“Yes,” he says.
“And report to your lieutenant corporal.”
“Lieutenant colonel,” he corrects, almost absently.
“I hope he’s not really angry with you. Maybe if I talked to him—”
“Absolutely not.”
“I could explain that you had no choice.”
“But I did,” he says, gently now. He reaches over and squeezes my thigh, a touch that’s both comforting and intimate. “I made my choice, and I have no regrets.”
I want to ask what that means, but I’m aware that we have company only a few feet away. “We’re going to Paris, right? I have to go to the embassy.”
“We’re going to Paris, and I’ll find your sister.”
Something about his word choice makes my eyes narrow. “By that you mean, you’re dropping me off at the embassy when we get there, right?”
He sighs. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but you can’t go to the embassy. There’s a red notice circulating that you’re wanted for questioning by Interpol. My brother has connections into the agencies through his security firm, and he found it.”
“What?”
“It means that Adam Bisset made it out of that basement. I’ll handle him.”
“I don’t understand what that means. How are you going to handle him? Am I going to be arrested? I’m just a children’s book author, and now I’m wanted by Interpol. Why do you look so calm?”
He doesn’t look calm. He actually looks faintly amused, the bastard. “Do you know that your voice is going supersonic right now?”
“I thought this was over.”
His expression softens. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll keep you safe.”
That certainty warms me, and I relax into the plush seats of the SUV.
The small plane is just as comfortable, with low lighting and deep leather benches.
A steward brings champagne, which makes me think of Reims. Elijah’s green-gold eyes meet mine, and I know he’s thinking of the same thing. I probably tasted like champagne at the cathedral when we kissed.
At the small airport where we land, another black SUV picks us up. Night falls without a single star this close to Paris. We take fast roads through shadowy streets. Finally we pull in front of a building with marble pillars and stone steps. The men get out first and do something with hand signals that mean I’m allowed to get out next.
Inside, a dark green marble floor spans the length of the entire hall. Chandeliers cast a serene light on dark wood paneling. Everything here speaks to luxury and comfort.
It’s the exact opposite of the basement of the medieval church.
Elijah confers briefly with Liam, who directs us upstairs. A lot of these appartements were built in the same style, so it shouldn’t be shocking that this place reminds me of the converted boutique hotel suite where I stayed with my sister all those years ago. There’s a small sitting area with baroque furniture, a bathroom with a claw-foot tub, and a view of the Eiffel Tower.
Oh, and a single bedroom with a large bed for us to share.
My cheeks heat as I imagine sharing that bed.
Will we continue the affair the way we did at the farmhouse? It seems likely. And I’m very aware that I still feel faintly grimy. Even with the bath, I don’t feel like myself. My legs need to be shaved, my hair needs a deep conditioning.
If we’re going to make love again, I want to feel beautiful.
I peek into a wardrobe, wondering if there will be a robe or something. Instead I find a full rack of clothes with tags from Dior and Yves Saint-Laurent. The drawers are full of lacy bras and silk panties. All of it new. “Whose clothes are these?”
“Yours,” Elijah says, leaning against the doorframe, watching me.
I pick up something black and slender, blushing when I realize it’s a thong. “How?”
“Liam had the place stocked for us.”
“This is…” I make an embarrassed gesture. “Too much.” My books pay me enough money. I can afford my modest home and my modest car. I can impulse buy at Target with the best of them, but that doesn’t mean I can afford an entire wardrobe of designer clothes. It also doesn’t mean I’d look good in them. It would be like watering a weed.
“I told Liam I’d pay for it already, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“These clothes won’t fit me.”
“The size?”
“No, the style. They’re too fashionable.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “You’re not fashionable?”
“They’re too… sexy.”
He strolls past me and digs through the drawers. He comes up with something in a deep red with lines of black. I barely know what they are when he hands them to me, but they aren’t heavy or hefty enough to cover me completely. “I want to see you in this.”
His lids are heavy, as if he’s already imagining me in the clothes. I risk a glance at his black cargo pants, where his erection presses against the fabric. That gives me enough courage to slip into the bathroom. I turn the sterling silver faucet all the way to hot and let the water scald me. I shave and scrub and lotion every inch of my body, until I feel like I’ve shed an entire layer of myself. Maybe mermaids are like snakes. Maybe they shed their skin to heal.
Steam fills the bathroom when I finally open the door and step out. The red and black bustier he chose for me pushes my breasts high. The matching panties dip low, barely covering my sex. I feel exposed and… fashionable. And sexy.
Maybe it’s as simple as clothes that make a woman feel beautiful.
Except, no. It’s the way he’s looking at me. Elijah must have found a separate bathroom and a separate wardrobe, because he’s shaved and showered. He sits back on an armchair, his legs spread wide as if he’s the king of all he surveys. In this Parisian suite, perhaps he is.
Our coupling in the forest was wild.
Our sex in the farmhouse was intimate.
Will this one feel safe and comforting, as luxurious as our surroundings? His hands roam my hips and thighs with blatant ownership. Then his hands curve around my ass. He touches me in my most private place, the place between my butt cheeks.
“Have you ever been taken here?” he asks, his voice low and hypnotic.
“No,” I whisper.
He strokes me there, a casual brush of fingers. It’s more sensitive than I would have thought. Connected by a straight line to my pussy. I clench around nothing, wanting his touch in a different place. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. Besides getting fucked on your hands and knees in the mud. I know you liked that.”
My cheeks must be on fire, but I can’t deny that I’m wet. I feel the dampness, and it embarrasses me, even as I hope he finds it, hope he knows how much I can’t resist. “I don’t really know. Is that dumb? I haven’t really… that much.”
Amusement lances through his green eyes. “Haven’t really what? Had sex? Fucked? Been eaten out? Do you like it when a guy goes down on you, Holly?”
I shake my head, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s awkward.”
There were a few attempts in college, and after I graduated, one boyfriend who worked at the coffee shop where I wrote. Which meant I had to find a new coffee shop once we broke up. The whole thing had always seemed like more trouble than it was worth—something I did to please the men in my life, but not something I enjoyed on my own.