by Pamela Yaye
Brianna ignored the question. She didn’t have the time or the energy to argue with dumb and dumber, but she refused to sit back and let them bash her kid sister. “You don’t know anything about me or my family—”
“Oh, yes, I do,” snapped the blonde with the hazel eyes. “I’m a gossip blogger for Celebrity Scoop, so I know what happens to the rich and famous even before it happens.” Wearing a smug smile, she propped her hands on her hips. “Face it, Bri-Bri, your family’s so dysfunctional they make the Jacksons look normal!”
Brianna wanted to grab her purse and leave the Carrousel du Louvre, but how would it look if she stormed out of the Fendi fashion show before it ended? No, she’d just have to stick it out for the rest of the night. She was in Paris to represent her family business—not to get into a screaming match with a pair of gossips.
“How is Bailey doing in rehab?” A big fat smirk sat on the woman’s thin peach lips as she flipped her hair over her shoulder for the umpteenth time. “Is she finally getting the help she so desperately deserves, or is she so doped up on meds she has no idea where she is?”
Rage consumed Brianna. She imagined herself jumping over her satin-draped seat and punching Malibu Barbie and her ditzy sidekick in the face. Brianna wanted to defend Bailey and her family name but knew that acting a fool inside the Carrousel du Louvre with the whole world watching would only create more bad press, and that was the last thing her family needed. So Brianna turned back around in her seat. I could use a drink, she thought, signaling to an approaching waiter and then snatching a flute off his silver tray.
Brianna hoped the champagne would help calm the fire raging within her. The stranger, sitting directly across from her on the opposite side of the runway, raised his flute in greeting, but Brianna couldn’t even muster a smile. She felt defeated, beaten down, and her heart ached for Bailey.
People were cruel and seemed to derive great pleasure from kicking her family while they were down, but something told Brianna things were going to get a hell of a lot worse before they got better.
Behind her, the blondes continued their verbal assault. I wish I could give them a New York beat down, but since I don’t want to see my mug shot on TMZ, I’m going to keep my butt in this seat even if it kills me.
And when one of the women called Brianna a pampered princess with no talent, Brianna began to think that it just might.
Chapter 2
As Brianna slipped through the private entrance at Bar 8, an exclusive hotspot that happened to be on the ground floor of her hotel, she felt the stress of the past two hours fade away. She could have gone upstairs to her cozy three-bedroom suite and ordered room service, but the night was still young, and she didn’t feel like being alone.
She took a seat at the circular marble bar. The sophisticated ambiance and hushed lighting made it easy for Brianna to forget the outside world. The sleek, wood walls were inlaid with crystals, creating the illusion of raindrops. Couples sat at glass tables, enjoying obscenely expensive bottles of wine, and the sound of laughter and foreign languages sweetened the air. Everyone at the bar had their eyes glued to the soccer game on the flat-screen above the bar, and their loud, boisterous cheers created a festive mood.
“Madame, what can I get you?” the waiter asked in his thick Russian accent.
“Pinot grigio ’95, please.”
As Brianna looked at the menu, memories filled her mind. The last time she’d been at this trendy spot, Bailey had attracted the attention of everyone inside the bar, and soon their quiet dinner for two had turned into an impromptu party for twenty. Patrons snapped pictures of Bailey, begged for her autograph and chatted her up about her photo shoot that morning at the Eiffel Tower. By the time they’d left the bar, the sun was peeking over the horizon and the paparazzi were staked out in the lobby, waiting to snap the perfect shot of the model on the brink of superstardom.
It’s hard to believe that was six months ago, Brianna thought, taking the glass the bartender offered and tasting her wine. My family has always been the toast of the town, but now it feels like everyone in the world is gunning for us.
Brianna closed her eyes and released a heavy sigh. It was days like this, when perfect strangers bashed her family and questioned her talent, that Brianna wanted to disappear. For once, she wished she could be a nobody. Someone no one knew or recognized. Not Brianna Hamilton, fashion designer and eldest daughter of Roger and Lila Hamilton. Just Brianna. No last name.
A clean, refreshing scent washed over her. It was aftershave, and the fragrance reminded her of home, of her father, of all the cold winter days they’d spent inside playing chess and watching Jeopardy! on TV. Brianna opened her eyes, half expecting to see her gray-haired father sitting in the stool beside her, but when she saw him—the sexy heartthrob who’d caused a stir when he’d entered the Carrousel du Louvre—she gasped.
“I’m sorry,” he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace, his expression one of genuine concern. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
His smile was apologetic, but Brianna eyed him warily. She wasn’t used to men approaching her at a hotel bar, or anywhere for that matter. Guys rarely asked her out, and that suited her just fine because she wasn’t interested in having a one-night stand or finding that special someone, either. Dating didn’t appeal to her, and neither did racking up more sex partners than the Material Girl. She’d much rather work or spend time with her family than sweat out her perm with a guy who was more interested in getting off than pleasing her. Brianna knew, in theory, that there were still a few good men out there, but she didn’t have the energy or patience that dating required.
And why bother when love doesn’t last, anyway?
“Do you mind me sitting here?”
“Yes—I mean, n-n-no,” she stammered, tripping over her own tongue. “It’s a free world. You can sit wherever you want.” Brianna recognized she was rambling, but she couldn’t get her lips to stop moving or her hands to quit shaking.
“I won’t bother you. I promise.” He gestured with his head to the TV. “I just want to watch the World Cup qualification match between Italy and Germany.”
Brianna flashed him a smile. He was definitely American, likely from the West Coast, and radiated a calm, laid-back vibe. His voice was deep, husky—a sound she’d love to hear more of. So why not strike up a conversation? Despite all the drama at the fashion show, she was feeling surprisingly upbeat.
Sitting at a bar with a gorgeous guy can do that to a girl, Brianna thought, shifting nervously on her swivel stool.
“I bet on the boys in blue, and I’m anxious to see how they’re doing,” he said.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the game’s over. Germany won by two.”
His eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“How the hell did that happen?” The stranger raked a hand over his brown close-cropped hair. “The last time I checked, Italy was up by two.”
“In the second half, the Germans were the faster, more aggressive team,” Brianna explained. “They’re a talented, young squad that plays with a lot of heart, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they won it all in Brazil next year.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How do you know so much about European football?”
“I lived in Milan for a year, and it was the only thing on TV!” Brianna laughed. “Italians live and breathe football, and it wasn’t long before I fell in love with the sport, too. I don’t watch as many games as I used to, but I still follow my favorite teams.”
“Interesting.” Studying her, he stroked the length of his jaw. “Who do you like in the France versus Spain game? I was just about to place my bet.”
“That’s a no-brainer. France.”
“How can you be so sure? They haven’t been playing well as of late.”
&n
bsp; “That’s why I’m convinced they’ll win,” she told him. “The French perform best when it matters most, and they know if they lose to Spain they’ll have to permanently relocate because their fans will never, ever forgive them!”
The stranger chuckled and offered his right hand. “I’m Collin.”
No, you’re fine-as-hell, Brianna thought.
He was, without a doubt, the best-looking man she’d ever seen in the flesh, and being in such close proximity to him was wreaking havoc on her body—and her mind. Her nipples had hardened under her dress, and she couldn’t stop picturing Collin naked in her bed. And if he looked half as good in real life as he did in her fantasy, that could spell serious trouble.
“Are you going to tell me your name, or do I have to buy you another glass of wine first?”
“I’m Brianna,” she said, reaching out and taking his hand. A flutter danced in the pit of her stomach, then spread south. Brianna sat up taller, straighter. She had to be on guard if she wanted to withstand the heat of his gaze and his devilish smile. Her body’s reaction to Collin— a dark-skinned brother with killer swag and dreamy brown eyes—momentarily stunned her, but she found her voice and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“No, the pleasure is all mine.”
For a moment, they sat in complete silence, appraising each other.
“Did you enjoy the show?” Brianna asked, reluctantly releasing his hand.
“Yeah, I thought it was real cool, but it wasn’t as good as the RHD show I caught the day before. Roger Hamilton is one of my favorite designers, and I can’t wait to get my hands on his spring line.”
Brianna wore a proud smile but didn’t reveal who she was. Tonight, it didn’t matter. She was just a woman in Paris, enjoying a drink inside a swank bar, chatting with the sexiest man in the room. Why spoil the mood by telling him she was Roger Hamilton’s daughter? And one of the top designers at RHD?
“Your girlfriend doesn’t mind you skipping the Vanity Fair party to watch the soccer game?” she asked.
“I’m single,” he said smoothly. “And Evangeline isn’t my girlfriend. She’s doing the new ad campaign for my company, and when I heard she was in town for Fashion Week, I decided to meet up with her to finalize the deal.”
“Do you work in the industry?”
“No, I’m in the hotel business. Hardly exciting, but it pays the bills.”
Brianna gave a nod and sipped her wine. She found it hard to believe this attractive, impeccably dressed man was single. In her experience, men who looked like him didn’t have just one girlfriend, they had several. But who knew? Maybe he was telling the truth. Brianna told herself it didn’t matter—it wasn’t like she was taking Collin back to her suite tonight, or any night for that matter. They were just making small talk and sharing space at the bar, and once Brianna finished her drink, she was going upstairs, alone.
“Are you a model?”
“God, no! I’m a designer.” Brianna laughed, and he did, too. “I enjoy food too much to be on a calorie-counting diet, and I don’t have the stomach for all the backstabbing in the modeling industry. My sister is always teasing me for staying home on the weekends, but I love my quiet, drama-free life just the way it is.”
Collin nodded. “I hear you. I travel a lot for work, and when I get back to the States after a long overseas trip, all I want to do is put on some sweats and veg out on the couch.”
“And watch European football,” Brianna added, smiling at him.
Chuckling, he slipped off his coat and draped it on the back of his chair. “Are you sure it’s okay if I sit here?” he asked, glancing around the bar. “Your man isn’t going to storm in here and beat me to a pulp for talking to you, is he?”
With that body, no one could ever beat you to a pulp, she thought, unable to resist glancing at his ripped physique. “I’m not here with anyone. I’m divorced.”
A look of sadness washed over his face, but when he spoke his tone was filled with genuine disbelief. “Your ex must be an idiot because only a fool would let you go.”
“It’s complicated,” Brianna said with a shrug. “Relationships always are. That’s why I’m taking a break from the dating scene and focusing on my career.”
“Any chance of you and your ex getting back together?”
His question surprised her. The answer was a resounding no, but Brianna didn’t want to talk to Collin—a virtual stranger—about the demise of her two-year marriage. Even now, a full year after their divorce, Brianna still didn’t have the courage to tell anyone—not even her family—the real reason why she’d walked out on her ex.
“I don’t want to talk about my past,” she said. “I’m sitting in a posh bar, enjoying my wine in a vibrant, captivating city most people will never get to see, and I don’t want to take any of it for granted.”
“I love it here, too. Paris is the only city I love as much as New York.”
“You’ve been to New York?” Brianna heard the enthusiasm in her voice and told herself to simmer down. After tonight, she’d never see Collin again, so there was no use in getting worked up about him one day passing through her hometown.
“I could do without the noise, and the gridlock traffic, but New York will always be my favorite city in the world.”
Same here, Brianna thought but didn’t say. From the moment Collin had sat down beside her at the bar, they’d been talking and laughing like old friends, and it was unnerving, shocking even, how much they had in common.
“Earlier, you mentioned that you’d lived in Milan,” Collin said, picking up one of the drink menus off the bar. “What was that like? Black men get a bad rap for aggressively pursuing women, but Italian guys take flirting to a whole other level. I bet they professed their undying love to you on the street every day!”
Brianna burst out laughing. And just like that, she felt herself relax, felt her nerves calm. Collin ordered hors d’ouevres, and as they feasted on stuffed mushrooms, crabmeat and French cheeses, Brianna found herself opening up to him. She told Collin about her quirky, creative family; how she loved being a fashion designer; and the year she spent in Milan, studying and traveling around Europe. As Brianna spoke, she was struck by something remarkable. Collin did something her ex-husband, Rick Lassiter, had never done: he listened. Just...listened.
He didn’t interrupt her, didn’t try to cram his opinions down her throat. He seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. He asked thoughtful, insightful questions and cracked jokes that made her laugh out loud. And although Bar 8 was full of scantily dressed women, he never once stole a peek at any of the beauties who sashayed past—not even the buxom redhead who winked at him.
This is a first, Brianna thought, impressed. It’s nice being with someone who’s not making eyes at every other woman in the bar.
During the course of her short, tumultuous marriage, her then-husband’s roving eye had been the cause of most of the trouble between them. They’d had countless arguments over him flirting with other women. But that wasn’t what ultimately drove them apart....
“How much longer will you be in Paris?”
Surfacing from her thoughts, she smiled and reached for her wine. “I leave tomorrow afternoon, but I really wish I didn’t have to.”
“Then stay,” Collin said with a wink.
Brianna felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach.
“I’d love to show you around the city.”
“That’s very sweet of you, but I’ve been to Paris countless times.”
“And?”
“And,” she repeated, adopting his playful tone, “there’s nowhere you can take me that I haven’t already been to a hundred times.”
“Wanna bet?”
Hiding a grin, Brianna raised her eyebrows at him. “If I were you, I’d leave gambling to the prof
essionals,” she sassed in a singsong voice. “You’ve already lost one bet tonight, so quit while you’re ahead.”
Collin hung his head and threw a hand over his heart. “That’s cold, Brianna. Talk about kicking a man when he’s already down!”
Brianna laughed. Then she caught sight of a waiter, frantically wiping down tables, and her eyes widened. The bar was empty, and the TVs had been turned off. Brianna had been having so much fun with Collin, she hadn’t noticed that Bar 8 was about to close.
“We better get out of here. The waiters are giving us the evil eye,” he joked, signaling to the bartender. “I know a club just around the corner that has a cool VIP area and great music. It’s a mature crowd and the perfect place to chill at the end of a long day.”
“I think I’ll pass. It’s way past my bedtime.”
“But you just finished saying how much you love house music.”
“I do, but the club scene is not really my thing.”
“Come on. Live in the moment. Throw caution to the wind. Be spontaneous.”
Brianna laughed again. “You sound like a self-help tape.”
“Good! Is it working?” he asked, flashing a camera-ready smile. “I hope so because I want to hold you in my arms tonight.”
Excitement powered through Brianna’s veins. His words aroused her, making her feel warm inside. She was enjoying Collin’s company immensely and, although it was well after midnight, she didn’t want the evening to end.
“We’re in one of the most romantic and thrilling cities in the world,” he pointed out, standing. “If you can’t have fun and cut loose here, you can’t have fun anywhere.”
“Collin, we just met a few hours ago. How would it look if I left the bar with you?”
“You’re an attractive young woman who wants to have a good time. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He leaned against the side of the bar, just inches away from her face, and spoke in a tone that he probably used only in the privacy of his bedroom. The thought of it gave her chills. “You’ll be perfectly safe with me, Brianna. I’m a gentleman, and I’ll behave as such at all times.”
