Dree Clark was absolutely infuriating.
He liked it.
Maxence was aware that he was playing Galahad again, rescuing yet another damsel in distress, and that he was on the verge of descending into a hedonistic spiral that might kill him this time.
It would also provoke new and yet-more in-depth conversations with Father Moses, and he was dreading those.
Why didn’t he just stop one or the other?
Why, indeed.
And yet, as Max stretched his long legs in the back of a ride-share SUV while the curvy little blonde clutched her gym bag on her lap, he was also enjoying himself and anticipating showing her Paris during the day and exploring her body at night.
That was the problem. He shouldn’t even be thinking such things, let alone plotting to do them.
But if Maxence didn’t take this pretty woman back to his hotel and initiate her into the various proclivities he was too fond of, he would end up hunting the bars of Paris and taking home a different woman each night for precisely the same thing or possibly worse.
It had happened too many times, both the descent and the remorse afterward.
Dree—if that was truly her real name, but Max suspected it was—bounced her knee as they drove toward the center of Paris.
As they passed the Arc de Triomphe, her face and hands were plastered to the car window as they drove through the traffic circle surrounding it.
Seeing Paris through her eyes would be fascinating. Maxence didn’t remember his first time in Paris. Some school trip, probably.
The car turned on a street leading away from the enormous edifice, and Dree settled back in her seat.
She caught his eye. “What?”
“Nothing.”
She checked her clothes. “Do I have a boob hanging out or something?”
He laughed. “What? No.”
“Okay. I’m kind of terrified to ask why you’re grinning like that, Auggie.”
Oh, Lord, that nickname,and he chuckled. “You’re just cute. Where shall we go for lunch?”
“We just ate breakfast.”
“I’m starving. Get a snack if you want, or a salad or some fruit.”
“I guess I can’t exist entirely on croissants. I should eat some plants.”
“Where do you want to eat?”
Her hand moved to her slim purse. She tapped it, a nervous gesture. “I don’t know.”
She must be worried about money again. How could he get through to her that he wanted to pay for everything and get her back on her feet? It would take more arguing, he suspected. “My treat.Everythingis my treat. Let me see your list.”
“Are you sure?” She fished the napkin out of her purse and handed it to him.
He perused the spidery writing on the fragile paper. “Le Cinq is the easiest. They should be open by now. We’ll go there.”
“You said all the restaurants on that list were expensive.”
“Expensive is relevant. You should try Le Cinq.”
