“It’s not a complex,ma chérie?*. It’s simply fact.”
Another fact is that I haven’t had such a deliciously fun conversation in…forever.
I finish my drink, and as I’m about to turn to the bartender, Gustave places a hand over mine. “Please,chérie, don’t.”
Ifrown. “Why?”
“So that when I invite you to my hotel room, I won’t have to worry you’re drunk.”
Like I said,the balls on this man. And the charm!
“You’re being presumptuous,” I say, pulling my hand away from his, but I don’t order another drink.
I’ve never had a one-night stand. I’m a relationship girlie. I’ve slept with three guys in my life—threeboyfriends.
But maybe it’s time, Tara, to live your life. After all, it’s Valentine’s Day in Paris, and this is one hell of a fine Frenchman.
“Not presumptuous, justveryhopeful,” he replies with a broad smile. It relaxes his features, even those cheekbones that look like they were slashed with a palette knife by Rembrandt. He glances toward the tall windows overlooking Rue de Buci, then back at me with a look that is nothing short of an invitation.
My heart thuds as I see a discreet black awning bearing the golden crest of Hôtel de l’Île, its façade glowing in the night.
I lick my lips. Temptation thrumming through me.
“There’s a hotel across the street.” He holds his hand out. “Come with me.”
He means it. Every inch of him radiates certainty, like he’s a man who’s never heard the wordnon.
It rattles me, so I lean into what I do best; humor. “Do you always invite women you meet at bars to hotels?”
“No.” He sounds like he means that, too, but I can’t believe that. A man like him is a playboy. He can land any woman.
Apparently and evidently, even me.
“Are you…. Are you staying in that hotel?” I feel gauche.
This is not my scene. Not at all. My first boyfriend was a musician who played guitar in a garage band. I drew sketches of him while he played.
My second boyfriend was a starving artist like me. Unlike me, he refused to get a job as I did, waiting tables. Apparently, that interfered with his muse. When he suggested we move in together to save bills, which I read clearly as me carrying him, I told him, “Darling, I restore masterpieces for a living, not starving artists with delusions of grandeur.”
Then there was Brian, the cheat. He was an assistant at an art gallery, and we dated for six months before that ended like a priceless vase in the hands of a toddler—fast, loud, and in tiny pieces.
“I have a suite at the hotel,” Gustave says with the kind of arrogance that should have made me roll my eyes. Instead, it made heat curl low in my stomach.
Come on, Tara, this one has a suite, and he looks like he can probably pay for it.
I put my hand in his. “You sure about this?”
He smiles again. He has straight teeth. White.
“Only if you are,chérie.”
I close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath. Then I look at him, clear-eyed. “Lead the way, Gustave.”
* Countess (French)
* Of rare beauty (French)
* Grandmother (Spanish)
