by SR Jones
A few hours later and I’m standing outside the Four Seasons, my eyes on stalks. Okay, my family has money, and I might be a bit spoiled, but I am not Four Seasons Paris levels of spoiled.
“How much did this place cost?” I whisper to Damen as we both look at the impressive front.
“Our room, which by the way is not one of the special suites, was over a grand a night,” Damen says. “And we can thank your uncle for it. God knows why he’s spent this kind of money. Maybe he wanted you to have a special time after all, despite this not being real?”
Warmth blooms in my chest. Stamatis did this for me because he’s my father, but it’s followed by a sour realization. He did this out of guilt. To make himself feel better because while I get four nights in one of the most amazing hotels I’ve ever seen, I won’t ever get his love, or a public acknowledgement that I’m his.
Still, I won’t focus on the bad stuff. This is incredible, and we’re in Paris. While our relationship might be fake, Paris is not, and I’m going to have a good time if it kills me.
We check in and get to our room. Damen knocks on the wall twice, and on the answering knock gives a brief flash of a smile. So our protection is in place. Or, I should say back up, because Damen is my protection.
I stop moving and simply stare around me. Oh my word!
Never in my life have I seen such a stunning room. And this isn’t even a special suite, simply a deluxe room, and it’s stunning. The carpet is beautiful, and the bed is … there my mind screeches to a halt. The bed, oh my God. I’ll have to share a bed with Damen. Big, scary Damen who as time goes on is affecting me more and more.
The whole time on the plane I sensed his size next to me, the warmth of him and his delicious scent. It messed with my head. No way I want to be sharing a bed with him.
He stands by me. “Are you okay?” His gaze follows mine, and understanding dawns. His lips twitch, and he turns to me. “Don’t worry, wife, there’s another bed. Although, I’d have thought after those shows you were putting on, you’d be happy for some male company.”
And, all the attraction and even affection I thought I’d been feeling for him vanishes. What a shit, mentioning that tonight of all nights. “Are you going to throw it in my face forever?” I snap.
The memory of me playing with myself in the sauna, the poolroom, and God forbid, the library, on an old antique desk, hits hot and hard, making be burn with shame. Why I did that to Alesso, I don’t know now. I think I wasn’t in my right mind to be honest. The pressure of being given in marriage to Yannis and not wanting it to happen had built within me until I exploded, and the way I did was in spectacularly bad taste. If only Damen hadn’t swapped shifts that day, he’d never have known about it.
“Nah, but I’ll maybe tease you about it every now and again.” He smiles at me, and it isn’t mean.
I sigh and woman the heck up. “Look, I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to do that, to you and to Alesso. The more I think about it, the more ashamed I am. I kind of forced myself on you … visually at least. And I am sorry.”
My words are heartfelt. One time, when I went to see Yannis, he’d manhandled me, put his hands on me, and it made me feel like nothing. Nobody. As if he took all my control from me. The realization that my little shows were in essence something similar, makes me ashamed of my own behavior. It wasn’t in the same league, of course, but it was still wrong, and I’m grown enough to admit it.
“Darling,” Damen takes my hand in his and leans in to brush his lips by my ear, “I’m teasing, and don’t be sorry; it’s about the hottest thing I’ve seen in my life.” Then he’s gone, lugging his bag through a doorway to the right of the bed.
“I’ll be unpacking in here, where the second bed is,” he calls through the door. “We can take it in turns to have a shower too. Have you seen the bathroom?”
I’m still reeling from his close proximity and the fact he found my show sexy. Not only sexy, but the hottest thing he’d ever seen. I shouldn’t be pleased or flattered by his words, but I am.
I’m a little unnerved by them too, as this whole thing between us becomes something else if we’re attracted to one another. Still, I know Damen won’t make a move. He can’t. He works for my real daddy. I could march up to him right now and proposition him, and I’d bet good money he’d turn me down.
We’re in Paris, though. And again, I force the dark thoughts away, to focus on the good. We can explore this amazing city, one I’ve always wanted to visit.
I’m shattered, and tonight I need a clean up. I’d changed out of my wedding dress at the hotel in Athens where we married, and immediately climbed into another dress to travel in, and my bra is digging into my back, and my ankles are swollen. Tomorrow we can explore. Tonight a long soak in the bath then hours of sleep in that comfy looking bed are the order of the day.
I go into the bathroom and squeal. Oh my lord! It’s gorgeous. Truly gorgeous.
Damen appears in the doorway, grinning. A big grin that lights up his whole face, and he’s shirtless. Wearing only his dark pants.
My mouth runs dry because he’s incredible. He’s so big, muscles on muscle, and all of it covered in acres of golden skin.
“Told you.” He winks.
Winks! Damen. The man I had thought sour and dour faced, has a wink to make my panties damp, and a grin to make them drop to the floor in surrender.
Oh, slay me now. Why haven’t I seen this side of him before? I’d never have agreed to letting a man with a grin so deadly hot, a body like sin, and a wink that makes me want to kneel at his feet and beg him to take me, fake marry me. Not ever.
I’d rather have weirdo Markos and his clacking worry beads; at least I wouldn’t find myself mesmerized by him.
I get my brain online and ask, “How did you know?” I gesture at the awesome marble bathroom.
“Looked it up online. You know, your uncle’s bathrooms aren’t a million miles from this, so it’s not that special.”
“Oh it is, because for the next four days it’s mine.” I clap my hands with glee.
“Ours, babe,” he corrects.
I’m about to tell him not to call me babe, when he gives me his back and saunters out of the bathroom.
He’s got a huge tattoo slap bang in the middle of his upper back of an eagle taking flight. The tail fans down the dip at the bottom of his shoulder blades and into his mid spine, and then there is the body of the thing, beautifully rendered. The wings are raised mid-beat, and they cover his defined traps, ending just before you’d see them peeking out of a t-shirt.
Christ, he’s stunning. A work of art come to life, and I suddenly feel out of shape … and stupid for thinking I was somehow above him when he caught my show and gave me a telling off in my kitchen.
Also … I want him.
Damen, scary, murdering of men at my Uncle’s command Damen, has me panting for him.
It’s probably the worst idea ever, but my body doesn’t care. My libido doesn’t come with morals attached; she’s animalistic and instinctive, knows what she wants, and what she wants right now is a big, tattooed, menacing man.
I want him to feel the same way. He said my show was hot, but maybe he’s messing with me? I know some days I feel sexy, and others I feel awful. My mom blows hot and cold with me, and I suppose I’m that way about myself. On a good day, I’d totally believe Damen meant it. On a bad day, I’m riddled with doubt.
If he is messing with me, that’s cruel and messed up. If he is messing with me, I’ll damn well show him. I’ll make him want me for real.
Suddenly, I’m determined that no matter what it takes, I’m going to have Damen panting for me in return.
I won’t be happy until he’s begging for me.
We spent the night in our separate beds, but I left the door open so I could hear if anything happened in Maya’s room. There are guys next door, but I’m still super paranoid. The weird behavior Yannis showed has me on edge. The guy is not okay. Not at all.
; The open door is a temptation, but one I spent the night determined to ignore. The whole thing with Maya is starting to hit me as a very bad idea. I need to back off. It can’t come to anything, so why push it further?
I run through plans for the day in my head.
I need to visit a bank first of all today, then I have a surprise in store for Maya. She seems to love sculpture. Out of all her gallery and museum visits it was the sculpture she lingered over the most. Today, I’m taking her to the Musee d’Orsay. I hope she enjoys it.
I got up early and showered, and thank God because she’s been in the bathroom for ages. I ordered room service for breakfast, and Maya only wanted fruit, but I had an omelet. Finally, the bathroom door opens, and Maya clicks out, her footsteps going silent when she transfers from the marble floor to the soft carpet.
I stare at her. She looks great. The dress she is wearing is a patterned wrap dress that clings to each curve. It ends below her knees, and she’s wearing it with low heels. It’s almost conservative, but the way the fabric skims every dip and flare of her luscious body makes it anything but.
Her hair falls around her shoulders in thick, soft waves. She’s wearing makeup, and it’s smoky and sexy.
She looks good enough to eat. I could have skipped the damn omelet and happily had her for breakfast.
Realizing I’m staring, I force myself to stop and clear my throat.
“I need to go to the bank first, but then there’s somewhere I want to take you if that’s okay? I think you’ll like it.”
“Okay.” She gives this tiny shrug then smiles at me.
Smiles, all nice and friendly. Cool, I can play it this way.
I grab the key card for the room and my wallet as she gathers up her bag and phone, and pulls on a soft looking jacket, then we’re leaving the room, walking down the corridor in silence together. I’d already texted the guys next door, and sure enough as we hit the lift, their door closes, and they walk down the corridor toward us.
“It’s weird getting followed by them,” Maya whispers.
‘Weirder than us being married?” I whisper back.
“Nothing’s that weird.” She smiles and shakes her head.
When we reach reception, Maya’s eyes widen as she takes in all the flowers and the grandeur with fresh eyes.
“Wow, I think I was too tired to appreciate this last night. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
I nod because, hell, it is. Stunning. She looks right at home here—classy, beautiful, glamorous.
A French Madam walks by us, a poodle on a lead, lots of obvious plastic surgery on her face, and when she’s passed, Maya turns to me. “Oh my God! She’s so Paris.”
I laugh at that, and she blushes a little. Interesting. Is she blushing because no one normally laughs at her jokes, or is she blushing because I’m paying attention to her? Is her Alesso crush waning?
“Come on, let’s hit the bank, then our day can begin.” I don’t tell her that I’m going to the bank to get a couple of guns out of a safety deposit box there. No need for her to know such things.
When we hit the pavement, sunlight greets us. It’s a beautiful day, crisp but bright, and perfect for walking and exploring.
I start in surprise as a warm hand slips into mine. Glancing at Maya, I raise my eyebrows.
“We’re meant to be married, right? Better look the part.”
“Of course,” I say.
It feels weird. Novel, and it hits me then that I date girls, sometimes for a long time, but I never get intimate enough to hold hands. I can fuck like a champ, take them out, wine and dine them, but I’ve never strolled down the street holding hands.
We pass a boulangerie with a staggering array of breads and cakes in the window. “Wow, that’s so Paris,” Maya murmurs.
I grin, because like the Poodle lady, it so is.
In the bank, I leave Maya waiting in the foyer, happy she’s safe as our guys are only two feet away from her, pretending to read savings accounts leaflets. Guns firmly in my possession and strapped into the conceal holsters I’m wearing, I walk back out to Maya, and this time I take her hand.
She glances up at me with her big green eyes all round and wide, and I give her a wink.
I don’t know what this game is we’re playing, but it’s fun. I don’t often have fun.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No telling, you’re going to have to trust me.”
“It’s just … there’s a lot I want to see. The Louvre. The Eiffel Tower. Maybe go on a boat ride down the river…”
“We can do all those things, but trust me, this is the best thing about Paris.”
It is too. My favorite place. Like Maya, I like galleries and museums, although I think for different reasons. I enjoy the atmosphere. The calmness, the coolness of the interiors. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no philistine and I can enjoy the art, but I love the whole experience. The complete cut off from the bustle of the world outside is what gets me. I am hoping where we are going won’t be so busy as to nullify that part of the experience.
We arrive at the Musee D'orsay after I discreetly hand the guns over to one of our minders for safe keeping. I pay for us both and lead us inside. It’s a weekday morning, out of peak holiday time, so it shouldn’t be too packed. As soon as we enter the main hall, Maya stops dead. She stares all around her, doing a slow turn. Her mouth parts, and her eyes shine as she takes it in.
“If you ask me”—I lean in close, voice low—“this place beats the shit out of the Louvre.”
“It’s amazing,” she gasps. “Look at the sculptures. And the building is beautiful too. Wow. Oh, look at the clock.” She points to the giant interior clock.
“Yes, I know. It’s what I love about this place, the building itself. It’s like the first work of art is actually the place, you know?”
She turns to look at me, and there’s something strange in her gaze, something I can’t identify. “You like art?”
I nod and give a small shrug. “Yeah, I mean not as much maybe as you, and I don’t know a lot about it, but I like it. I enjoyed having to trail you on your gallery days. I find galleries and museums … I don’t know, soothing somehow.”
“Me too. I love the paintings and the sculpture, but the whole ambience of the places I go to are part of the experience. The quiet, the solitude if you go on a day when they aren’t packed. The coolness and the space. It all makes me feel like you do in a great church or cathedral.”
I rub my jaw as I look around. “That makes sense. I guess they’re both places of worship, right?”
“I never thought of it that way, but yes, they are.”
“One worships God, one worships man … or rather, man-made beauty.”
She smiles at me and nods enthusiastically. “They worship the best in humans, the beauty they can create. A lot of modern life has forgotten about beauty. I love it. Like, even with the clothes I buy, Mom gets upset because they aren’t the right designers or the right style. But I don’t buy things because of the label or the style. I buy them because I find them beautiful. This dress, I thought the colors and the fabric were beautiful. I have designer things, but I have things from thrift stores and flea markets that I love as much.”
“Well, you do look beautiful in your beautiful dress, Maya.” As soon as I say it I regret it, because it sounds cheesy, or perhaps even mocking, but I mean every word. She does.
The way she turns away and her cheeks get that touch of pink again tells me she’s not sure how to take what I said.
“So this place is big, but nothing like the Louvre. We can start here, if you like? Look at the sculptures. Then work our way to the paintings?” I change the subject.
“What sort of art is it?” she asks.
“The kind I like. Don’t think I’m uncultured, but a lot of the stuff in the Louvre I can take or leave. It’s not to my taste, but obviously they have priceless art and history in there. Here it’s Monet, Van Gogh, Renoir
, still priceless, and what I like. It’s not fashionable, I suppose.”
“Maybe not, but it’s beautiful; they are some of my favorite artists. I love the impressionist. You couldn’t have brought me to a better place, Damen. Thank you.”
She gifts me a stunning smile. Stunning because it’s real and rare, a smile I’ve not seen before. She could outshine the works in here if she smiled this way all the time. Once more I get the nagging sense that I’m not as in control of this game I’ve set in motion as I like to think.
After three hours, we’ve seen mostly what we want to, and Maya is looking beat. “Do you want to go get something to eat?” I ask.
She nods, and I am wondering what sort of restaurant she’d like, when she says, “Can we go get food from one of the vans and walk along the river? I always had a fantasy that if I came to Paris, I’d eat Croque Monsieur as I walked by the Seine.”
“You don’t want to go get something to eat in one of the restaurants; a lot of them do serve toasted cheese and ham you know? They make it a bit more upmarket.”
“Nah, I want the greasy street food version, and to eat while we walk. It’s too nice to be inside, and we don’t have that many days.”
She surprises me. I know she’s not a snob, despite her princess act, but I did think she’d prefer to eat in a nice place than stuff down a sandwich from a van as we walk. I don’t normally eat shit like bread, but this is a holiday of sorts for me too, and I decide to relax on the fucking protein and exercise shit for a few days.
“Do you even eat things like sandwiches?” It’s as if Maya read my mind as she side eyes me. “I imagine you’re the sort of guy who sits down to half a cow every evening. Although maybe you mix in a bit of spinach, Popeye.” She squeezes my bicep and gives me a naughty little grin.
“Yeah that’s me, I only eat red meat and spinach.”
“And omelets.”
“Yeah, and omelets.”
“Don’t you like chocolate?” she asks.
We walk toward a van, and I turn to her, more beguiled by her than the city around me. Her hair is blowing in the light breeze, and a tendril is stuck to her cheek. I reach out without thinking and brush it away. She falters for a moment, but then carries on walking.