wincing at the reminder that Jack said strictly no French in the house. Technically, we’re still outside, so hopefully she’ll let that slide on a technicality. Phoenix doesn’t react. “The driver can bring your bags inside, and I can give you a tour.” Bea links her little hand in mine as we follow Phoenix into the building and up the stairs toward the apartment. Once we enter, I find myself immediately looking toward the stairs for a sign of Jack. The apartment is quiet, so I assume he’s not here.

“Beatrice attends primary school from eight thirty until four. You will need to drop her off and pick her up. Monsieur St. Claire works mostly in his office upstairs during the day. The apartment must stay relatively quiet while he’s working. There’s a children’s park down the street.” Bea hops excitedly at the sound of that. Surely, she has some play clothes, because I can’t imagine her at the park in these pretty dresses.

She hesitates briefly while staring into my eyes, and I can tell she wants to say something. “Bea, go play in your room,” she says to the little girl. Reluctantly, Bea listens, sprinting down the hall to her own room, leaving Phoenix and me alone. After breathing a pensive sigh, she says, “Monsieur St. Claire is a private man. It’s best you don’t go upstairs or bother him unless it’s important. Don’t ask about his work or where he goes at night.”

“He hasn’t dealt with the death of his wife well, so he might come across as a little cold and mean. It would be wise of you to give him his space.” Consider my curiosity piqued. Leave it be, Camille. “I understand,” I murmur. “You have my number. If you need anything, call me. I live just two blocks down.” “Everything is under control,” I say with a nod.

“Has Bea ever had a nanny before?” She shakes her head. “No. Jack never wanted another woman in the house.” “So who normally watches her?” Her mouth sets in a thin line. “Me. Other friends. Her aunt.” “What about her father?” I ask, sensing that she’s hiding something. After a contemplative look, she replies, “Like I said, he didn’t handle Em’s death well.”

If what Phoenix said was true, then Bea has been cared for by family and friends sporadically to cover the gaps that her mother’s death left behind. Step one—create a routine. Glancing down at my watch, I see it’s just past noon. “Are you hungry?” She glances up from the floor. With a cute little smirk on her face, she nods. I hold out my hand for her, and she jumps up from the floor and takes it. We walk together into the kitchen, and I find an apron hanging on a hook behind the door. After slipping it over my head, I open the fridge and scavenge for something to prepare for lunch.

Step two—make a grocery list tonight and go shopping tomorrow.

“After my father died, the restaurant closed.” “Oh,” she mumbles sadly. “Did he go to sleep like my maman?” Shit. The kitchen falls into a heavy silence, and the change in mood is my fault. I didn’t really want to cover death on day one of my new job. It’s slightly concerning that she thinks her mother went to sleep, but maybe that’s how they explained it to her innocent mind. Who am I to complicate that? “Um…yes. I think we need some music,” I say to change the subject. Going into my backpack, I pull out my portable speaker and place it on the counter. After connecting it to my phone, I pick an upbeat playlist, and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” blasts through the kitchen.

“So what do you like to do?” I ask, turning toward her. She shrugs. “You like arts?” “Sometimes we do art at school,” she replies. “What about sports? Or music?” “At school,” she repeats. “Hm,” I mumble to myself. “Tante Elizabeth is a ballerina,” she says, and I turn to her with interest. “That’s nice,” I reply. “Does your papa ever take you to her shows?” Bea slumps in her seat. “No. Papa doesn’t take me anywhere.” “Nowhere?” I ask. She shakes her head. I can see sadness creeping in on her face, so I decide to change the subject—again. “Well, I love arts and crafts and sports and music. So we’ll have lots of fun.”

The next thing I know, Bea is hopping around on the floor, shaking her hips, and trying to sing along with the words. She twirls so fast in her pretty blue dress that her hair bow flies across the room. It makes me laugh, so I crank up the volume and take her hands, spinning her around the kitchen as we giggle with excitement.

Lost in the moment, I’m singing along to the lyrics, incredibly off-key, when I spin around and let out a scream. Slamming my hand over my mouth, I stare at Jack in the doorway, watching us both with a displeased grimace on his face. “Turn it down,” he barks angrily.

“Papa said to turn it down!” Bea shouts at me. Clapping a hand on my forehead, I dash over to the speaker, but Jack marches over and beats me to it. We reach for the device at the same time, our hands colliding as his clicks the button first.

“Je suis désolée. J’ai commencé à faire à manger, nous nous amusions beaucoup, et je n’ai pas fait attention. Je suis une très bonne cuisinière en principe, et…”

“I’m sorry,” I stammer in English. He settles his enraged eyes on me. “It’s only your first day, and you’re trying to burn our apartment down. I’m starting to worry that you can’t be trusted.” I square my shoulders, my brows knitting together. “We were dancing, and I got distracted.”

Rule #5: Don’t go poking around where you’re not supposed to.

Camille

I take Bea to school in the morning and then take my grocery list to the store to restock the pantry with the money Phoenix left me for food and supplies. After putting Bea to bed last night, I spent hours meticulously making a routine, planning meals, and making lists. Getting back to the house with heavy paper bags under each arm, I hoist them onto the counter and glance toward the stairs for signs of Jack. I hear nothing, so I assume he’s gone. Being alone in the house has me on edge. Not knowing if he’s really up there or not. Not knowing if he’ll just come down and berate me for something else I’ve done wrong.

And as curious as I am, I follow Phoenix’s strict orders never to pry or go poking where I don’t belong. Then another day goes by without seeing him. And another. And another. His relationship with his daughter is nonexistent. That’s the most bizarre part. If they pass each other in the house, he’ll greet her coldly, but there is no affection. No tenderness. No relationship between them at all.

Our favorite activity together is, by far, drawing. I’m teaching her how to do little doodles like I do. She leaves them for me, so when I go to bed every night, I find folded pieces of paper on my nightstand—one a beret-wearing whale and the next day a panda sitting on a bed of flowers. On my fifth day in Paris, I finally have my first night off. Phoenix comes over around 6 p.m., relieving me of my duties for the night. As much as I love this job, I’ve been looking forward to this all week.

I have a reservation at one of the more sought-after restaurants in Montmartre. So I put on my best dress—a modest black knee-length A-line—with comfortable ankle boots good for walking, and I head out by myself. The restaurant is only a ten-minute walk from the apartment, but I take my time, savoring the taste of freedom on my tongue.

I like being alone, I do, but sometimes I wish there was someone next to me whose shoulder I could rest my head on. Someone who would let me hold their hand as we watch the sun set over Paris. Someone who would listen to me tell stories about the trips I took to the basilica as a kid with my father. Someone who would pull me away from the crowds to kiss me under the shade of the tree growing up the side of the hill.

There’s something so sad about how deeply this man grieves. I still have the picture of him and his late wife in my purse. I tell myself that I carry it around with me to prevent someone at the house finding it, but I think the real reason is that it’s become sacred to me. I never knew Emmaline, but I somehow feel as if I did. I could tell by the photo that they loved each other. But I see it even more in the way he’s withdrawn himself from his own life.

I was supposed to be spending tonight relaxing, not thinking about him and how to drag him out of this cage of solitude he’s locked himself in. Of course, it’s not his fault I can’t stop thinking about him, but I’ll blame him anyway.

But just as I’m about to enter a pub that looks promising, I spot the familiar gait and stature of the very man I can’t stop thinking about. Jack St. Claire is walking briskly down the road in front of me, taking a turn onto a quiet side street. Driven by curiosity, I abandon the bar I was about to enter and follow him. I’m far enough behind that he can’t hear me, and there are people on the street who seem to be heading in the same direction as we are. I’m dying to know…what does Jack get up to in his free time? Where on earth does he go?

The club is nestled at the bottom of the building, the lower-level facade painted in discreet matte black with an awning and people milling around on the street outside. Voices and the bass of music echo through the narrow city street as I slowly approach. He’s going to a nightclub?

I could do literally anything else, but for some reason, I’m moving toward the door of the club.

“This is a long shot, but does anyone named Jack happen to work here?” “Jack St. Claire?” My heart hammers in my chest. “Yes.” “Well, he owns the place,” she replies, and my eyebrows shoot upward. He owns this club? It’s certainly not what I expected for his job, but it all makes sense. His strange work hours, his constantly being gone at night. “Do you have a meeting with him?” she asks. I clear my throat, feeling uncomfortable. “I actually sort of work for him.” “Oh,” she says with a wide-eyed, knowing expression on her face. “Well, he’s probably downstairs.” “What’s downstairs?” I ask. “The club,” she replies with a chuckle. I glance around me. “Isn’t this the club?” She laughs again. “You must be new here.”

“Tell him you need to meet Jack. He’ll let you down, and you should probably be able to find him in the back somewhere.” “Thanks,” I stammer awkwardly. After drinking the water, I follow the bartender’s instructions.

I’ve never been more confused in my life. Warning bells are going off in my mind, and I suddenly remember Phoenix giving me stringent instructions not to ask about his job or go poking around where I’m not supposed to. And yet here I am, standing in a club, or above a club, that Jack apparently owns. You’re causing trouble again, Camille. Perhaps if I were better at following instructions or listening to warnings when I’m given them, I would turn away now and go home. I would put all this to rest and let my curiosity subside. But I am none of those things.

“I’m here for Jack St. Claire,” I say to the man by the elevator. Then I point back at the bartender. “She told me to tell you that.” He lets out a grunt as he nods at the bartender. Then he jabs his finger against the button, and the doors slide open, allowing me into the elevator. I’m practically shaking as it takes me down alone. Once it opens, it takes everything in me to step out. It’s immediately a little quieter and even darker as I exit the elevator and walk down a narrow black hallway. A red neon sign above the inky black curtain ahead simply says Legacy

As I slip through the dark curtain at the end of the hall beneath the sign, what I find is nothing like I expected. It’s not nearly as crowded as it is upstairs. There’s still music playing, but it’s slower, more sultry, and not as loud. The lights are dim, but they’re also a pinkish shade of red, and the entire room has a sense of sexy energy about it.

As I reach the other side, I stop and gawk in surprise. I can’t believe what my eyes are seeing. There are people on the dance floor, but not many, maybe twelve or fifteen. They’re moving to the music in a way that is both natural and unnatural. It takes my eyes a moment to realize that most of them are completely nude. And the rest are hardly wearing anything at all.

One of the naked women has her legs wrapped around a man, her arms hanging around the shoulders of another, and it’s definitely not a dance they’re doing. The man’s thrusts match the sultry beat of the music, and I can just make out their moans from here. It’s salacious without being grotesque or vulgar. In fact, it’s almost beautiful. “So it is a kinky sex dungeon,” I whisper to no one. “You keep staring like that, you’re gonna get yourself kicked out,” a voice says from behind me. My body feels flushed, tight, and hot as I spin around to find another small bar, much like the one upstairs. The man talking to me is a very handsome young bartender with nearly pitch-black hair. He appears to be my age with dimples and a coy smirk as he leans against the bar.

He chuckles. “First time?” Silently, I nod. First time what? I don’t know. First time in a kinky sex dungeon, yes. First time my curiosity has gotten me in trouble, not even close. “Need a drink?” he asks. “Desperately,” I whisper as I rest my arms on the bar, not daring to turn back toward the erotic display in the middle of the room. “Want me to fix you up something? I could surprise you.” Judging by his accent, he is also from America, like Phoenix and Jack.

“Did you come alone?” he asks. “Yes,” I whisper. “Normally, new members get a tour and a guide. Did you not get a tour?” I clear my throat, uncomfortable again. New members? Am I supposed to be a member? Good God, Camille. What have you gotten yourself into now? “Um, no,” I reply, stammering. “All right, well, this isn’t much of a tour, but that’s the dance floor. Those are VIP booths, and there’s a BDSM room in the back, but if you wanted to rent a private room, you’d have to talk to the host.”

I take a sip of the purple drink and realize that Jack St. Claire owns a sex club. That’s what all this is about. Now it makes sense why Phoenix didn’t want me asking any questions. “Feel free to go take a look around,” he says, “but don’t be doing any of that gawking stuff you were a moment ago. Just play it cool. A pretty thing like you, I’m sure you won’t be alone for long, but if someone gives you any trouble, just signal to any one of the security guards, and they’ll help you out. Got it?”

As the bartender said, there are large circular booths off to the right with high backs and low tables so that people inside are hidden from view. Passing them, I see a doorway leading deeper into the club. The noises from within stop me in my tracks. It’s not music I hear anymore but the unmistakable sound of something smacking flesh. The bartender told me not to gawk, and I am doing my best, but I am definitely out of my element here.

What I find in the last booth stops me in my tracks. Jack St. Claire is standing near a wall covered in paddles and other tools I don’t recognize. He’s shirtless with his back to us and a pair of dark jeans hanging on his hips. I can’t take my eyes off the cords of muscle cascading from shoulder to shoulder and down his spine. There’s a glisten of sweat on his skin, and I’m too struck by the sight to move when I know I should. A woman kneels on the floor at his side, but I don’t even look at her. Jack reaches for something along the wall, a bundle of black corded rope, and I spot the gold wedding band on his left hand. As he picks up the rope and slaps it against the other palm, I flinch. The girl on the floor looks acquiescent. Then Jack turns around to regard her, and I watch as he softly pets the top of her head and the line of her jaw with adoration. She practically melts under his touch.

The woman leans into Jack as he begins to unravel the rope in his hand. She lifts her wrists on his command, and he softly whispers two words that course straight down my spine. “Good girl.” Lips parted, I find myself wondering what it must feel like to be in her position, to be so adored and treated so gently by him. To feel his touch, his attention, his gentle praise. He mumbles something else to her I can’t understand, and I wish that I could. And then his eyes lift, making their way out to the crowd where a small group of people is standing, myself included. I do my best to hide, ducking behind the couple in the darkness, but it’s too late. His eyes meet mine. It feels like being struck by lightning.

Shit. He stomps angrily toward me, and I find myself backing up as if I could escape him. One of his hands latches around my upper arm, and I shriek, “Let go of me!” “What are you doing here?” he says, his eyes searching my face. “I… I…” No words come out. There’s not a single excuse I could come up with, so I give up on the futile attempt to talk my way out of this one. “You don’t belong here,” he says

“Why not? I can go where I want!” I shout. “Not here you can’t,” he argues as he continues dragging me through the deep recesses of the club until he finds a door. Grabbing hold of the knob, he tears it open and shoves me through. “Stop it!” I’m engulfed in fear as he drags me up a set of stairs in the back of the club.