Staring up into John’s handsome, strong face, Layla felt something inside her unwind. As if his words and calming presence had been the antidote she needed, her fears suddenly began to slough away like sand after a storm. She nodded, pushing back, mastering herself and breathing deep, feeling that diabolical heat inside her dissipate at last.
He gave a kind half-smile and lifted his brows. “Helpful?”
“Helpful, thanks.” Layla nodded, a smile flitting across her face as the clenching died down in her gut and chest. Turning, she stepped back to the bedroom and drew the partition closed. Facing the gowns on the bed, she knew which one it would be. The yellow was too fluffy; not her personality for a first impression, though it would be nice later. The peacock was too showy; again, not her style but great for later.
Shimmying out of her jeans and everything else except her tiger thong, Layla reached out and selected the royal plum gown. Donning it over her head, the fabric slithered on like a second skin, taking her breath away with the feel of elegance. It was a perfect fit, accentuating every curve of her hourglass waist, making her skin shine under the lighting. The train sighed around her feet over the carpet, and the black lace expanded over her shoulders like an elegant mini-shrug down to the deep v of the décolletage – her breasts lifting through the delicate silk in a racy, sexy way.
Turning, Layla admired the back in a tall mirror. The black lace covered the top of her shoulders but left the entire back bare in a diamond shape that delved artfully to her rear. Sliding on a pair of strappy black heels, Layla rummaged in her suitcase until she found her grandmother’s jewelry, then pulled out the set she knew would go perfectly. Diamonds and amethyst in an elegant water-drip pattern clasped around her neck, with matching drip-earrings gracing her ears. There was no bracelet, but Layla slid a matching teardrop ring to the third finger of her left hand, the Moroccan cuff somehow matching the entire ensemble perfectly, even though it was a wildly different style. Layla’s makeup was swiftly done, subtle golden tones with dark eyeliner that made her jade eyes pop. She put a blush shade on her lips, then oiled her hair quickly up into loose, elegant curls with a set of her grandmother’s diamond hair-pins.
Moving back to the mirror, Layla took a look. And saw not herself standing before her, but Mimi Zakir in her heyday – effortlessly intoxicating, endlessly compelling. Sensual but also light, she glowed under the overhead lights. In Mimi’s tasteful style, the jewelry only accentuated what was already there, and Layla suddenly knew that she could do as her grandmother had once done – walk into a palace and be celebrated by royalty, out-shining even the most blue of blood with intoxicating grace.
As long as she believed she could.
Her wrist throbbed gently, a smooth wash of heat that flowed out from beneath the hamsa-cuff and surged through Layla’s body from head to heels. It made her cheeks flush and her eyes sparkle, her breath heating as she smelled cinnamon and jasmine and orange peel flooding all through the room. Her breath was high, her heart pounding as she stepped to the partition, though she didn’t know precisely why she was so aroused. Opening the partition, she stepped out, and saw John look up from his seat.
He froze. His eyes went wide; his lips fell open. A surge of cinnamon-jasmine scent flooded the plane, though Layla couldn’t tell where it came from. A light rippled through the cabin, and Layla blinked, blinded for a moment before it flashed away. She recalled a similar light from her dream of Adrian – that same opalescent luminosity rippling through his skin. But it was only John rising before her, coming to stand with an incredible smile that lit his face up like Christmas.
“You,” he rumbled, “are stunning.” Clearing his throat, he seemed to not know what to do with himself, at last clasping his hands in a bouncer at-ease. Pursing his lips, he let out a long breath, then shook his head with a wry smile. “Whew. Shit.”
“You like?” Layla was pleased with his reaction. John might have been Adrian’s security, but he was still a man – one who appreciated women. She could tell it was taking everything he had to not reach out and touch her, and it pleased her.
At last, with a deep basso chuckle, he did reach out. Touching her hand, John lifted her fingers to his lips, pressing them with a soft kiss that made a shiver riot through Layla’s body all over again. Looking up, John caught her eyes, a rakish grin on his face. “Damn that Adrian. I’d almost quit my job for you.”
Layla laughed, her heart feeling so much lighter. Squeezing his hand, she said, “Thank you. I needed that.”
“Anytime, sexy.” He threw her his megawatt smile again and at last released her hand, though Layla found herself sorry to feel his warm touch go. Turning, he glanced out one window, then nodded to the seats. “We better get set for a bit. We’re descending.”
Layla nodded, claiming her seat once more and buckling in. They had a quiet descent, Layla alone with her thoughts, John thumbing through his phone as if catching up on all the news or perhaps orders from his boss, glancing up at Layla when he thought she wasn’t watching. Adrian’s scent seeped through the plane, like jasmine and spice on desert winds, making Layla’s head spin. As if he was somehow there, somehow watching, she had a flashback of her dream again – of his smooth touch sliding up her collarbones and neck. Closing her eyes, Layla shuddered, her eyelashes fluttering to feel his soft press of lips upon hers. As if he was there, her lips fell open to that sensual touch – and she felt the kiss continue for a long moment before the touch of his ethereal lips eased away.
Beautiful.
Layla heard Adrian’s voice clear as a bell in her mind. Her eyelashes fluttered open to see John watching her intently, his phone abandoned on the table. Layla blinked, shivering, and John’s lips quirked in a small, secret smile rather than his usual. His eyes consumed her, penetrating in their stillness, a look that was almost possessive in its carnal delight.
Layla shivered, looking away, out the cabin window. Paris spread below. She had been there before, but it was beautiful. Cruising through a cloudless morning, she saw all of downtown below with the famous landmarks tourists liked to photograph. The Seine. The Champs-Élysées. The Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower, sparkling in the morning like diamonds. They were coming down steeply now toward the Paris airport and Layla controlled her breath, less of a fan of landing even than takeoff. But the pilots were firm with the elegant jet, and before she knew it, they were on the ground with a glide as smooth as butter, hitting the flaps to slow and taxi off the runway. Finding a space on the tarmac, the engines quit, dying with a whine to only electrics.
They had arrived. Layla unbuckled as John went to fetch bags, and the blonde female co-pilot came out to unlock the hatch and lower the stairs. She beamed a pretty smile and said, “Welcome to Paris,” in a decidedly French accent, then retreated to the cockpit.
Letting John get the bags, Layla stepped out to the stairs in her elegant finery. Feeling strange navigating the bright blue morning in strappy heels and a slinky evening gown, she moved down the steps toward a black Bentley waiting near the jet, just like the one in Seattle. Shivering in a brisk autumnal wind, Layla wished she had a jacket, and felt a presence move up behind her. With his big, warm hands, John slid a black mink stole over her shoulders, settling it into place with a deft touch as he lifted the curls at her neck out of the way.
“You missed a bag.” He rumbled.
But something in that voice was more of a sigh than his usual robustness, and his fingers lingered at her neck almost like a caress. Layla turned, glancing up, feeling like a different man belonged with that change in voice and manner. But it was just John, beaming down at her with his big, amused smile, then stepping to her side and offering his beefy arm like a gentleman, her suitcase effortlessly suspended from his other hand.
Waiting at the car, a lanky chauffeur gave them a nod, then rushed to the plane to get the rest of the bags. John opened the car door for Layla, then settled her bag in the trunk as she slipped in – smelling cinnamon musk along with fine leather. Once all the bags were loaded, John nodded to the chauffeur, then slid into the diver’s seat, lifting his eyes to the rearview mirror.
“You ready to get to the Hotel?”
“Absolutely.” Layla spoke, firm. Setting her fingers to her grandmother’s diamonds, she breathed deep, seeing Mimi in her mind. Her rolling alto laugh; her darkly coquettish mannerisms. Her sweet smile and generous hugs, always with a kiss to either cheek. Mimi had been Moroccan but raised among the intelligentsia of Paris, and to Layla’s grandmother, Paris had been her home away from home. Inhaling a breath, Layla felt that sensation of homecoming draw around her like an ermine cloak, bolstering and warm.
“Let’s get to the Hotel.”
John nodded, put the car in gear, and they were off.
CHAPTER 13 – RED LETTER
Layla would have thought they’d take the freeway into downtown Paris, certain that a hotel of such renown would have had a place with the other grand hotels of the famously opulent city. But instead, John navigated the car smoothly around the downtown area as they headed southwest, circumnavigating the old city and following the busy traffic west into Versailles.
Layla had done some touristy visitations to Versailles when she had traveled to France in college, most importantly to the infamous Palace of Versailles that had once housed the Kings of France prior to the French Revolution. She thought they might circle around the palace as they drew close, perhaps to the north where the Waldorf Astoria Trianon held court, but instead, John drove them directly up alongside the edge of the palace’s Great Stables, stopping at a location between the stables and the Place d’Armes. It was as close to the elegant, massive compound as he could get with the car, the sprawling cobblestoned plaza of the Place d’Armes sequestered off for foot traffic only. Even so early in the morning, tourists flocked the area, taking photographs of the palace, meandering the massive cobblestoned plaza with maps and pointing at the gilded cupolas and iron-wrought railings from afar.
