by BETH KERY
“I . . . I’ll just get my things and take a quick shower,” she said throatily.
He nodded once and was gone from the entry. Again, regret spiked through her. A tantalizing thought sprang into her mind’s eye of bathing and scenting her skin . . . of walking into the suite nude and intent upon seduction, of goading Lucien into taking her again and again.
She could do it. The stables had proven that to her.
But it had been a hollow victory.
When she walked into the suite, Lucien was gone. She grabbed some items from the wardrobe he’d designated as hers and returned for her shower. Ten minutes later, she left the bathroom wearing a loosely fitted pair of soft cotton men’s-style pajamas. They were serviceable, not sexy.
He stood by the far side of the bed wearing nothing but a pair of dark blue sleep pants that rode low on his hips, fully exposing his ridged abdomen and defined oblique muscles. He was so beautiful to her, it caused an ache to expand in the area between her chest and belly. It was overwhelming, this swelling, intimidating feeling. She had a ridiculous urge to turn and walk back into the bathroom. Instead, she just stood there awkwardly. He glanced up in the task of pulling back the luxurious comforter and met her stare.
“Come here,” he said gruffly once his gaze had run over her from head to toe. He strolled around the bed as she approached. Confusion mixed with rampant longing as she watched his sleek muscles flex as he threw back the comforter and sheet. He nodded at the bed and she got in, sighing as she sunk into the decadently soft sheets and feather-top mattress. He came down next to her, stretching his long body. Suddenly the light went out and he was rolling her into his arms against him.
It’d happened so quickly, she went from anxiety to amazed arousal in a manner of seconds. He must have gone and showered in another bathroom. His smooth skin smelled wonderful and there was still the trace of humidity in it when she touched it with her fingers.
“Lucien?” she whispered into the darkness, her cheek pressed against a dense pectoral muscle.
“Yes?”
“Are you still angry at me?”
She felt his fingers move in her hair. Pleasure rippled from her scalp to her neck and lower, tightening her nipples against his ribs.
“No,” his deep voice resonated into her when she pressed her ear to his chest. “I’m angry at myself. I always have prided myself in understanding you—reading you, even when you were acting at your finest. But I failed in this, ma fifille. I’m sorry.”
She lay there, stunned by what he’d said in his quiet, deep voice.
“What do you mean?” she whispered. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Ripples of sensation cascaded down her neck and spine when his long fingers moved in her hair.
“I had told myself I wouldn’t flinch at anything you ever pulled. But this?” He laughed harshly. “I would have never guessed it—that you’d never been with a man.”
Tears stung behind her eyelids. “I have been with men, Lucien. Plenty of them. I’m no innocent.”
“Yes you are.”
He sounded so starkly sure, she lifted her chin.
She felt him exhale.
“You’re a paradox, Elise Martin. A virgin siren. I should have known not to make assumptions about you. I should have reminded myself that you wouldn’t make things simple for me.”
She turned her face into his chest, sighing as he ran his hand down over her back. Emotion swelled in her, as it often did at his deft touch. “I just wanted you so badly,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his skin.
“You almost got yourself killed in order to show me,” he said. “It would have been better if you’d just told me what you were feeling . . . what you wanted.”
“But you already knew how I felt, how desperate I was getting. You were being cruel by withholding yourself from me,” she blurted out against his skin.
He cupped the back of her skull. She lifted her head, even though she couldn’t see him in the darkness. “I wasn’t being cruel. I was waiting.”
She stilled. “Waiting for what?”
“For you to tell me what you desired. What you needed.”
“But I have been telling you!”
“Have you?”
His rich, quiet voice ran over her in the darkness, making her skin tingle. The question kept ringing in her head. Hadn’t she been telling him? She’d made it clear she was sexually available. She’d agreed to this arrangement. Lucien couldn’t possibly deny that, could he?
“I have specifically told you I wanted us to be lovers, even agreeing to this unorthodox relationship you’ve suggested.”
“That isn’t the desire I’ve been waiting to hear,” he said, his fingertip rubbing the base of her skull in a manner that lulled her, despite her pique and confusion. She opened her lips to demand more information, but then he spread his large hand across her cheek and jaw, and his mouth was closing over hers in a melting kiss. By the time he lifted his mouth, her greatest desire was right on the tip of her tongue.
“Go to sleep,” he said.
“But—”
He pressed her head back down to his chest and gathered her closer in his arms. She bit her lower lip when she felt his cock stir against her thigh. “You showed discretion by wearing these pajamas. You’re respecting my wishes instead of flaunting yourself, when you know how difficult it would be for me to resist.”
She just lay there, part of her brain busy absorbing his words, the other portion focused on the sensation of his growing erection.
“You’re going running with Francesca very early, aren’t you?” he murmured.
“Yes,” she mumbled. With all the tumultuous events of the day, she’d forgotten about that. Suddenly, her muscles felt too weary to even consider moving, let alone running for miles. “I’ll have to set an alarm,” she said sleepily, nuzzling Lucien’s skin with her nose appreciatively.
“I already set it for you.”
“Thank you,” she said, sincerely grateful. It was sweet of him, to have thought of her.
“Go to sleep. It’s been a long day for both of us. I rode you hard and rough in those stables. Any woman would need a night to recover from that, let alone a virgin.”
“A once-virgin,” she corrected drowsily. “And I’m perfectly well.”
He made a sound of rough irritation and amusement, which caused regret to soak into her awareness yet again. Despite his tone, his long fingers trailed down her spine, caressing her, making her limbs go heavy with exhaustion. How could he be annoyed and yet touch her so cherishingly?
“Good night, ma chère.”
It was the last thing she heard before she sunk into the rich decadence of sleeping in Lucien’s arms.
* * *
The next morning, Francesca and she jogged side by side, Elise watching with wonder as the round, red ball of the sun crested the shimmering blue lake.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a sunrise before,” she murmured as they jogged.
Francesca gave her a surprised glance, sending the end of her rose-gold ponytail across her shoulder. They’d met up before dawn in front of the building where Ian’s penthouse was located. Elise had left her backpack filled with things for work with the doorman and Francesca and she had taken off together in the predawn light. This was their first time running together and they were well matched as partners.
“Really? The first time?”
“I’ve seen them before, of course,” Elise said. She noticed Francesca’s bewildered expression at her seeming contradiction. “Sorry. I guess I was sort of thinking out loud. I just feel really awake this morning. Good. It’s like I’ve looked at a sunset before, but never really seen it. Have you ever felt that way?”
Francesca’s dark eyes had a faraway look. “Yes. I think I know what you mean. I remember one early morning in Paris when I was with Ian. It was like the sunlight was hitting the world in a way that made it shine. Everything seemed new.” Seeming to realize how dreamy she’d sounded,
she cast Elise a rueful glance. Elise gave her a reassuring smile.
“Funny, that you should feel more alive than ever before in Paris. It’s where I felt most dead.”
Francesca looked at her speculatively. “I’ve gotten the impression from some of the things you’ve said in conversation that you led a very . . . privileged life there.”
“I also led a very empty one.”
“And you’re happier now,” Francesca more stated rather than asked, her gaze steady on Elise’s profile.
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
Francesca turned to look at the sunrise. For a few moments, only the sound of the light waves, their padding tennis shoes on the pavement, and the muted traffic noise on Lake Shore Drive hit Elise’s ears. “You’re right.” Francesca smiled. “That sunrise is spectacular. Thanks for pointing it out.”
“You’re welcome,” Elise said, smiling back.
“You sound very taken with . . . Chicago,” Francesca said. Elise raised her eyebrows in surprise at the other woman’s knowing smile. “Does that mean you plan to stay here when your training is complete?”
“That’s my goal, yes. I have an idea. Some plans.”
“What plans?”
Elise hesitated, tempted to be honest by Francesca’s sincere curiosity. She liked Francesca, instinctively feeling comfortable with her. Still . . . she hadn’t had the nerve to reveal this to anyone yet. Her secret aspirations made her feel very vulnerable.
“I have this idea about opening a unique type of restaurant that caters to people recovering from addiction. Not just for them, of course—anyone can come—but with them in mind. And not just a restaurant—a coffee bar and a club that offers music, maybe live bands and dancing. It’s really hard for people with substance abuse issues to go out and have a great time without being tempted by alcohol. Being surrounded by liquor is a real trigger, not just for alcoholics but for all substance abusers.
“You sound very knowledgeable about it,” Francesca said cautiously.
Elise flashed her a smile. “I’m not an alcoholic or drug abuser, if that’s what you’re wondering. Although I had my period of partying until dawn, I could walk away from the booze. But yeah—I know something about it.” She inhaled for courage. “I had a very good friend die from a heroin overdose.”
Francesca’s step faltered. “I’m so sorry. How awful.”
“Yeah. It was,” Elise said, breathing through the sudden pressure that tightened her throat. “It’s still kind of fresh. He died a little over six months ago. Michael Trent. That was his name.”
“Were you and he . . .”
“No,” Elise said, guessing what Francesca was about to say. “We were just friends. Really good friends. In fact, he was one of the few friends I’ve ever had in my life, I’m ashamed to say,” she added shakily. She covered her discomposure with a bright smile. “I used to choose friends very poorly. Or they chose me unwisely. Maybe both.”
“I’m sure that’s all changing now.”
“Thanks,” Elise replied gratefully. “I’d like to think so, anyway. Michael really changed the way I looked at things. Not just his death, or the realization of how impermanent, how fragile life is. His life changed me. I know people have a preconceived idea about heroin abusers, but Michael wasn’t a stereotype of anything. He was unique. Wonderful. I met him at chef’s school. He was the most talented of us all—a true culinary poet—but he never hesitated to offer any of us support and help when we were struggling. He just had this demon. He did battle with heroin addiction daily. Hourly. He finally succumbed to that monster, but his life had meaning. He counted. To me, he did.”
She swallowed thickly and blinked the bright sunshine out of her eyes.
“And so you want to create this restaurant as a tribute to your friend’s life?” Francesca asked soberly.
“Yes. But it’s more than that,” Elise said quietly. “My life was going nowhere when I met Michael. I was a shell, empty on the inside. I might not have had as malignant of a demon as heroin abuse to conquer, but my life was spiraling out of control. He infused hope into me . . . meaning. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.”
“He must have been very special.”
“He was,” Elise said, striving to control her emotions and succeeding. “So that’s why I came up with this plan for the restaurant. It’d be great. Family members and friends of people struggling with addiction often feel like they can’t take their loved ones out anywhere for dining and entertainment, for fear of triggering a relapse. This would be a place where people could go without worrying. Michael told me that in rehab, they learn a lot about nutritious food and cooking. Their bodies get really run-down from all those chemicals. A lot of them turn into foodies—like Michael did—but have nowhere to go and celebrate their love of food and dining. It all sort of goes together really well.”
She glanced anxiously at Francesca, worried one incredulous or condemning look would silence her idea forever. Francesca hardly seemed disdainful, however.
“What a fantastic idea. You know who else it’d be great for? Dieters. Or not dieters, necessarily, but people trying to have healthier eating habits. It’d have everything. They could dress up and show off their new bodies; they wouldn’t have to worry about the extra calories of the liquor and they could go dance off their dinners,” Francesca said, grinning.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Elise said.
“Overeaters are addicts, too,” Francesca said, her knowing manner piquing Elise’s interest.
“You say that like you have some personal knowledge on the matter,” she said, echoing what Francesca had said earlier.
“I do,” Francesca said matter-of-factly. “I was an emotional eater as a child. Very overweight. It’s one of the reasons I took up jogging when I went to college.”
“It helped you with your addiction?”
“It helped me take back control of my body. My life. Well, I love the idea. You know who you should ask for help with the idea? Lucien.” When Elise didn’t immediately respond, Francesca turned to study her. It just so happened they were nearing the tall tower where Lucien—where she—lived.
“Don’t you think that’d be a good idea? He has a surprising amount of contacts here in the city. Ian always says he can’t believe he just moved here last year, the number of people he knows. Ian also has mentioned Lucien was at the center of the entertainment and restaurant scene in Paris. He’s well on his way to becoming a hub here in Chicago, too.” Something seemed to occur to her. “Hey . . . did you ever meet Lucien before you came to Chicago? Did you ever go to his restaurant there? Ian says it’s very popular with the late-night crowd.”
“Renygat?” Elise asked. It would be strange for her not to be familiar with Lucien’s landmark restaurant if she’d lived in Paris. It’d be okay for her to at least acknowledge its existence. “I think I went once,” she said elusively, staring distractedly at Lucien’s building. She was thinking about what Lucien had said last night about asking for what she wanted. She’d been thinking about that a lot.
Should she bring up her idea with Lucien? She hadn’t yet because it made her feel far too vulnerable. It would hurt, to see doubt on his face in regard to her proposal. It was one thing to put herself on the line to Francesca. She was a new acquaintance.
Lucien, though—that was different.
“That’s Lucien’s building, isn’t it?”
Elise blinked, rising from her thoughts. “Uh . . . maybe. I think it might be.” She noticed Francesca’s amused, wry glance. “What?”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “Come on, Elise. You really can’t believe that I think you’re so casually aware of the details of Lucien’s life.”
Elise’s heart seemed to bound ahead of her feet. She almost faltered. “Why wouldn’t you believe that?”
“Just an observation,” Francesca said. “There’s some pretty strong chemistry between the two of you.” She glanced aside and saw Elise’s open-mouthed look of
incredulity. “He can’t take his eyes off you whenever you’re near. Ian has noticed it too.”
“He . . . he has?” Oh no. Lucien was going to be so irritated.
“Yeah. But it’s no big deal, is it?” Francesca asked when she noticed her stricken expression.
“No, I just . . .we thought we’d been discreet.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Francesca said confidentially. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s none of my business. But just so you know, I think it’s fantastic. He’s a wonderful man.” Francesca gave her a gleaming sideways glance. “And sooo gorgeous. And that voice . . . the accent—so sexy. Well, you have the accent, too, so I guess you don’t think it’s as hot as we would here in the States, but—”
“I think his voice is sexy,” Elise said before she could stop herself.
Francesca grinned. “We’re in agreement, then. Are you going to speak to him? About your restaurant idea?” she urged.
Elise bit her lip. “Maybe.”
“Well, if you decide to do it, good luck. I know Lucien can seem a bit intimidating—I used to feel the same way about Ian. They’re alike in that way. But I happen to know Lucien is a very good guy.”
“Thanks. And you’re right about the intimidating part. I think I need more nerve than luck,” she muttered under her breath.
Especially because she wanted to be honest with Lucien about more than just her business idea. She wanted to take his advice and tell him how much she desired him . . . how much she wanted to submit to him. Putting such a fragile, vulnerable desire into words felt like one of the most daring, difficult challenges she’d ever faced.
* * *
That night she left Fusion before Lucien, as soon as she’d finished her duties. She was waiting for him when he entered the penthouse past midnight. She sat up, peering over the back of the couch, watching him as he walked into the living room. He was checking messages on his cell phone, a slight frown on his face. It took him a moment to notice her. Elise took advantage of the opportunity to study him at her leisure.
She’d left his arms reluctantly that morning when the alarm sounded, all too aware of his solid warmth pressed against her backside as he spooned her with his long body. She’d risen from sensual dreams with his scent in her nose and the feeling of his heavy erection pressed against her bottom, a few layers of thin fabric the only thing separating them. It was a heaven almost too difficult to comprehend, the concept of waking up in Lucien’s arms every morning.
