“Dinner first. Bedrooms after. I’m not as easy as you think I am, Adrian Rhakvir.”
“You’re not easy at all, Layla Price.” He stepped back with a sparkle of his aqua eyes and a lift of one straight eyebrow. Extending his arm, he slipped her hand around his elbow again, her fingers upon his white silk sleeve. “Shall we?”
“Absolutely.”
It was strangely reminiscent of what she’d said when Adrian had asked her if she was ready to continue in to her new life at the Red Letter Hotel. Watching him now, Layla found that memory was not lost on either of them as it surfaced in her mind, his gaze upon her almost wistful. Even though he’d been disguised as John LeVeque at the time, it had been Adrian there with her, encouraging her. Adrian, with his booming laugh wearing a rig of guns and knives to complete the image of a bodyguard – though Layla had a feeling he could have used those weapons if he’d needed to. Adrian, staring at her with his lips fallen open as she’d exited the back of the jet in this same outfit, taking her in and wanting to touch her with his strong hands.
Adrian, every step of the way – leading her on through this new life.
“After you, my lady.It’s your road and yours alone. Others may walk it with you, but no one can walk it for you.”
Adrian motioned toward the door, making Layla’s lips quirk with his Rumi quote. Taking a breath, she relinquished his arm and strode forward, opening her apartment doors and throwing them wide – feeling his hot touch stroke down her back as he followed her out into the luminous hall of the Hotel.
CHAPTER 26 – PARIS
As far as first dates went, Layla was chalking it up to one of her all-time best. After exiting the Hotel and stepping into a waiting black Bentley with a chauffeur this time, they’d driven into Paris and wound up downtown, on a side-street full of cozy little restaurants, cafes, and pâtisseries. Dinner was a delight, a meal of crawfish étouffée and shrimp gumbo in a tiny little New Orleans-style cafe featuring a live jazz trio – where all heads turned the moment Layla and Adrian entered and continued staring at them the entire night.
Their conversation had been light as they’d finally gotten to start a real date – likes and dislikes, favorite colors, songs, and movies, cats vs dogs and a whole host of other getting-to-know-you tidbits. Layla had found she and Adrian shared a lot of small things in common. They both loved jazz and blues and hated gangsta rap, they loved sci-fi and historical fiction but hated sappy romances. His favorite color was gold, and Layla made fun of him for being a stereotypical treasure-hoarding dragon and he’d shrugged with a grin. The best moment had been when Adrian had tried to eat a whole crawfish and ended up flinging a piece right into Layla’s champagne. He’d chuckled as he fished it out, popping it into his mouth with a grin and following it with a drink of melted butter – sexy as hell and utterly unapologetic about his appetites.
The cafe was intimate and the jazz exciting, waiters in impeccable shirt and tie darting around the stout tables in their long white aprons. A fantastic blend of Paris and New Orleans with the best of modern culinary cuisine, Layla and Adrian were now on to dessert – sugared beignets and a scrumptious chocolate pineapple torte with the richest molten chocolate Layla had ever tasted. They spoon-fought with grins over the brown sugar and the torte’s crust, made from crumbles of graham cracker. Layla won, bringing a spoonful to her mouth with a cry of triumph and then a sigh of delight. Inebriated and loving it, Layla left her spoon lingering in her mouth as she gazed around, fixing the wonderful evening in her memory.
“You look positively poetic right now, Layla Price,” Adrian chuckled as he dug into the torte also, lifting a bite to his lips. “What’s going on inside that cunning mind of yours?”
“I just love Paris,” she sighed, letting her spoon fall from her lips as she gazed around at all the well-dressed and chatty couples enjoying life. “It reminds me of Seattle. Rainy, cold, but somehow bright because of the people and how much they celebrate being alive.”
“You do too,” Adrian reached across the rustic table, settling a warm hand to her jaw. His aquamarine eyes went mysterious, delving Layla to her core.
“What are you thinking about?” She asked, watching him; feeling him so near with his hand so warm upon her face.
“How beautiful you are,” he breathed, his gaze still deep as if looking right into her soul. “How much I would love to spend the rest of my life with you; just like this.”
The sincerity of his admission made Layla’s breath catch. She blinked at him, her eyebrows rising at his poetry and honesty. Her Dragon stirred inside her with a delicious roll of heat as if approving of Adrian’s words. But then Adrian mastered himself, shaking his head with a wry smile and letting his hand fall away with a soft caress. “Sorry. Champagne. It makes me say strange things sometimes.”
“Some people call it the truth drink.” Layla spoke solemnly, wondering what he had just meant and still stunned by it.
“Some people need to drink whiskey or bourbon instead.” He gave a wry smile. “What do you say? Are we about done here?”
Layla blinked, realizing Adrian had just clammed up. But he had been so generous all night, so kind and fun, that she let it slide. “It depends. What else do you have lined up?”
“Well,” Adrian’s hand slid out as if he couldn’t stop touching her, his fingers caressing deliciously across her hand. Playing with her fingers and making her shiver, he grinned. “We have tickets to the opera, if you’re interested. If opera’s not your thing, we can do something else.”
Layla smiled. She loved the opera. She’d taken every chance to go when she’d lived in Seattle. But of course, Adrian would have known that. “What show?”
“La Bohème.” His grin was knowing; it was Layla’s favorite opera. It had been Mimi’s favorite too. Mimi had often regaled Layla with arias from the Puccini classic late into the night as she let a nine-year-old Layla sip bourbon with her by a roaring fire, musing on the delights and trials of love. They were some of Layla’s best memories, those times with her grandmother. Her first show ofBohèmehad been at Mimi’s expense; taking her in a gregarious limo to the Seattle opera house for the show.
And now that honor was Adrian’s.
“I would love to go,” Layla breathed, feeling an embarrassed smile creep up her cheeks. She was eager to see the show with him.
To be alone with him in a darkened theater sighing with music.
“Good.” Adrian’s smile was dark and bright and full of pleasure. He signaled for the check, and it was brought with alacrity, their waiter raising his brows at what was most likely an exorbitant tip before they were out the door into the Parisian night.
Adrian’s hand was warm at Layla’s back as they stepped into the chill autumn darkness. The weather was brisk but Layla’s mink stole was warm, Adrian’s body scalding as he slipped a hand up her bare back and escorted her down the evening sidewalk. Deep in dinnertime revelry, the crowds were thick along the downtown street, and Layla reveled in the bustle. The New Orleans cafe was only three blocks from the Paris Opera House, and they moved quickly through the throng, reminding Layla of the first evening she and Adrian had maneuvered to Lark through the Capitol Hill evening traffic in Seattle.
Before she knew it, they arrived at the opera house of Palais Garnier, moving up the steps as the final bells rang. Gilded opulence surrounded Layla with bright chandeliers and painted cherubs far above as they raced in the nearly empty lobby. Adrian’s arm bolstered Layla as they jogged up the white marble steps of the grand main staircase to the upper tiers. Arriving at an opulent side-nook, Adrian showed their tickets and they were admitted to one of the most exclusive private boxes along the left wall near the stage. The theater soared around Layla with French Baroque opulence as they settled into their red velvet seats. As the chandeliers darkened and the last sounds of people shuffling programs ceased, the tuning of the orchestra began. Layla sighed, riveted as the first themes of Puccini’s masterpiece began sweeping the hall from the orchestra pit.
And then the red velvet curtains opened.
