Confessions in the Dark
Page 32
“No need.”
“No, really.” Her earlier reservations gone, she reached for the hem of her shirt to tug it upward, but his hands caught hers before she could get at her money belt.
His eyes were darker now, his fingertips warm. “As much as I hate to stop a beautiful woman from taking off her clothes. It’s not necessary.”
Was he implying…? No, he couldn’t be. She couldn’t halt the indignation rising in her throat, though, as she brushed aside his hands and wrestled the hem of her top down. “Stripping is not how I was going to pay you.”
“Pity. Probably for the best,” he added conspiratorially. “The police are much more lenient about that kind of thing here than they are in the States, but still. Risky move.”
Two ceramic mugs clinked as they hit the counter, and the barista said something too quickly for Kate to catch.
“Merci,” the man said, tucking his paper under his arm and reaching for the cups.
For some reason, Kate had to put in one more little protest before she moved to grab for the one that looked like hers. “You really didn’t have to.”
“Of course I didn’t.” Biceps flexing, he pulled both cups in closer to his chest, keeping them out of her reach as she extended her hand. “But it sure did make it easier for me to ask if I could buy you a cup of coffee, didn’t it?”
For a second, she boggled.
“Come on, then,” he said, heading toward an empty table by the window.
This really, really wasn’t what she’d had planned for the day. But as he sat down, his face was cast in profile against the light streaming in from outside. If she hadn’t lost her bag, she’d have been tempted to take her sketchbook out right then and there, just to try to map the angles of his cheeks.
As she stood there staring, all her mother’s warnings came back to her in a rush. This guy was too smooth. Too practiced and too handsome, and the whole situation had Bad Idea written all over it. After the disaster that had been her last attempt at dating, she should know.
But the fact was, she really wanted that cup of coffee. And maybe the chance to make a few more mental studies of his jaw. It wouldn’t even be that hard. All she had to do was walk over there and sit down across from him. Except…
Except she didn’t do this sort of thing.
Which might be exactly why she should.
Fretting, she twisted her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. Then she took a single step forward. She was on vacation, dammit all, and this guy was offering. After everything, she deserved a minute to let go. To maybe actually enjoy herself for once.
Honestly. How much harm could a little conversation with a stranger really do?
Rylan Bellamy had a short, well-tested list of rules for picking up a tourist.
Number one, be trustworthy. Nonthreatening. Tourists were constantly expecting to be taken advantage of.
Number two, be clear about your intentions. No time to mess around when they could fuck off to another country at the drop of the hat.
Number three, make sure they always know they have a choice.
Lifting his cappuccino to his lips, he gazed out the window of the café. It hadn’t exactly been the plan to buy the girl in front of him in line a cup of coffee or to pick her up. It definitely hadn’t been the plan to get so engrossed in the business section of Le Monde that he’d managed to completely miss her getting pickpocketed right in front of him. But the whole thing had presented him with quite the set of opportunities.
Trustworthy? Stepping in when she looked about ready to lose it seemed like a good start there. Interceding on her behalf in both English and French were bonuses, too. Paying for her coffee had been a natural after that.
Clear about his intentions? He was still working on that, but he’d been tactile enough. Had gotten into her space and brushed his hands over her skin. Such soft skin, too. Pretty, delicate little hands, stained with ink on the tips.
Just like her pretty, pale face was stained with those big, dark eyes. Those rose-colored lips.
He shifted in his seat, resisting looking over at her for another minute. The third part about making sure this was all her choice was necessary but frustrating. If she didn’t come over here of her own free will, she’d never come to his apartment, either, or to his bed. He’d laid down his gauntlet. She could pick it up right now, or she could walk away.
Damn, he hoped she didn’t walk away. Giving himself to the count of thirty to keep on playing it cool, he set his cup back down on its saucer. Part of him worried she’d already made a break for it, but no. There was something about her gaze. Hot and penetrating, and he could feel it zoning in on him through the space.
He rather liked that, when he thought about it. Being looked at was nice. As was being appreciated. Sized up. It’d make it all the sweeter once she came to her decision, presuming she chose him.
Bingo.
Things were noisy in the café, but enough of his senses were trained on her that he could make out the sounds of her approach. He paused his counting at thirteen and glanced over at her.
If there’d been any doubts that she was a tourist, they cleared away as he took her in more thoroughly. She wore a pair of purple Converse that all but screamed American, and a dark skirt that went to her knees. A plain gray T-shirt and a little canvas jacket. No scarves or belts or any of the other hundred accessories that were so popular among the Parisian ladies this year. Her auburn hair was swept into a twist.
Pretty. American. Repressed. But very, very pretty.
“Your coffee’s getting cold,” he said as he pushed it across the table toward her and kicked her chair out.
A hundred retorts danced across her lips, but somehow her silence—and her wickedly crooked eyebrow, her considering gaze—said more. She sat down, legs crossed primly, her whole body perched at the very edge of her seat, like she was ready to fly at any moment.
He didn’t usually go in for skittish birds. They were too much work, considering how briefly they landed in his nest. He’d already started with this one, though, and there was something about her mouth he liked. Something about her whole aura of innocence and bravery. It was worth the price of a cup of coffee at the very least.
She curled a finger around the handle of her cup and tapped at it with her thumb. Wariness came off her in waves.
“I didn’t lace it with anything,” he assured her.
“I know. I’ve been watching you the whole time.”
He’d been entirely aware of that, thank you very much. He appreciated the honesty, regardless. “Then what’s your hesitation? It’s already bought and paid for. If you don’t drink it, it’s going to go to waste.”
She seemed to turn that over in her mind for a moment before reaching for the sugar and adding a more than healthy amount. She gave it a quick stir, then picked it up and took a sip.
“Good?” he asked. He couldn’t help the suggestive way his voice dipped. “Sweet enough?”
“Yes.” She set the cup down. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She closed her mouth and gripped her mug tighter. Reminding himself to be patient, he sat back in his chair and rested his elbow on the arm. He looked her up and down.
Ugh. Forget patience. If he didn’t say something soon, they could be sitting here all day. Going with what he knew about her, he gestured in her general vicinity, trying to evoke her total lack of a wallet. “You could report the theft, you know.”
Shaking her head, she drummed her finger against the ceramic. “Not worth it. I wasn’t a complete idiot. Only had thirty or forty euros in there. And the police won’t do much about art supplies and books.”
“No, probably not.”
The art supplies part fit the profile. Matched the pigment on her hands and the intensity of her eyes.
He let a beat pass, but when she didn’t volunteer anything else, he shifted into a more probing stance. Clearly, he’d have to do the conversational heavy lifting here.<
br />
Not that he minded. He’d been cooling his heels here in Paris for a year, and he missed speaking English. His French was excellent, but there was something about the language you grew up with. The one you’d left behind. The way it curled around your tongue felt like home.
Home. A sick, bitter pang ran through him at the thought.
He cleared his throat and refocused on his smolder. Eyes on the prize. “So, you’re an artist, then?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess?”
“I just graduated, actually.”
“Congratulations.”
She made a little scoffing sound. “Now I just have to figure out what comes next.”
Ah. He knew that element of running off to Europe. Intimately. He knew how pointless it all was.
Still. He could spot a cliché when he saw one. “Here to find yourself, then?”
“Something like that.” A little bit of her reserve chipped away. She darted her gaze up to meet his, and there was something anxious there. Something waiting for approval. “Probably silly, huh?”
“It’s a romantic notion.” And he’d never been much of a romantic himself. “If it worked, everybody would just run off to Prague and avoid a lifetime of therapy, right? And where would all the headshrinkers be, then?”
She rolled her eyes. “Not everyone can afford a trip to Europe.”
Her dismissal wasn’t entirely lighthearted. Part of his father’s old training kicked in, zeroing in on the tightness around her eyes. This trip was an indulgence for her. Chances were, she’d been saving up for it for years.
Probably best not to mention his own resources, then. Mentally, he shifted their rendezvous from his place to hers. Things would be safer that way.
“True enough,” he conceded. “Therapy’s not cheap, either, though, and this is a lot more fun.”
That finally won him a smile. “I wouldn’t know. But I’m guessing so.”
“Trust me, it is.” He picked up his cappuccino and took another sip. “So, what’s the agenda, then? Where have you been so far? What are your must-sees?”
“I only got here a couple days ago. Yesterday, I went out to Monet’s gardens.”
“Lovely.” Lovelier still was the way her whole face softened, just mentioning them.
“I mostly walked around, this morning. Then I was going to sit here and draw for a bit.”
Asking if he could see her work some time would be good in terms of making his intentions clear. It was also unbearably trite. He gave a wry smile. “A quintessential Parisian experience.”
“And then…I don’t know. The Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay, of course.” The corner of her mouth twitched downward. “Everything else I had listed in my guidebook.”
Ah. “Which I’m imagining just got stolen?”
“Good guess.”
Eyeing her up the entire time, he finished the rest of his drink. She still had a little left of hers, but they were closing in on decision time. He didn’t have anything else going on today—he never really had anything going on, not since his life had fallen apart. But was he willing to sink an entire afternoon here, offering to show her around?
He tried to be analytical about it. Her body language was still less than open, for all that she’d loosened up a bit. Given her age, probably not a virgin, but he’d bet a lot of money that she wasn’t too far off. Not his usual fare. He preferred girls who knew what they were doing—more importantly, ones who knew what he was doing. What he was looking for.
This girl…It was going to take some work to get in there. If it paid off, he had a feeling it’d be worth it, though. When she smiled, her prettiness transcended into beauty.
There was something else there, too. She was romantic and hopeful, and between the story of her lost sketchbook and her delusions about Paris having the power to change her life, she had to be a creative type. Out of nowhere, he wanted to know what kinds of things she made, and what she looked like when she drew.
He kept coming back to her eyes. They hadn’t stopped moving the entire time they’d been sitting there, like she was taking absolutely everything in. The sights beyond the window, the faces of the people in the café. Him. It was intriguing. She was intriguing, and in a way no other woman had been in so long.
And the idea of going back to the apartment alone made him want to scream.
Decision made, he pushed his chair out and clapped his hands together. “Well, what are we waiting for then?”
“Excuse me?”
“Travel guides are bullshit anyway. Especially when you’ve got something better.” He rose to his feet and extended his hand.
Her expression dripped skepticism. “And what’s that?”
He shot her his best, most seductive grin. “Me.”
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
> CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
About the Author
A Preview of SEVEN NIGHTS TO SURRENDER
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Also by Jeanette Grey
Praise
Newsletters
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Jeanette Grey
Excerpt from Seven Nights to Surrender copyright © 2015 by Jeanette Grey
Cover images by Shutterstock. Cover design by Elizabeth Turner.
Cover copyright © 2016 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First published as an ebook and as a print on demand: March 2016
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