Throwing off the sheet, he sat on the edge of the bed. It was two in the morning, and if he couldn’t sleep, he’d be damned if she would.
On his way out the door, he pulled a T-shirt over his head, storming to her suite. Quietly knocking, he waited, willing his inconvenient appendage to dissipate.
“William?” she sleepily asked, looking too delicious wearing a short satin and lace robe, which barely covered her womanhood. “Is everything okay?” Her doe eyes rake down his rigid body.
“I, um. Yeah. Okay, so I was thinking,” he blurted, “I’d go up to forty million for the painting,”
“Oh, all right. I’ll remember. Goodnight.” She sleepily replied, starting to close the door, but he stopped her.
“And, and ... tell me again what time we need to be at Sotheby’s?”
“Four in the afternoon. I’ll go over everything at breakfast, no worries.” Again, she tried to close the door.
“Wait. I, um, also wanted to tell you that I had a tolerable time tonight. No—a good time.”
“Me, too.” She gave him a sweet, satisfied smile like he’d just said he loved her in one of their midnight bedtime conversations. “Goodnight, William.”
“Don’t go!”
“Why? Do you ... need to talk about something else?”
“No. Yes. No. I ... mean, the thing is, Elizabeth ... after the wedding ...” He ran his hand through his hair.
“Maybe we can talk tomorrow about your wedding? The jet lag and the martinis—I’m sorry, I’m so tired, I can’t keep my eyes open.” She yawned.
“Of course. My apologies for waking you.”
Elizabeth didn’t move, just stood there analyzing him with a furrowed brow. Her magnetic pull felt as though she was willing him, waiting to be kissed, like that night on the beach, maybe because he needed her to want him as badly as he wanted her. About to do the unthinkable, he stepped to her, gaze fixed on her delicious mouth. The energy around them sizzled with sexual anticipation. He could almost hear the crackling of electricity as he inched his head forward, breathing in her intoxicating scent.
His mouth drew nearer to hers, and he closed his eyes.
“I’m glad you came,” she said.
His eyes snapped open. “To your room?” he asked with a furrowed brow.
“To Paris.” Placing her delicate hand on his cheek she said, “You should get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow, Mr. Darcy.”
“Right. Goodnight, Elizabeth.”
She closed the door, leaving him alone in the hallway, feeling the sweet burn to his cheek that her hand left. Since that night in the Hamptons, cold showers had become too frequent for a normally well-regulated man who hadn’t had any interest in sex in over six years. Yet, here he stood like a horny teenager with a problem he knew wouldn’t go away unless she took matters into her hand, or mouth, or honey pot. Looks like another cold shower was incoming.
TWENTY-THREE
Second Moment in Paris—July 2
Sotheby’s new Paris flagship salesroom purred with barely controlled anticipation for the evening auction. Men in expertly tailored suits and women draped in fashionable luxury leaned forward, poised for battle. International brokers, dealers, and high-stakes bidders scrutinized each other. Elizabeth knew this art connoisseur world well—the intoxicating blend of wealth and power. Art was just the excuse. The true game was dominance and victory.
Seated in the back of the salon with a clear line of vision to the auctioneer, her steady pulse hummed, her attention riveted on the players and the game about to unfold. From years of dealing with her narc family, she had perfected the ability to appear indifferent, when necessary.
Although focused on the business at hand, she couldn’t resist side glances at William seated beside her. He unnerved her. Taking a steadying deep breath, she inhaled the intoxicating scent of his cologne, rich with something undeniably masculine. It wrapped around her senses, dragging her back to last night’s unexpected, confusing visit at her hotel suite door and their near kiss. The sexual tension between her and William wasn’t imagined. It sizzled beneath the surface of their collected façades.
He adjusted his cuff. That deliberate motion, like running his hand through his hair, had always driven her mad. Similar to the start of dinner at the Bar Vendôme, he was a perfect stormof arrogance and composed restraint wrapped in a bespoke navy Zegna suit. Although the billionaire financier appeared unimpressed by the winner-take-all auction or its competitors, she could feel his passionate readiness for the kill as he took it all in.
Flanked on both sides of the impressive salon, Sotheby’s representatives took absentee bids via telephone like an old-fashioned telethon bank. Above them, state-of-the-art TV screens displayed the bid increments.
“Are you ready for the kill, Elizabeth?” William murmured, his voice infuriatingly sexy.
She wrapped her fingers around the paddle resting on her lap. “Absolutely, Mr. Darcy. Let’s win your fiancée a painting.”
