by S. L. Scott
He taps his watch when an alarm rings. “You can wait here, or the bar is nice, but you’re also welcome to wait in my room. I have a chair with a nice view, and we could order tea or coffee, anything you like, while you wait.”
“That sounds nice.” I hop up, and as we walk to the elevators, I ask, “So you’re a runner, huh?”
That makes him laugh too hard. He shakes his head. “Seemed like a good way to burn through the day.”
“Why did you want to burn the day away?”
“I have a date.”
“Oh.” I stop a few feet from the elevator. “I shouldn’t keep you.”
Turning back, he winks. “It’s okay. You’ve saved me another crazy taxi ride by coming here instead. So about those few other things you want to do . . .?”
“Keep your thoughts where they ought to be. I was referring to seeing paintings and some sightseeing, movie star.”
We step on the elevator, and he pushes the button for the fifth floor. “Are you sure you’re okay with coming upstairs? I’m practically a stranger.” I hear the teasing in his voice.
“Are you dangerous? I have enough psychopaths in my life.” Truer words have never been spoken.
His laughter fills the elevator. “No, not dangerous, though I hear most women love a bad boy.”
“I don’t. What about murderer?”
“Nope.”
I shrug. “Then I’ll take my chances.” I have nothing left to lose. There are worse ways to die than in the hotel room of a handsome millionaire who has a penchant for romantic grunge-era songs and french fries.
6
Bennett
Winter Nobleman is striking at sunset, but when the clouds blew out and blue ran the expanse of the sky, she’s stunning. Sitting in a purple chair near the window, she’s trying really hard not to look my way. Talking with her eyes glued to the window, it’s as if she’s waiting to hear “Simon Says” so she can look at me.
It’s quite adorable, actually. I haven’t exactly been playing fair though. With my shirt in my hand, I say, “What would you like to drink? I’ll order something.”
She turns and her eyes go wide. “I, uh, er, um. Wine? I think I need wine.”
I casually flex as I remove the heart rate monitor wrapped around me. It’s just after two in the afternoon, but if the lady wants a drink, I’m not one to judge. “White or red?” I’m no wine connoisseur. I usually just drink whatever’s offered.
Glancing at her watch, she replies, “White.” Her gaze returns to me in a flash and stays put as I order the wine and a cheese plate. I catch her blues going lower, but they soon return unashamed back to my eyes. As soon as I hang the phone up, she cocks an eyebrow. “Are you going to stand around shirtless all day or take your shower?”
“Does me being shirtless bother you?”
“Not at all. Just curious.” Her shoulders rise and fall quickly. Sitting back, she returns her attention out the window. “The view is nice, but I prefer the gardens.”
Smirking, I stand in the doorway that leads to the bathroom, and say, “I don’t usually pay much attention to views from hotel windows. I’d rather be outside than staring at it.”
She angles in my direction. “Interesting.”
“I won’t be long. Make yourself at home.”
“I will.” This time, she smirks, and it’s damn sexy on her.
I close the door and wonder what she’ll do unattended while I’m in here. Not sure that room service will be quicker than I am, but I put it to the test and get in the shower. My muscles are tight from traveling, so I spend an extra few minutes letting the heated spray pound down on my shoulders before I get out.
After I brush my teeth, I consider shaving, but I don’t want to keep Winter waiting any longer, so I skip it. It isn’t until I finish in the bathroom that I realize my clothes are in the bedroom with her.
Shit.
Tightening the towel below my middle, I tuck the corners in the front and walk out. The chair is empty, but the bed is not. She doesn’t even bother to lift on her elbows, much less look guilty for lying in the middle of it. The last thing I expected when I woke up this morning was to see Winter Nobleman lying on my bed. I might have dreamed about it, but the reality is even better.
“You said I could make myself at home, so I did. This bed is comfy.” Her legs and arms move in the middle of the cream-colored blanket as though she’s making a snow angel.
“That I did.”
When there’s a knock on the door, she points in that direction but makes no move to answer it. “Room service.”
I hold my towel in place and open the door. The tray is set on the table and then the wine opened. After filling the glasses, the server disappears as if he was never here. And she still makes no move. Eyeing her, I raise my own eyebrow. “Are you waiting to be served?”
“Are you up for the task?”
“I can handle it.”
She sits up, crossing her legs. So small in the middle of the large bed, I inadvertently smile from the sight. Maybe it’s because it’s my bed she’s in as well . . . maybe . . .
With her eyes unabashedly roaming my body again, I give her a little show. The towel slips just enough to cause her mouth to open. But then I tighten the terrycloth around me and give her a little wink. “I bet you can handle me—I mean, the task at hand.”
“What’s the task at hand?” I ask.
“Bringing me wine.”
“At your service.” I take my sweet time crossing the room, giving her the full show without putting everything on display if you know what I mean. Her grabby hand takes the glass, making me laugh. “Hard day?”
“Every day is hard.” The lightness of her voice and the fun that had been floating through the air dissipates.
“Always so cryptic.” Why is every day hard? Is she in some sort of danger? Surely not. She’s still as composed on my bed as she was at the bistro.
I expect her to finish her wine, but she doesn’t even take a sip. She sets it on the nightstand and lies back. “I shouldn’t be here—in Paris, in this room, here with you. I don’t know you.”
Her eyes follow me as I move to the open suitcase on the floor at the foot of the bed. Squatting, I grab some casual clothes and look up. “Don’t you?”
She sits up, fluffing the pillows behind her. After retrieving the glass, she sips from it and then returns it to the nightstand. “I looked you up online.”
I stand and search her face for signs of what she’s thinking and not saying. “That’s disappointing.”
“You could have lied. I would have never known the difference.”
I have been. “I didn’t want to lie about who I am to you.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like to lie.”
“Everyone lies, Bennett.”
“That’s a shame.” It’s a shame I’ve lied long enough to gain her trust so that she’s sitting on my hotel bed like she’s spending the day and maybe the night right there. It’s a shame I can’t bring myself to confess the truth to her even now when we’re supposed to be honest, supposed to be proving that not everyone lies. But I’m still stuck on her words.
“I shouldn’t be here—in Paris, in this room, here with you.” Because even though she’s walked away from me twice, and even though she shouldn’t be here . . . she is. I don’t know what to make of that. Do I push for answers or wait for her to expose what she’s hiding?
She takes another drink, this time longer, closing her eyes as if she’s trying to dull the pain rather than savor the notes. Tilting her head back, she opens her eyes. “It’s probably best.”
“Why are you in Paris?” I ask, hoping I’ll get a better answer this time.
“I had dinner in New York and woke up in Paris. You never know where life will take you.”
“Sounds adventurous.” What I want to say is, what the hell does that mean? But it’s as though she’s unsure what she can say, not being deliberately evasive. I think.
“Something like that.” She takes a drink, not leaving enough to take another.
“Vague responses seem to be your specialty.” I’m about to drop this towel but decide I should give her some warning. “Are you going to watch, or you want to give a guy a little privacy?”
“You have something to hide, movie star?”
Laughing feels good and lightens the mood. “Nope, nothing to hide, sweetheart.” The towel falls, and she sits straight up. Her hair is a mess as her eyes go wide, absorbing the full picture.
For a woman who can have her choice of any man, she acts like this is the first time she’s seen one naked. “Need some extra time to take in . . . well, the extra?”
Rolling her eyes, Winter falls back on the pillows. “And here I thought you were different.”
I pull on my boxer briefs. “You can’t expect me to pass up a perfect setup like that.” Slipping on my jeans, I’m still chuckling. “I’m still not sure how we went from all the formality of the bistro to my hotel room and showing off our better parts.”
“Two things,” she says, watching me as I button my jeans and then pull on an undershirt.
“What’s that?”
“First, a bistro is about as far from formal as you can get. Though I understand what you’re saying. We weren’t exactly at ease there.”
“And secondly?” I pull on a sweater and then sit on the bench.
“I may be in your room, but I definitely haven’t shown you my best parts.”
When I look over my shoulder, she’s lying on her side, head resting on her elbow, and she winks. So fucking gorgeous. Such a contradiction. Sassy and confident. Dark and moody. I can’t figure her out. What I need to do is stop thinking about her better parts or I won’t be able to walk out of this room. “Ready to go, or do you want to stay in?” Plucking the front of my sweater, I add, “I can have this off faster than it went on.”
Laughing, she sits up and swings her legs over the edge. “I just bet you can, but we have plans.”
“Plans can change.” After putting on socks, I lace up my Red Wing Chukkas.
“You’re telling me.” She pats my shoulder when she walks by and picks up her jacket from the chair. Cutting a piece of Brie, she eats it, and then says, “Come on. I want to show you my favorite statue.” When she takes another bite, the lightest of moans escapes her lips.
I steal a few grapes from the plate but then squint at her. “Wait. You’re forcing art on me?”
“Yes. Touristy stuff, too. It seems you haven’t taken in any of the required sights in Paris since you’ve been here.”
“You don’t want to stay in, eat cheese, and drink wine?” I’m hungry, so I snatch a couple of bites of cheese and pop them into my mouth.
Grabbing me by the sleeve, she pulls me toward the door. “From the mess of papers on that desk, it seems you’ve been working when you weren’t running. Let’s go have some fun.”
“Fine. Can’t blame me for trying. You looked comfortable on that bed.”
The door opens, but I stop to grab my wallet, check to verify the room key is inside, and then take my phone. Tucking them into my pockets, I step in and grab the rest of the grapes before the door shuts. Winter is already halfway to the elevator. “On a mission there, sweetheart?”
“Always.”
Outside, we cross the street to the Tuileries Garden. I only know this because I have my own personal tour guide showing me all the statues she loves like Standing Woman. “Gaston Lachaise was an American.” I’m elbowed. “Like you,” she says with a smile.
“And you.” I nudge right back.
She laughs. “Sometimes I forget. When you spend as much time as I do trying to blend in, you start to become a ghost of yourself.” Touching the small waist of the statue, she adds, “Such a dramatic ratio to hips. Don’t you think?”
Shrugging, I reply, “I guess.”
“What do you see when you look at her, Bennett?”
Taking my time, my gaze swings between the statue and the woman beside it. “I see a woman who has desires and dreams but doesn’t need someone else to fulfill them.”
“I wish I could see her through your eyes.”
“You can. Just close them.” Her gaze hits me, and a scoff escapes. She’s not very trusting, which is understandable since I’m still . . . well, I’m not sure what I am to her. “Just do it.”
Huffing, she concedes. “Fine.”
When she closes her eyes, I shift her gently in front of me and then pull her wrists slowly to her sides. She sucks in an audible breath, her back pressed to my front. She’s soft in my rough hands and small against my large frame. I lean down to her ear, and whisper, “What do you see?”
“It’s not what I see.” There’s an unfamiliar tremble to her tone. “It’s what I feel.”
“What do you feel, Winter?”
“Hope.”
I inhale her perfumed neck, running the bridge of my nose along her silky skin. I’m tempted to kiss her, but instead, I ask, “Who stole your hope?”
She moves away, and the cold of the day invades. Her fingers slide across her forehead as she paces. The severity of her distress hits me when she looks at me. “I . . . I tell you what I can, Bennett. The rest is just . . .” She crosses her arms over her chest, staring across the gardens. “Sometimes bad people have good intentions.”
“Are you a bad person, Winter?”
“I’m trying to make things right.”
“For who? Yourself? Someone else?”
“For everyone.” She starts walking but turns back. “This way. I want to show you the Rodin.”
And we’re back to being practically strangers again. I follow her, keeping my pace a few safe steps behind her, giving her space, the distance I think will comfort her instead of me invading it. But she stops, silently waiting.
Her arm wraps around mine, and we walk the rest of the way entangled together like any other couple in the gardens today. I don’t understand her. Complicated doesn’t seem to fit how she twists my mind. I look into her sapphire eyes, knowing that’s all I’ll probably get. It’s more than she wanted to give, so I consider that a win, a victory for today. With that small taste of who she really is, I’m already craving so much more.
I didn’t catch a flight back to New York like I was supposed to. I stayed because this trip no longer feels like a contractual obligation but a personal mission. I’ve never been drawn to anyone like I am to her. Even now when we stand next to a work of art, I can’t take my eyes off her.
I may not know much about art, but I know if it moves you, it’s to be admired. And damn, do I admire her.
“The Kiss,” she says, her voice steady as if anchored in tranquil seas. “I dream of being kissed like this one day.” She’s too careful, struggling not to look for me as if I’m meant to be by her side.
I take the silent cue not only because she wants me to but also because I want to. Her shoulder presses against the front of mine. Her breathing steadies as if I’m the calm she needs. When she closes her eyes, I ask, “What do you feel, Winter?”
“Alive.” I want to kiss her because I’ve never felt more alive than right here at this moment. I take things slow and kiss the spot just under her earlobe. Her hand holds me there before she angles into me, and says, “I can’t.”
7
Winter
I’m not in Paris to fall in love, like, or lust.
But that doesn’t stop my heart from beating a little faster around Bennett Everest. I feel too much too soon for this man. I can search his name online as much as I want, but nothing prepared me for spending time with him firsthand.
Charming.
Funny.
Handsome. Very.
Great style.
Intelligent. Quick to pick up on wordplay.
Kind enough to let it go.
I’d forgotten the feel of caring hands, and what it’s like to have someone listen rather than talk at me. Or shout.
I wonder if I’ve become complacent to the danger I’m in. I’ve become numb to taking precautions. I used to look over my shoulder every step I took. Now I brazenly step out with a man as if he won’t notice. I hope he doesn’t.
Just in case, I walk away, rounding the statue, and pretend to admire the details of the sculpted bronze when all I want to do is sneak peeks at the man who seems to have come out of nowhere and made an unbearable situation more tolerable.
Bennett will leave any day, and I’ll be left to endure this alone, watched like prey until the day comes when I have to play the part he commands of me.
Lure.
Deliver.
Walk away.
Job done. Then I’ll be set free. I hope.
I wonder if Bennett will still be single. He’s too good of a catch, but maybe I can look him up when I’m back in New York City. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy him where I’m held captive. It’s sad how low my expectations in life have become. But it’s better not to hope than to feel utter disappointment. “What do you feel?” I ask.
Bennett changes as the hours tick by. As his comfort with me grows, his affection becomes more conspicuous. Leaning to the side, he sees me and smiles. What a deliciously devilish smile it is, too. “Lonely. Come keep me company.”
I can’t hide the smile he evokes as I come back and stand with him in front of the statue again. With my feet slipping between his, I start thinking about what it would be like to kiss those delectable lips. Would he embrace me like Paolo does Francesca in the statue—with passion, as if they might only ever have this one kiss? If it can’t last a lifetime, can the memory carry the torch of their desire?
A high-pitched scream startles us, and we jump back from each other. A little girl with brown pigtails and an ice-cream cone turns red in the face and then screams again, this time followed by crocodile tears. Her mother rushes to her, griping about dropping the ice cream like she warned her not to do. Squatting down so she’s eye-level, she wipes her tears and hugs her.
My heart shifts gears from racing to clenching, my mood souring just as quickly. “Could we go? Please?”
