Page 9 of Brutal Heir

I needed to stop doing that.

I forced a smile. “Thanks for the quick ride.”

His eyes narrowed slightly at my emphasis of the word quick. As if I’d somehow displeased him.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t resist staring at the space where his suit jacket hung loosely against his rib cage, trying to get another glimpse of whatever was strapped to his side.

Gun.

It has to be a fucking gun, my mind shrieked in warning.

I started when he finally spoke.

“You’re more than welcome. So, what brings you to Paris?”

Trying to slow my racing heartbeat, I focused on smoothing my leather leggings over my thighs. “I’m here for the shows.”

“As a model?”

Now he was just being polite. “No, I’m working as a fashion stylist for Édouard Sauvage-Lafleur.”

His gaze fell on the soggy pastry bag leaking rainwater onto the leather seat between us. Then back at me.

I snatched the bag up, holding it on my lap. “This was just a favor.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable.

My legs bounced, my feet jittering in place.

In the heat of the interior, the mix of my perfume with earthy scent of the seat leather made the car smell like sex.

My lungs hurt while I grew painfully aware of every breath I took as the windows fogged from the heat of our exhales.

Parisian traffic crawled.

He leaned forward, resting his right hand on my lower thigh, just above my knee. “There’s no need to be nervous.”

Every nerve screamed at me to move, but my body didn’t listen.

His hand tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to…disarm. “I don’t bite.”

That was a fucking lie.

Everything about this man screamed that he liked to bite…and bite hard.

I froze as I focused on the back of his hand.

The light sprinkling of dark hair, the faint outline of blue veins through the tanned skin, the ominous black diamond signet ring, the expensive watch around his wrist, how strong his fingers looked.

No detail was too small for my hyper-aware brain to take in.

“I’m not nervous,” I squeaked. Clearing my throat, I repeated, “I’m not nervous. I’m just worried about being late. There are so many people waiting for me.”

He raised an eyebrow, and the side of his mouth lifted in an amused smirk at my pathetic attempt to warn him against trying anything.

His thumb swept back and forth on the side of my thigh, sending a jolt up my spine. “Have dinner with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command.