The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy, #1)

by Sara Cate

“What are you doing?” I scream. He lets go of my arm and blocks the door we just escaped through. His eyes bore into mine with intensity, rage pulsating through his features. “Why can’t you just listen?” he grits with exasperation. Huffing, I stare back at him, lifting my chin with all the defiance I can muster. “Why would I listen to you?” I snap. “You’re not my, my…” “Your boss?” he growls, leaning closer.

“Go home.” He points toward the street, away from the club, like I’m a dog that must listen to his commands. “What is wrong with you?” I ask, my voice shaking with emotion. He doesn’t react or answer. When it’s clear that he won’t move until I leave, I sigh as I take a step away. Tears moistening my eyes, I turn my back on him and walk away from the club toward the road that will lead back to home.

Rule #6: Beware of those who lurk in hallways in the middle of the night.

Camille

As we walk through the crowds, Bea’s hand is clutched tightly in mine. There are artists with easels set up, painting as they sell, and some even do commissioned portraits right there in the plaza. “I’d like to hang a painting in my room. Will you help me pick one?” I ask, browsing the selections. “Oui,” Bea replies excitedly. She wastes no time pointing to a small watercolor painting of the Moulin Rouge in a red matte frame. “I like this one,” she says. “I like that one too,” I reply. The artist steps out from behind his easel and greets us with a smile. “Two for fifty,” he says, and Bea beams up at me. “Does that mean I can get one too?” “Go ahead. Pick one out for your room,” I say. She steps into the artist’s stall and starts browsing his selection of paintings. “These are really lovely,” I say to him. “Merci,” he replies. “Are you an artist?” he asks. “Me? No,” I say. “But I love art.”

I don’t think everything needs to be perfected as a skill. There’s nothing wrong with just enjoying something for the sake of enjoying it. We don't need to become better at it and certainly not perfect.

And yet there is always a voice inside me that strives for perfection. It’s as if he was trying to convince me to embrace my flaws, but I couldn’t. When I look in the mirror, all I see is a girl who is too messy, too loud, too wild, too silly, or too ignorant. And deep, deep down, I know my mind is trying to say that if I were better, then my mother wouldn’t have left.

But when I glance down at the area where she should be and find it empty, panic explodes inside me like a bomb going off. My head snaps in every direction. “Beatrice,” I call. “Beatrice!” Dashing out of the stall, I glance back and forth down the marketplace in desperate search of her. How could I have let her out of my sight? What have I done? I’ve only been on the job two weeks, and I’ve already lost her. She was right here. “Camille!” her tiny voice shouts for me.

“Where did you go?” “I’m sorry.” She pouts. “But I saw my tante Elizabeth.” She looks up at the woman, who gives me a stern expression. “Your aunt?” I ask. The woman puts a hand out toward me. “Je m’appelle Elizabeth. Je suis la sœur de Jack.” My eyes widen as I take in the woman before me. This is Jack’s sister?

Jack walks in. “Bonsoir, Papa,” Bea calls to him. I pause, watching for his reaction. He stands at the door in the foyer of the apartment, his eyes on his daughter at the table next to me. My attention is glued to him, waiting for him to give her something. This poor child just needs a parent. A touch of affection. Attention. Anything. But he’s staring at the two of us sitting here as if this is somehow offensive to him. As if us just existing is hurting his feelings in some way.

I’ve never known him to go to the kitchen or her room or anywhere else in the downstairs portion of the home. But this time, I notice him hesitating. He stands statue-still and regards us as if he’s mentally considering doing something other than fleeing the room. In my mind, I’m begging him to walk over to her. Touch her hair, kiss her head, smile at her. “How…” He clears his throat. “How was your day?” Bea and I both freeze, taken aback by the sudden conversation from him when he’s stayed so quiet before. “Super,” Bea replies enthusiastically. Then she rattles off more in French, and I notice him wincing before holding up a hand. “English, Beatrice.”

Then his expression morphs into remorse. He looks lost. The hard shell dissipates long enough for me to get a glimpse of the broken, aching man underneath. “It’s okay,” he says to the little girl. He hesitates before nodding stoically and marching toward the stairs, climbing them quickly as if to escape us. My eyes dash over to Bea, watching her reaction. She is only five, still so little. She’s just a baby, really. It’s so unfair that she’s already been dealt such a hard hand. Losing her mother and now essentially her father.

“Camille,” she whispers. “Yes?” “Can I have a hug?” she asks, and my heart splinters at her words. “Of course,” I reply without hesitation. Rushing over to her bed, I sit on the side and gather her up in my arms. She hugs me tightly, her tiny arms gripping my sides as she burrows her head against my chest. It suddenly dawns on me just how broken this poor family is. It’s daunting to think I’m here to help take care of her when what they truly need is so much more, far beyond my abilities. They need each other.

“Good night, Bea,” I say before leaving. “Good night, Camille,” she replies. As I wait for her to fall asleep, I busy myself cleaning the kitchen, preparing my meal list for tomorrow, and doing some light doodling on my notepad in the kitchen. Hearing Jack’s footsteps upstairs, I fight the urge to march up there and give him a piece of my mind. I want to yell at him to snap out of it. Stop being such a ghost. Be a father. But then again, who am I to judge? I fell apart and stopped living the day my dad died too.

As I turn away from the counter, I nearly scream at the sight of Jack walking into the kitchen. I freeze in place, expecting him to say something to me. Instead, he does just the opposite. He walks right past me as if I don’t exist. My mouth opens, silently watching him as he opens the fridge to retrieve something to eat. I’m dying to speak to him, and I have so many questions, but this is truly the first time he and I have been alone together since the night at the club.

“So…that’s where you work?” He doesn’t respond as he continues to rifle through the fridge. “At the club, I mean. Is that what it is? A club?” I continue awkwardly. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been anywhere like that before. It’s not really my…thing, but it’s fine if that’s your thing. I’m not judging.”

Still, he ignores me as if I’m not even in the room, and my molars grind at the sheer boldness. “I didn’t mean to follow you,” I say, which is a lie. “I was just…curious. I had no idea it would make you so angry. I didn’t mean to trespass. My father used to say⁠—” “Please, for the love of God, stop,” he snaps loudly as he stands up straight.

I fight off tears as he finally turns toward me. When he sees the wounded expression on my face, his features soften. He almost looks remorseful, as he should. I’ve never met someone so cruel before. “I’m sorry,” he grumbles to himself, letting his head hang and rubbing fiercely at his brow. “Just please…stop talking.”

“What is wrong with you?” I plead. “Why are you so cruel?”

I don’t understand why I care. So Jack St. Claire is a jerk. So what? He’s just my boss, and he pays me well to do my job. So why can’t I let it go? Why do I feel this persistent need to understand him?

Sometime in the middle of the night, I’m awoken by the sound of a floorboard creaking. By the sound of it, someone is walking just outside my bedroom. I stiffen as I wait for another creak. My bedroom door is open, just a crack, so I can hear Bea if she wakes up. And maybe that’s who’s in the hallway now. The room is dark, moonlight shining through the window as I stare at the opening, trying to make out if anyone is standing there watching me. When another floorboard creaks, I sit up. My heartbeat is thrumming quickly in my veins. I have a feeling I know exactly who is standing on the other side of my door. The only thing I don’t understand is why

When I stand up from the bed and place my feet on the floor, I do so with the intention of proving myself wrong. I want to quiet the doubts in my head. There’s nobody standing in my hallway. He’s not waiting for me on the other side of that door. It’s all just the creaks of an old apartment. I tiptoe slowly across my dark room. Pulling the door open, I let out a quiet gasp as I make out the tall, dark figure hovering in the middle of the hallway. My breathing quickens, and I search his face for a sign. When our eyes meet, it’s like an electric current. “What is it?” I whisper, but he doesn’t respond.

looks so sad, so lost. There are heavy circles under his eyes and a sheen of moisture on his cheeks. The only sound between us is our breathing, and the only scent is his delicate cologne. I fight the urge to pull him into my arms like I held Bea earlier. His pain radiates off him like a blazing fire, and I wish I could make it go away. As I wait for him to make a move, it’s as if I’m standing at the edge of a cliff. One small quake or gust of air would be enough to push me over the edge. All the anger I felt toward him earlier has dissolved and morphed into pity. When Jack takes a step toward me, I suck in a gasp, and when he crowds me against the doorframe, I let him.

Jack’s gaze has a strange sort of comfort to it. It’s odd, the way we can stare at each other as if we’re staring into each other’s souls. I could never do this with anyone else. It would grow too uncomfortable, too awkward, but with him, it makes me feel at ease, seen, like I’m not so alone. His hand lifts, and I hold my breath as he strokes his thumb softly over the side of my face. The touch alone is enough to send sparks down my spine. A heat burns in my belly, arousal blooming between my legs. His eyes, his touch, his presence speak a language I don’t comprehend. What is he trying to say? Is he sorry for the way he yelled? Does he want me in some forbidden way?

He touches my cheek delicately as if unsure what to do. It gives me the courage to lift my own hands, resting them softly on his chest. His heart beats steadily against my fingers. And I keep waiting to see if he’ll kiss me or if he’ll touch me more. Or if he’ll drag me into my bedroom and let his lips say what his mouth can’t. Would I even want that?

“I never should have hired you,” he whispers, jolting me from my fixation. His words are stabbing and painful. My brows furrow, and my hands fist his shirt in anger. “What did I do?” I reply, but he moves his hand over my mouth to keep me from speaking. Eventually, he releases his fingers from my face and turns his gaze away from mine. It feels like being doused in ice-cold water. He steps away, and I find myself reaching for him. “Wait,” I whisper. “Don’t go.”

Rule #7: Rules were made to be broken.

Camille

I didn’t sleep well last night, and it shows. Mid yawn, I hear a door slam upstairs. Bea and I glance at each other as we wait for his footsteps that never come. I wish I could say I’m dreading the moment I’m face-to-face with him again. But I can’t. In fact, I’m dying for it.

“Do you think my maman is a ghost?” Bea gazes up at me with those big, innocent blue eyes, and I have to swallow down the tension in my throat. How on earth should I answer this question? Perhaps these are the sorts of things real nannies are trained for. “Um… I don’t know. Do you think she’s a ghost?” “Oui,” she replies plainly. “I can hear her walking around sometimes. She comes into my room when I’m sleeping.”

“That’s lovely,” I say as I kneel in front of the girl. “I’m sure that if your maman were a ghost, she would watch over you so you’re never alone.” Bea shrugs. “I hope she takes care of Papa now.” “Why is that?” “Because I have you,” she chirps happily before wrapping her arms around my neck.

Going up to his room is forbidden. I’ve been told this more than once. But after last night, I feel at liberty to investigate. If he’s going to prowl outside my room while I sleep, I can snoop a bit in his while he’s gone.

Moving down to the next door, I pause and question my own sanity. What if he’s in here? What if he’s sleeping? What on earth am I going to do if he catches me and fires me for breaking the rules and trespassing into his private space—again? That would tear Bea up. I should turn away now. A wise woman certainly would. And yet I’m resting my hand on the next door, the last on the left. I’m a fool for this, but I can’t help myself. Moving at a speed that could only be categorized as agonizingly slow, I turn the handle and press open the door. What I expect is a bedroom. I expect a bed, a dresser, maybe a pile of laundry on the floor. What I don’t expect is an empty room with dark gray walls and ornate crown molding. There are deep purple velvet drapes hanging over the windows. Aside from an upholstered chair and a velvet bench, the only piece of furniture in the room is a large wood antique wardrobe. I glance behind me at the closed door I haven’t opened yet, which I assume now must be his bedroom. So what is this?

But with every discovery only comes more questions. Like what is this room used for? What is he hiding up here? And what is inside this wardrobe? I know I shouldn’t open it. And maybe in some way, I already know what’s in there. It was curiosity that led me to open that letter. Curiosity that led me to Paris in the first place. Curiosity that led me to the club the other night and curiosity that brought me into this room. But is it possible all these things are really just breadcrumbs?

I rest my fingers on the metal handle before giving it a gentle tug. It pops open, and I hold my breath as the light shines into the small space. But before I can get a glimpse of what is waiting inside, a large hand with a familiar gold band around the ring finger presses against the wood, slamming it closed. I let out a yelp in fear, but when I try to back away from the furniture, I hit a giant wall of muscle and anger.

Speak to me, I think. Yell at me. Punish me. Give me something. His breath is warm against my head and his chest solid against my back. “I’m sorry,” I stammer. “You don’t belong in here,” he whispers with his mouth near my ear, and my heart rate picks up in a panic. For some very odd reason, I’m not afraid of Jack. I probably should be, but in my heart, I know he won’t hurt me. “Why are you always breaking my rules?” he demands.

Then, to my surprise, he asks, “You want to see what is in there, don’t you?” Staring at the ornate wood of the armoire, I nod. With a hand around my waist, he tugs me gently backward so I’m flush against his body as he grips the handle of the wardrobe and pulls it open. My breath is shaky as I stare into the dark void behind the door. But it’s not quite what I had anticipated. There are gold hooks along the backside with various ropes and ribbons draped over each one. My brows furrow as I try to make sense of what I’m looking at. Admittedly, I sort of expected things like paddles, whips, gags. Things like I saw the other night at the club. But these are different. Far less intimidating, if I’m honest.

“Is this what you were expecting?” he whispers in my ear. I shake my head. “Are you still curious?” I nod. “Go ahead.”

Boldly, I pull the rope from the hook and let it drape over my fingers. When I think about it wrapped around my wrists, warmth sparks between my legs. As if he can read my mind, he lets out a low, rumbling growl, and my knees grow weak. The warmth in my core blossoms into a burning heat, pulsing between my legs. It’s like a spark of life in parts of my body I didn’t know existed until now. What is happening? Jack leans into me, and it’s much like the moment in the hallway last night. Slow, blazing tension engulfs us as if the world has completely stopped turning and some feverous tidal wave is sweeping us away. Show me, I chant in my mind. Please show me. His nose is pressed against the side of my head, and he takes a deep inhale as if he’s trying to pick up my scent. My eyes drift closed as the heat deep within my body continues to pulse, pulse, pulse. Then, without warning, he stiffens, pulling himself away and snatching the rope from my hands.

“You’re not going to show me?” I ask in astonishment. “No.” “Wait!” Reaching out, I grab his arm and try to turn him toward me. He glares down at my hand on his skin as if I’m a leech. “Why not?” “Not me. Find someone else.” “I don’t want to find someone else.”

“What is it you’re hiding?” I shout. “What is this room? Why did you leave it unlocked if you didn’t want me to⁠—” The words are stolen from my lips as he turns toward me and thrusts a hand against my mouth. Holding me by the back of the head, he crowds me as he silences my words without reason. Staring into my eyes with fire, he leans in as he growls, “Please stop talking.”

I want Jack to show me things I don’t know how to vocalize. I want him to let me into his world. I want to be the one at the center of his attention like that woman was for a brief moment at the club. But at the same time, I wish he’d hold me in his arms with affection. I wish he’d share the heavy weight of his grief with me.

“If I find you in this room again, you’re fired,” he mutters angrily near my face. Then, without warning, he releases me, and I try to reach for him again, but he’s already stomping out of the room and into the one on the opposite side of the hall. The door slams shut, and once again, I’m left standing alone, reeling from another bizarre and intoxicating moment with Jack St. Claire.

Rule #8: Always do your research.

Camille

“Bonjour, papa!” “Hello, Bea,” he murmurs in English. This is what he does every night, except tonight, he falters on his way out the door. Then, for the first time since I’ve worked here, he smiles at his daughter. It’s a soft, affectionate smile, but it’s enough to set my heart on fire with hope. His eyes find mine. Neither of us says a word to each other, but we share a small, silent connection before he eventually turns away and marches out the door.

After Bea has gone to sleep and the house is quiet, I brew a cup of tea and cuddle up on the couch in the living room downstairs. Rain pours down outside, tapping against the window as I pull a blanket over my legs and set my laptop on it. Music plays softly on the speakers as I open it and stare at the blank search engine screen. There’s so much I want to know and yet so much I’m afraid to know. Not afraid in the sense that it could hurt me but afraid in the sense that once I go down this path, there’s no turning back.

But even after all my research, I struggle to find the purpose. What is the point? Why do people do this? Is it all about the intricate knots and ties? Is it in some way meant to turn the participants on? Is it for sex? Is it for show? The websites all claim that being tied or being a rope bunny is a form of submission meant to put the person being tied into something called a subspace, which I still struggle to understand. Does Jack really have an entire room upstairs devoted to this? Who is he tying up and why? Was this something he and Emmaline once did together? Then I remember holding the ropes in my fingers as Jack stood behind me. There was a moment in which I could almost feel them tied around my arms. And that image alone sparked such arousal inside me. And not just an arousal for sex but an arousal for something so much more potent. Something that aroused more than just my body but my mind too.

I’m sure it could be exciting. But then what? Sleep evades me as I toss and turn in my bed. Deep down, I know that the reason I can’t fall asleep is because I’m still listening for the door, wondering if Jack will find his way to my hallway again. Maybe he’ll go a bit further this time. How has Jack St. Claire infiltrated my psyche so much in such a short time? Why can’t I stop thinking about him? I’d like to believe that I’d find peace if I could just let him go and focus on my job, on Bea, the house, and my new life in Paris. But all that only feels like one half of my life now, as if he’s somehow taken up so much space in my mind that I’ll never be able to truly move on until I’ve unwrapped the mystery around the man. But how can I when he won’t even let me speak? The moment I open my mouth around him, he silences me.

Even after all this time, I’ve never fully read it. Only skimmed a few lines. But there’s a burning interest inside me that won’t let me let it go. It’s not about knowing their relationship anymore. It’s about understanding him