French Twist

by Roxanne St Claire

  “All right,” he agreed, fighting the urge to rip the cursed thing off. “Let’s get these.”

  In the elevator to the suite, a German couple whispered to each other, and Luc moved closer to Janine, much closer than necessary. She didn’t move away.

  His heart drummed a steady beat as they walked down the hall. It would take next to nothing to start the seduction. He could sense her resolve slipping away, and damn if his wasn’t going right down the drain, too.

  He turned the key and handed her the coat. “Let me check the room first.”

  “What, did you leave a hair over the door, Bond?”

  He laughed and chucked her chin. “Smart-ass.”

  A maid had been in, but his papers were untouched on the dining table. He looked in both bedrooms and the baths, to be sure they didn’t have company.

  “Come on in,” he said, returning to the living area.

  She tossed the coat on the back of the chair and whipped off the hat, freeing her hair with a shake and a scratch. “Man, I’m sick of that thing.”

  He stared at her, watching the tumbling tresses. “Me, too.” He took a tentative step toward her, deliberately “forgetting” to return to his French accent. It was too much fun to be an American with Janine. “How much do you think you’ll cut?”

  She put a hand on her hip and cocked her head. “What difference does it make? You’re never going to see me again.”

  A bitter note was buried in her tough chick act. How could he even be thinking about seduction? Her disappointment would be magnified a hundred times if he acted on his desire for her. Yet he could barely think straight for how much he wanted her.

  He took a few steps closer and heard his own ragged breath. “Janine. Don’t.”

  Her eyes widened. “Cut my hair? I have to.”

  “You know what I’m talking about.” He reached out and grazed her cheek with his knuckles. “Don’t be hurt when I’m gone.”

  “Hurt?” She backed away with a forced smile. “I hate to break it to you, Luc, but no one’s getting hurt. You’re imagining things.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re sleep deprived, you know that? This”—she waved her hand casually between the two of them—“this is just physical attraction. Some pheromones and hormones turning our brains to mush.” She tapped him on the chest to push him out of her way, avoiding eye contact.

  He didn’t move. “Mush?”

  “Can you excuse me?” She stepped to the side. “I have an appointment at the home beauty shop, and a little robbery to pull off tonight.”

  She picked up the bag that held the scissors and strode into the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

  She was so wrong. Absolutely no part of him was mush.

  Janine had no idea how much time had passed. Ten minutes? An hour? Dressed only in the white bathrobe, she glanced at the three plastic bottles and the latex gloves spread out before her, and the two pages of instructions on the marble floor.

  She had to cut, first.

  She lifted the scissors for the twentieth time to a section of hair, then let them clunk onto the vanity.

  Don’t be hurt when I’m gone.

  Why would he even say that?

  And where in God’s name was he going, if not back to Paris to resume his security consultant business?

  Luc Tremont, international man of mystery. Why couldn’t she just fall for some nice French banker or a chef?

  Fall? She stared over the bottles at her reflection. She hadn’t fallen, nor would she. Not ever again.

  Anyway, who cared if he disappeared tomorrow? She’d tried “forever” and it stunk. She didn’t have to live like a nun just because her heart was bruised from a bunch of lies and empty promises. This was now. This was real. This was—

  “You need some help in there, Rapunzel?”

  Exactly what she wanted.

  “Actually, yes. I’m having trouble with the instructions.” She could read them; she just couldn’t make herself follow them. “Come on in. It’s unlocked.”

  He opened the door and poked his head in. “What’s the problem?”

  Picking up one of the instruction sheets, she waved it in the air. “Reunir?”

  “To combine.” He stepped into the room.

  “Appliquer?”

  “To apply.” He approached her chair, their gazes meeting in the mirror like a four-way showdown.

  “Transformer le coleur?”

  “Change the color.” He stood behind her, a teasing grin softening his expression. “Your French is excellent, Janine. Why the confusion?”

  “But combine what to apply where, and how long will it take to transformer le coleur?”

  She worked to keep her voice light, in spite of the fact that his gaze was anything but. Looking at her in the mirror, his eyes smoldered as they traveled down the front of the robe and back to her face.

  Without a word, he placed his hands on her shoulders, then skimmed his fingers underneath her hair. She shivered at the sensual touch on her scalp.

  No, not sensual. Sexual.

  “You’ve never colored your hair before?” he asked huskily.

  “Never.”

  His fingertips trailed down to the nape of her neck, making the tiny hairs dance and her toes curl.

  Trembling, she picked up the scissors and held them over her shoulder. “Here. I can’t do it.” She closed her eyes. “Just get it over with.”

  “All right,” he said, taking the scissors and lifting another handful of hair. “Don’t look.”

  But she couldn’t resist. She opened her eyes when the blades scraped open, and sucked in a breath as he held them poised over a lock of her hair.

  “Don’t look.” he repeated, with a warning glare in the mirror.

  She covered her face with her hands. “Yes. Now. Do it.”

  She felt the sudden heat of his mouth on her flesh under her ear. She looked.

  He leaned over her, the scissor hand fallen to his side. She moaned softly and tipped her head to the other side, giving him access to her neck.

  The scissors clanged to the floor.

  Goosebumps rose under the terry cloth robe. “I didn’t mean do that. I meant cut my hair.”

  “Really?” He crouched next to her, tangling her hair in his fingers and coaxing her around to face him. His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Maybe it’s a matter of semantics, but yes, now, do it means something entirely different in French.”

  A shaky laugh escaped her. “Is that so?”

  “Absolutely.” He inched closer to her face. “It means stop talking and—” His kiss was hot and demanding and explicit. His tongue flicked the roof of her mouth, sending fireworks through her body.

  He burned a path down her throat and into the V neck of the robe.

  “Luc.” Her breath caught as she buried her fingers in his hair. “We have…to cut…”

  He dipped his head and kissed the rise of her breast, nudging the collar open inch by inch with one hand. “We have to do this first.”

  Her nipples hardened with a sudden, achy need. Sanity evaporated.

  She slid off the chair, into his arms, onto the cold marble of the floor. There was no fighting this.

  He fell backward pulling her onto him. “Come here, Janine. Let me feel you. All of you.”

  The thrill of full body contact took her breath away. She straddled him and found the natural, perfect position of her hips and his. His greedy hands opened the robe and shoved it over her shoulders.

  She gasped at the force of his erection as he rocked against her, kissing her mouth and exploring her body with his magical hands. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the delicious friction, pulsing right back into him, loving the ride against the rigid column between his legs.

  A steady, natural, unstoppable rhythm built between them.

  Insane pleasure licked at her as blood sang in her head and coursed through her veins. This was what she wanted. Luc.
No one else. Nothing else. Just this. Just him.

  She could drown in regret later—not now. She pressed her hands on the floor and arched her back, offering her exposed breasts to him. His mouth closed over her, sending white-hot flashes of blinding pleasure through her body. He sucked and sucked, laving her to an almost painful peak.

  Gorgeous. Perfect. Janine.

  She heard his words but couldn’t think as he caressed her breasts with insistent hands. Her aching nipples pebbled against his palms, waves of stimulation shooting down, down to her stomach and between her legs as she matched his writhing motions with her own.

  There was only this. Only Luc and his mouth, his arms, his chest…him. She yanked his shirt out of his trousers and fumbled with the buttons, popping one and managing to open the rest.

  Don’t stop. Please.

  She couldn’t hear anything but her pounding pulse and his rapid, uneven breathing as they kissed and tumbled against the cold, hard floor.

  “Yes, yes, Luc.” He rolled her on her back, on top of the discarded robe, and she struggled with his shirt, dying for the feel of his granitelike chest, almost screaming for the need of his sweat-dampened flesh against hers.

  His pants scraped her thighs. Her fingers raked his back. He stroked her stomach and hips and buttocks, apparently gripped by the same urgent madness that had overtaken her.

  She was blind with need; unable to speak or cry or tell him how it felt.

  Every coherent thought dissolved as his hand covered her mound and his fingers dipped into the slick moisture between her legs.

  I want you. I want you.

  She chanted it like a mantra, he whispered it back in her ear. Dizzy, she unfastened his pants, reaching in to grasp and stroke him.

  Oh, good God in heaven. Her hand felt so tiny on him. He let out a throaty growl and thrust himself further into her hand.

  “Stop,” he choked.

  “I can’t stop,” she almost cried.

  “I don’t have—”

  Protection.

  Sanity and common sense suddenly reared their ugly heads. No, no, no. “I don’t need it,” she insisted.

  “Good,” he muttered, sliding his fingers deeper into her. “Neither do I.”

  She helped him push down his pants and free himself, almost afraid to look at what she held. Her two hands barely covered him.

  “Let me inside you, Janine,” he urged.

  Yes. Yes. Now.

  If she stopped to think and question this, she’d die. She couldn’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

  He laughed softly in her ear. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  Kneeling over her, he bent her knees and parted her thighs, his eyes black with desire.

  She reached down and encircled him, guiding him to where she needed him to be. “Please, Luc.”

  He dipped his head and kissed her, probing her mouth with his tongue. In and out. Teasing her. Making her beg for him to do that with his body.

  Please!

  He closed his eyes and plunged into her.

  She grabbed his shoulders and gasped at the shock of her stretched flesh. Again he thrust, deeper, fully hilted, her hips raised off the floor by the sheer size of him. She locked her legs around his back as the pressure melted into pleasure and she matched his relentless rhythm.

  Urgent. Wild. Insistent. She inhaled the heady mix of their musky, sexy scents, her teeth on his shoulder, her fingers digging into his back.

  Again and again he drove into her, and she met each stroke with the same fury. Nothing mattered. Not tomorrow, not later, not anything but the sensation of being completely filled by Luc.

  His face darkened with desire, his powerful chest flexed above her. He muttered her name and swore in English and shook his head so hard a bead of sweat dripped into her mouth, salty and delicious.

  Every ounce of control shattered at the taste of him. She closed her eyes as he stiffened and shuddered and quaked.

  “Janine. Janine!”

  An explosion ripped through her at the sound of her name, making her spasm over and over and over as he rocked and spilled helplessly into her. “Janine.”

  He fell against her, his short, desperate breaths tickling her ear. His heart hammered against her at break-neck speed, a sticky film of sweat and moisture the only thing between them.

  His voice echoed in her head. Janine.

  Not Szha-neen.

  How very strange. Her international man of mystery made love in perfect American English.

  Chapter

  Twenty

  L uc couldn’t speak. His brain had sacrificed all functionality in the name of ecstasy.

  Janine’s tight body tremored with aftershocks around him. He was still hard. The delicious, sweet scent of her sex and their sweat filled his head as his mind slowly started to work again.

  What had he called her?

  Turning his head, he pressed his lips against the damp flesh of her temple and watched her eyes flutter open. No smile yet.

  “That was some haircut,” she whispered.

  He laughed, and the movement threatened to separate them.

  She put her hands on his hips and pulled him against her. “Not yet. I don’t want this to be over yet.”

  Neither did he.

  He eased some of his body weight off her, and she automatically turned with him, maintaining the contact and the connection. She positioned her leg over his hips and trained her blue eyes on him. She had to have noticed that he hadn’t said a word yet.

  Not in French or the natural American inflection that had escaped a minute ago. Had she noticed?

  He swore in his head. He was so sick of lies.

  “Are you okay?” she asked tentatively.

  He nodded. “More than okay, ma belle.” There. Back to normal. “You outdid all my daydreams.”

  She gave him a wistful smile. “You too.”

  He stroked a hair off her cheek, tenderly caressing her skin. “I suppose we could find a more comfortable spot to bask in the afterglow.”

  “Is that what we’re doing?” That wind chime laugh again. “How romantic.”

  His heart tripped. Romantic? Romance would include an honest exchange of emotions. Playful plans for the future. Secret revelations about the past.

  Not in this lifetime.

  He closed his eyes and eased out of her. She winced but still smiled.

  He couldn’t smile back. A sickening sensation of déjà vu teased at those numb synapses in his brain. He knew this dull ache of self-loathing; he used to get it after every job. Not that he’d exactly stolen this mind-blowing gratification, but he doubted it would have been so freely offered if she knew his real identity.

  She touched his hand where it rested on her stomach. “Luc?”

  Turning his head away, he reached for his pants and pulled them on, then picked up the scissors and cut the air with the blades. “Guess we ought to do this, huh?”

  When he finally looked at her, the disillusionment in her eyes almost broke his heart.

  “Right,” she muttered, pulling the robe from underneath her while covering her beautiful, perfect breasts with one hand.

  Oh, God. He’d completely blown this.

  “Janine.” He set the scissors on the bench and helped her with the robe, gently spreading it over her shoulders. “Don’t—”

  Her eyes flashed at him. “Here we go again. Don’t. You’re really damn good at telling me what not to do when it suits your mood, Luc.”

  “Please—”

  She stabbed her arm into the sleeve and held her other hand up to stop him. “I didn’t hear any don’ts out of you ten minutes ago.”

  He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. “Please stop it.”

  She looked at him for a moment, then jerked out of his hold and made a show of knotting her robe.

  “I don’t want you to feel bad right now, Janine,” he insisted. “I—I just wish we had more time together, that’s all.”

/>   She stood abruptly. “Well, we don’t.” Without looking at him, she left the room.

  What a complete mess. He grabbed the scissors and squeezed the handles so hard they left an imprint on his palm. If he never had her again—and that was a fairly safe bet after this blockbuster postcoital performance—he’d never forget the intensity of that sex.

  It wasn’t like anything he’d ever known. She wasn’t like any woman he’d ever known. But she was the essence of every woman he’d ever wanted. Brave and strong and unwavering and real.

  Standing up to zip his pants, he glanced at the bottles of hair dye, so out of place in her natural world.

  That’s what it was about Janine. She didn’t have a phony cell in her body. And he? He was nothing but a pretense. A made-up name, a made-up history. As fake as the vases up in Benazir’s penthouse.

  How could he tell her that?

  He couldn’t. But he had to tell her something. Because right now, that brave, strong, real woman felt like shit, and it was his fault.

  He found her on the balcony. Her hair was messy and tangled, blowing in the breeze as she stared straight ahead, probably not seeing the panorama of the French Alps. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She stiffened.

  Lifting her hair, he nuzzled his mouth near her ear. He decided to go for the dead-on truth. “You are the sexiest woman I’ve ever met.”

  She didn’t move.

  “No matter what happens,” he continued, “I want you to know that I’ll never forget what just happened. I’ll never forget you.”

  It was the best he could do. The very best.

  Slowly, she turned in his arms. Son of a bitch. She’d been crying.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, wiping a tear. “I knew exactly what I was doing, and I have no right to wallow in second thoughts. That was a joint effort.”

  “That was no effort. That was a crashing success.” He kissed her forehead and rested his head against hers. “And you have every right to feel anyway you want. We’re in an unusual situation.”

  She stifled a little laugh. “Now, there’s an understatement.”

  He lifted her face toward him. “Janine, I haven’t been with a woman in a very, very long time. I live a very strange existence. If I could change it, if I could—”