by Caro LaFever
She huffed again.
“Marcel.” He smiled. “Meet my fiancée.”
The older man’s eyes widened before a plastic smile covered his face. “Mademoiselle. Charmed.”
Alex looked at her and nearly laughed. His sharp, little firecracker was having none of it. The glare had gone deadly.
“Perhaps you will take her to Boucherie Roulière for dinner.” Marcel kept trying. “Shall I make a reservation?”
He finally took pity on the man. “No, we’ll be eating in tonight.”
“Very good, very good.” The older man clapped his hands together, the smile still pinned on his face.
“The stairs are over here.” Alex gestured her forward and she came, but not before giving Marcel one more glaring shot. The red carpet had been replaced since he’d last been here six months ago. The runner cushioned the sound of her stomping, but not by much.
He grinned.
“What a dick.”
He turned and looked at her, his grin wider. “I object to that.”
“What?” The delicate line of her dark eyebrows frowned.
“That’s my title.” Stepping to the apartment’s front door, he slipped in the card key. “He can’t have it.”
“You are being so stupid…” She stepped into the foyer. “Oh.”
His mother’s family had passed down the home from generation to generation. He didn’t know how long they’d owned it, but it had been at least a hundred years. To him, it was merely the place they came to every summer when he’d been a kid. The gold-edged antiques, the flowing, satin-lined curtains, the plush Persian carpets; this was merely part of the tapestry of his background.
“Oh, my.” She wandered away from the front door into the center of the wide central room. The curtains had been pulled back, and even though the night was hazy with rain, the lights of the Eiffel Tower glittered in the distance. She turned around slowly, taking the room in. “This? This is your family home?”
“One of them.” Shaking off the image of her dazzled face, he marched up the hall lined with family photographs and into the compact kitchen. Modern steel appliances fit in well with the old arched walls and antique plate-glass doors that led to a tiny terrace. It had taken him ten years to convince his maman the work was needed and that he could do it.
She appeared in the arch of the door. “This room is gorgeous, too.”
Alex plopped the bag containing the sole and asparagus onto the black granite counter. Slipping the wine from his coat pocket, he opened the waist-high refrigerator and put it in to cool. “Why don’t you take a bath while I cook dinner?”
Her round face scrunched into a puzzled grimace. “Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?”
Because of the affection still lingering in her voice. Even when she called him stupid.
An affection he realized he shared.
The recognition of the fact rocked him back, making him defensive. “Would you like me to be a dickhead instead?”
Amusement blossomed on her face and then was replaced with wariness. The look told him she was as shocked as he was at where they’d landed.
They liked each other.
“Your bedroom’s at the end of the hall and there’s an adjoining bathroom.” He waved past her. “Go take a bath.”
A militant frown was her response to his command and his own amusement bloomed inside. Also, he realized, anticipation. He couldn’t wait for the scold.
Much to his disappointment, she appeared to choose her battles. “Okay.” She tramped off, sneakers slapping on the wooden parquet floor.
Sighing, he slid his coat off and rolled up his sleeves. He pushed away the disappointment at missing another scrape with Sophia and focused on the food. Within a few minutes, the fish sizzled in the copper pan as he indulged himself with a glass of wine. Walking to the terrace door to stare into the dark of the night, he tried to wrap his head around the fact that somewhere along the way, he and Sophia had found something inside both of them to appreciate.
Incredible.
Alex sipped the wine again, letting the delicate, fresh taste linger on his tongue.
The rain came harder now, sliding down the glass like fingers of silver. The lights of Paris twinkled as a wicked wind whipped the barren tree tops back and forth.
He liked her. A lot.
Tie that into the driving sexual need and there was bound to be quite a bit of trouble coming toward him.
“That was incredible.” Her voice had gone soft and sultry.
His cock twitched even before he turned to see. See her and see that trouble had definitely arrived.
She wore a big, fluffy something or other he supposed could be labeled as a bathrobe. In true Sophia fashion, it was exactly the wrong color for her. A putrid pink. The fuzzy material was also all wrong for her, making her look like a feathery snowball rather than a shapely, sexy woman.
His cock didn’t focus on any of this.
Instead, his cock demanded he notice the flush of rose on her ivory skin. And the way her dark hair, pinned into a tousled mess, looked so fine and silky along her cheek. Or how her eyes were rich and warm, a lovely light burning deep inside.
“That is the best bathroom I’ve ever been in.” She gave him an inviting smile and his heart began to beat. Hard.
Speaking of hard…
“Would you enjoy a glass of wine?” He moved back to the stove, intent on hiding his reaction to her. No more slaps.
“Yes, please.” She walked behind him and perched herself on one of the three stools standing along the end of the counter. The edge of her robe slipped down, giving him a flash of dimpled knee and curvy calf.
He tore his gaze away and busied himself by pouring some wine into one of the Baccarat glasses his mother prized.
She stared at the glass when he presented it to her. “Gosh,” she said, her eyes dazed. “Even the glasses are beautiful.”
Sophia did see beauty.
If he hadn’t gotten her riled up before stepping into the market a couple of hours ago, she would have liked everything about it. She would have enjoyed the crowds with him and loved the ambiance and shared the beauty with him. She would have appreciated the market as much as he did.
The recognition of this plunked inside of him, right by the affection.
Her fingers touched his as she took the glass, and he yanked away from the touch.
One delicate brow lifted. “You okay?”
“Oui.” He returned his focus to the fish. The fish was safe.
“You’ve gotten all French since you got here.”
Shrugging, he turned the sole. “Paris is my second home.”
Then, she did it. She hummed again.
Trouble whispered its seductive call. Without thinking, he glanced over and everything inside him stilled.
Sophia’s robe had now slipped past her calves, showing him the beginning of creamy thighs. To add to his discomfort, the robe’s neckline had fallen, exposing her abundant cleavage to his gaze. The last glisten of water pearled on her skin making it dance before his eyes.
“This wine is…” she hummed one more time.
The blood in his cock heated and choked, beating a heavy surge of desire through his body.
One more hum.
Alex knew suddenly, with a bright, hot slide of a spear into his side, that trouble had not only arrived, she planned on taking up residence in his dreams for the foreseeable future.
Chapter 12
She was good.
Very good.
Alex leaned on the old brick wall of the ancient bakery. The tiny basement was filled with hot lights, sweaty people, and cameras. In the center stood Sophia. All her attention was focused on an older gentlemen with a shock of silver hair and glinting brown eyes wearing the typical white coat of a master pastry chef.
The man looked dazzled.
As well he should be.
In the hour Alex had been observing, his fake fiancée had cooed and cajole
d as one of the most prominent pastry chefs in Paris fell under her spell. In the process, the man had shared far more secret tips than he’d been willing to share at first. He knew this by the daze in the man’s eyes.
Dazzled and dazed.
That took talent and hard work.
Alex knew this because he did much the same thing when figuring out what his newest client desired before being willing to sign on the dotted line. It was his job to figure that out and then design a building that fulfilled every dream the client had.
You needed to dazzle in order to make the sale.
Apparently, in Sophia’s work, you needed to dazzle in order to find the secrets.
His cell phone buzzed in his pocket.
He ignored it because he knew it was Henry.
And he didn’t want to talk to Henry.
“Monsieur Desfontaines. You are a marvel.” Sophia smiled, a smile he had never seen on her face. Not the sarcastic smile she gave him when he annoyed her. Nor the gritted grin she granted him when he teased her into a rage. Not even the slow smile she gave when sipping a fine glass of wine. No, this smile was filled with pure pleasure and approval.
A nasty spurt of what could only be labeled as envy ran through him.
He wanted that smile directed at him.
“Mademoiselle Sophie.” The old man hadn’t lost any of his masculine panache. His eyes sparkled while a grin split his mouth showing very white teeth. “You inspire me.”
“Okay, Soph.” Her cameraman, Will, broke into the mutual love fest. “We’re ready to take the last shot.”
Her face went serious and she bent over the marble-topped table where trays of brightly colored circles of baked pastry were cooling. “Have you aimed the camera down, so the viewer can see the fillings?” she asked. “I want to make sure they can see the ganache and butter cream.”
“Right-o, Soph.” Jake, the producer, waved her concern away. “We’re ready to go.”
“I am going to let my son discuss the fillings for the macarons,” the old man announced. “Dominique.”
“Oh?” Sophia’s brown eyes widened as a younger version of French charisma came from around the wood-fired brick oven. “This is a surprise.”
“Charmed.” The son had inherited the flair of his father. He took her hand in his and bestowed a suave kiss on it. “I am at your service.”
Her hand. The hand that should have had the Stravoudas family ring on it.
Anger and envy were not the words he would use to describe what ran through Alex’s blood at this moment. The feeling was far hotter, far more violent.
The muscles lining his spine tightened into knots.
“This is wonderful.” His firecracker beamed in delight. “I didn’t think you were available.”
“I postponed an appointment.” The smooth-talking Frenchman beamed right back. “I knew I wouldn’t want to miss such a wonderful time.”
Everyone was having a wonderful time. Except for Alex Stravoudas.
“Okay, Soph. Ready?” The cameraman ducked behind his camera. “Cue.”
Another hour passed as the ass of a Frenchman tried to coo and cajole Sophia into…what? Taking her clothes off? Falling into a puddle of love at his feet? Whatever his aim, all his attempts were in vain.
His krotída mou was made of stern stuff.
She smiled. She laughed.
And she kept working. More French secrets were spilled.
“That’s a wrap.”
In a flash, the lights went dim except for the bakery’s overhead line of bulbs.
“I can show you the best restaurant in Paris tonight, Sophie.” Dominique had not given up, Alex had to give him that.
Actually. No. He didn’t. “Sophia.”
Everyone swung to stare at him.
All right. Perhaps his voice had been a bit stinging. Maybe violent on the edge.
His fake fiancée’s face went blank.
“Who is this?” The Frenchman looked him over with barely veiled disgust.
“This is her fiancé.” He moved through the throng of baking assistants and TV assistants. He didn’t smile because he didn’t feel like smiling or charming. Rather, he felt like shouting or rampaging.
You are being an idiot, his brain snarled at him.
She’s mine, his gut shouted in reply.
The last thought stopped him cold.
She’s mine?
“What are you doing here?” Sophia’s round face screwed into consternation along with a heavy dose of fluster.
For the first time in two hours, his fierce firecracker didn’t seem to know what to do.
Why?
“I finished work early.” In reality, he’d walked out long before the work had been completed, much to Henry’s aggravation. “I thought I’d come by and watch you work.”
“How did you get in here, Monsieur?” The fool of a Frenchman demanded as if this was his family’s kingdom.
Which it was.
Alex had no intention of getting the blushing clerk, who’d let him into the back room of the bakery and showed him the stairs going down to the kingdom, into trouble. Her sellout wasn’t her fault. Not many women could deny him when he had his charm on full throttle. “I found my own way.”
Dominique frowned and opened his mouth. “I don’t—”
“Merci, Dom.” Sophia cut him off by grabbing his cheeks. Rolling onto her tiptoes, she gave him a big kiss on his instantly smiling lips. “You were wonderful.”
“Enchanté.” The man grabbed her waist and appeared to be ready to carry on with the kiss, but right before Alex leaned across the table to punch him, she moved aside with an easy smile.
“Okay, Soph.” Will stepped forward and smoothly extracted her from behind the table. “We’ll do some clean-up here.”
“Thanks.” She slipped the long white apron she wore over her head, the spill of dark, red-tinged curls, caught into her usual ponytail, bounced and then slid back on her shoulder. “I’ll meet you tomorrow at Stroher’s.”
“At three a.m.” Jake chimed in with a laugh.
She made a face. “Right.”
Tonight, he and Sophia were scheduled to attend a lavish dinner at the emir’s fabulous mansion in the center of Paris. If experience told him anything, there would be quite a lot of dining and dealing. There would be a series of long conversations circling around the contract where he would have to perform to the emir’s satisfaction. Then there would be the endless round of chatting that merely concealed a bunch of selling.
He felt tired just thinking about it.
Sophia would be exhausted tomorrow morning.
A heavy layer of unexpected guilt settled on his shoulders.
She looked at him, a guarded glance. “I’m ready to go.”
Taking her arm, he gave the Frenchman a smug grin and headed for the spindly stairs.
They walked through the busy bakery, filled with gawking tourists and bustling clerks. The smell of yeasty baguettes permeated the air and he took a deep, appreciative breath in. The Frenchman could bake, he’d give him that. Not much else, though. Certainly not —
“You don’t have to hold on to me with a death grip,” his fake fiancée muttered. “I’m coming with you, aren’t I?”
Alex dropped her rounded elbow and grabbed onto the glass door handle instead.
He wanted her out of here. The feeling might be unreasonable, but sue him.
Stepping out on the wide sidewalk, they were confronted with the usual mix of tourists and locals. The crowds strolled along the Champs-Élysées, peering into shop windows, oohing and aahing about Cartier diamond jewelry and Vuitton leather handbags. The weather had turned warm and sunny overnight. Coats and scarves had been replaced with T-shirts and bare legs.
“I’ll need to get back to the apartment.” She waved a plump, naked hand in the direction of his family’s home.
Immediately, his irritation returned, mixing in with the frustration and confusion already running through
him. “To retrieve your forgotten ring, perhaps?” His words were barbed with threat.
Sophia’s instant scowl should have ratcheted up the anger boiling inside. Instead, it inspired an immediate sweep of an entirely different emotion.
Affection. Again.
She was adorable. Staring at him with her dark brows scrunched into a frown, her bow lips twisted in a grimace, her brown eyes glaring.
Adorable.
Then she opened her mouth.
“Listen, Stravoudas.” Her tennis shoe tapped on the sidewalk. “I can’t bake with that big, clunky thing hanging on my finger.”
“Big, clunky thing?” Indignation swooped in to swamp the affection. “You’re calling the antique ring that’s been handed down in my mother’s family for generations a big, clunky thing?”
Her frowning brows shot upward in surprise. “What?”
He took a step into her personal space. A stream of tourists swirled around them, shooting them odd glances, but his entire focus was on the woman standing her stubborn ground in front of him. “You heard me.”
No stepping back for the firecracker. Not one inch. Her gaze met his, a glare as usual, yet something struck him. Something stopped his angry advancement.
Her eyes were not brown. Not merely brown.
The eyes looking at him were an exact match for the hot chocolate his maman served on every cold morning of his childhood. A rich blend of warmth and spark. A velvety brew that pinged his heart with memories of feeling safe, feeling accepted.
Cocoa eyes.
Something hard inside him melted as those eyes kept staring at him.
Then Sophia opened her mouth. Again. “You bought that bling for Melanie.”
All melting stopped. “The hell I did.”
“You had to have.” The childishness of her words made him want to laugh.
But he was too heated and too muddled to laugh. He didn’t want to let her off this hook because if he did, if he did, he might let her slide into somewhere he didn’t want her to go. “Fine. You don’t believe me.”
He marched off, not sure where he was going.
“Hey.” The slap of her sneakers followed him. “Hey!”
Alex quickened his gait, weaving his way through the French women in their classic black dresses, past the glittering shops filled with couture, around the bald trees and black lampposts. The stew of confusion about his work wound around the mix of anger and affection he felt for Sophia. The mix made for an ugly jumble inside him.
