Durand still couldn’t believe her lack of true sexual gratification. What man was so inept they couldn’t pleasure her? She was so willing. So damn willing. All it took was a little patience, exploring the ways she herself liked to be touched, letting her show him what felt good. Women knew their bodies best and it was always wise to trust them. To listen. It was about listening to her body, understanding what she liked, and she’d come. Easily. She’d come, again and again. Her body came alive beneath his touch, and the sheer astonishment on her face had been priceless.
He’d known the second she’d climaxed the first time that her admission had been no ruse. She’d been telling the truth. Before him, she’d never truly experienced sex the way it should be: pure, bold, satisfying. Her previous lovers had been selfish and unworthy of her. He’d felt like her teacher, but more, that she’d taught him what it was like to be vulnerable, to truly need someone. He felt like he’d deflowered a virgin and because he had, part of her belonged to him.
The possessiveness took him by surprise. Never had he felt as if he should own a woman. Obviously, people could not own people, but he’d never felt a connection to someone like this. Asha was the first woman in a long while, perhaps ever, that he wanted back in is bed. He’d only just begun to teach her what pleasures they could explore together. There was so much more he wanted to show her. So much he wanted to see her experience. The idea of stopping that felt like asking him to stop breathing. He couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. Because...why? They fit together so amazingly well. Why stop? But he knew this was a worrisome feeling. This need that was building in him, need for Asha. He prided himself on never needing anyone. Never feeling so connected to another person that that want controlled him.
He’d promised to own her for a night, but now he worried that she owned him.
And not just for a night.
He met his own gaze in the mirror and wondered what the hell he was doing. Falling in love? He scoffed at his own reflection. Love was for romantics. Amateurs. Men who couldn’t keep their feelings in check. Durand was not one of those men. Not someone who’d fall prey to the weaknesses of the heart. He typically never ventured beyond a cinq a sept, simply translated, a 5 to 7 p.m., a casual relationship, like one might have to one’s work. Yet, somewhere deeper, he knew Asha wasn’t a cinq a sept. She was a flower that had opened—for him. He’d done that. No other man.
In fact, the idea of another man coming after him made his stomach tighten, made him feel possessive.
And that was the problem. Because he’d spent a lifetime carefully cultivating his Frenchman-who’d-sworn-off-love image, the elusive playboy who never gave his heart to any one woman. What kind of mystery society owner would he be if he married? Had a family? Part of the appeal of the Sphinx Society was being free of constraints, of living life outside the typical rules. If he married, settled down, he’d be like every other man. Besides, if he were honest with himself, love scared him. He knew exactly how love could ruin a man. Look at his father. If he’d only just kept his feelings in check, only just kept his various relationships with his mistresses strictly cinq a sept, he wouldn’t have divorced his mother and ruined their lives. She’d died brokenhearted. Doctors said it was a coronary, but Durand knew his mother, and knew the damage love had done to her. He’d sworn never to let the emotion get to him, never to let love blind him to more important things, like wealth and reputation. Durand spent his whole life honoring history, and that included his mother’s.
He shook his head at his own shirtless reflection, and the foolishness he saw there. He was not going to risk his entire empire for love. Wasn’t going to risk his sanity, either, for a woman who could still be after a membership to the Sphinx Society. So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?
He stood, grabbed a folded hand towel from a nearby table, and swiped it across his face and the back of his neck. What he needed was a cold shower and something to take his mind off of Asha Patel.
A soft knock came at the door frame of his personal gym. He glanced up to see Madelyn standing there, tentative. Madelyn was hardly ever tentative. She must be delivering bad news.
“Sir? I’m sorry to bother you,” she said in French, as her face grew pink. He realized it was because he was shirtless as she snuck a look at his bare chest. He stood and grabbed his T-shirt that was draped across a nearby chair. No need to give her false hope. He never would sleep with her, no matter how big her crush on him grew. He pulled the T-shirt over his head.
“Yes, Madelyn?” he asked, impatient. His gym hours should be free of interruption, but sometimes business could not wait.
The pink receded from her cheeks as she glanced down at her tablet that she held tightly. “I’ve got word from the Savoy.”
“Yes?”
Now, Madelyn looked extremely uncomfortable. “I’m afraid...” She swallowed. “Ms. Patel is refusing to leave your suite.”
At the very mention of Asha’s name, Durand felt white-hot electricity shoot down his spine. Asha Patel, the woman who wouldn’t leave his thoughts. Or, it seemed, his hotel room.
“What do you mean, ‘refusing’?”
“She told the hotel manager that she’ll only leave if she speaks to you first. She’s also...” Madelyn glanced at the email on her tablet, the color deepening in her cheeks. “Sir, she’s running up an impressive bill. Champagne, caviar. Spa treatments.”
“How much?”
“More than $5,000, sir, mostly from ordering the Savoy’s most expensive champagne bottles.”
Durand frowned. What on earth was that little minx doing? Had he not satisfied her? Had he not offered an invitation to his next party? Why on earth was she acting like a jilted lover? Unless...
“Did you deliver the box with the invitation?” Durand asked, voice clipped. He observed his assistant carefully. Madelyn shifted uncomfortably on her expensive crocodile leather heels. She did not meet his gaze. She was hiding something.
“Yes,” she said, voice soft. “And I relayed your message. About checkout time.” She wasn’t telling him the whole truth. He could feel her guilt from where he stood. He’d known her so long he could read her every expression.
“And you delivered the message...nicely.” Durand took a step closer to his assistant. He didn’t care if he was covered in sweat. She glanced up once at him, tentatively.
“Yes,” she said. “But of course.” She stuck her chin out, daring him to contradict her.
In that moment, he realized that Madelyn could have told Asha most anything.
“What did you tell her?” Durand demanded. His heart ticked up a notch. Madelyn’s damn schoolgirl crush was getting to be a problem, Durand realized. It was becoming truly bothersome.
“What I always tell your women.” Madelyn raised a defiant eyebrow. “We have business to conduct, no? We have the next party to plan.”
Durand let out an exasperated sigh. “Asha isn’t just any woman.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Surprise bloomed on Madelyn’s face. Surprise—and dismay. But these words were true. Asha wasn’t just any woman. It was about time that he made peace with that.
“You can’t be serious,” Madelyn began. “She’s a spoiled heir. A...”
“No more.” Durand waved his hand impatiently. He was tired of Madelyn’s jealousy.
“Shall I allow the Savoy to call the London Police? They will make sure she leaves.” Madelyn had composed herself and now was back to being all business.
“No,” Durand said, surprising himself with the ferocity in his voice. He blew out a frustrated breath and turned away from his headstrong assistant. The last thing on earth he wanted was for the police to come and take Asha. She’d never forgive him that humiliation. And, he wondered, would she even forgive him sending Madelyn to tell her to leave?
Madelyn seemed surprised. “Shall I call Ms. Patel directly, then, a
nd relay a message?”
“No.” Durand stared at his assistant. “You will not be relaying any more messages to Ms. Patel.”
Now Madelyn seemed truly taken aback. He’d never challenged her before because, he realized, he’d never cared how Madelyn handled things. As long as they were handled. He’d given her too wide a berth these last few years. Let her get territorial, and why not? He never cared to see most women he slept with a second or third time. He’d relied on Madelyn to clean up the morning after, however she saw fit. He’d been fine with that, until now. Asha was different. Asha wasn’t a woman to dismiss out of hand.
“No. You’re going to book me on the next flight to London,” Durand demanded. Then, he eyed his assistant. “But first, you’re going to tell me, verbatim, everything you told Asha.”
CHAPTER NINE
ASHA LAY IN a thick white cotton robe, her bare feet dangling from the white love seat in Durand’s suite at the Savoy the next morning, as she dipped an oversized strawberry into her flute of bubbling champagne and took a bite. This was the kind of breakfast she could get used to: fresh fruit and off-the-charts expensive champagne. Her head fell back on the pillow, nearly dislodging the hasty bun she’d made with her tangled hair that morning. Asha knew she should think about leaving. She’d overstayed her welcome and she’d had to unplug the phone so the front desk wouldn’t call. And the maids had been by five times already this morning. Soon enough, security would come knocking on her door, no doubt. And she was pretty sure this fruit from yesterday and the champagne chilling in the mini-bar was the last room service she’d get for some time. Actually, the front desk had made that clear the last time she’d called down. If she didn’t offer her own method of payment, no more hospitality would be offered to her by the Savoy. She could pay, but she didn’t want to. What she wanted was to teach Durand a lesson.
She told herself, of course, it wasn’t that she was just licking her own wounds, nursing her pride, hurt from being told by his cold-hearted assistant she was just one more conquest among dozens, one more exotique. He needed to be brought down a peg or two. So did his mean-spirited, jealous assistant...what was her name? Megan? Marie? Some M-name.
She heard the automatic key at the suite’s door, and then someone try to open it, but the safety lock was latched in place. Then, came a stern knock. It was probably Savoy management again, maybe with security this time. They’d ask her to leave, no doubt. Well, she’d damn well leave when she wanted. And not a minute before.
“Asha?” came a deep rumble of a voice she instantly recognized. Faint French accent. Durand.
She sat up, and her hand flew to her hair. She caught her reflection in the mirrored wall adjacent to the living room. She rushed to it, fluffing her hair and pinching her cheeks. She’d forgone makeup. And clothes, for that matter. She wore only the robe and had been quite comfortable for the last two days.
She swept to the suite’s main door. “Durand?” she asked, tentative, as she pressed her eye to the peephole. It looked as if he were alone. No security. No hotel management. Just Durand in a sleek, expensive gray suit, no tie, crisp white shirt open at the throat, one hand behind his back, looking sexy as hell. He almost seemed to meet her gaze through the peephole, flashing a wry grin.
“Asha, my chérie. Let me in.”
Her fingers found their way to the dead bolt, but then she hesitated. Durand sent his assistant to humiliate her. Now, he swept in after two days and all was forgiven? She opened the safety bolt just wide enough to open the door two inches. She craned her neck to meet Durand’s gaze, just as he revealed the hand he hid behind his back. He held a single perfect red rose. She’d expected him to be angry, not contrite. The approach threw her for a minute, and she took the rose, smelling its sweet fragrance.
“May I come in?” Durand asked, but the tone of his voice made her doubt she could actually refuse him. She felt the bass of his voice in her toes. She closed the door to free the safety bolt and let the door swing free. Durand strode in, perfect dark hair combed back from his forehead, and eyed the golden room-service tray on the glass coffee table, complete with a half-empty bottle of champagne and picked-over strawberries. There was another empty tray on the dining room table with a half-eaten filet mignon, a tray filled with crackers and an empty jar of caviar.
A slow smile spread across his face. “Making yourself comfortable, Ms. Patel?” His ice-blue eyes met hers, and she felt a shiver down her spine.
“Are we back to formalities?” She almost felt disappointed. Why was he so cold and distant? She wasn’t sure what she expected. Durand to rush in and kiss her passionately? Toss off her robe and show her all the many, many delights he’d shown her earlier in the week? No. But maybe she’d been hoping he would.
“I’m not sure I’d call you—how do you say it in English? squatting?—in my hotel room, a formality.” He spread his hands, his big, strong hands, and Asha remembered what they felt like on her body. Strong and sexy.
“No, but it’s the least I could do since I was so rudely left. Without a proper goodbye.” She knew she sounded like a pouting toddler, but she didn’t care.
Durand raised a dark eyebrow. “I left you a lovely invitation. And a mask.”
“And sent in your secretary to do your dirty work.” She remembered his assistant’s cold manner, the way she’d delivered the news she needed to leave. “She was not lovely. Not at all.” Asha jabbed a fist into her hip for emphasis. Durand studied the neckline of her robe, which she realized was open low enough to reveal the top curves of her breasts. Good. Let him look. Let him remember what he left behind.
“Yes, I spoke with her.” Durand frowned. “My apologies for the manner in which she delivered my message. I’m afraid I wasn’t so specific about how she ought to deliver the news. That was my error.”
Asha nodded. It was, indeed, but the things his assistant had told her still burned. “She called me...exotique? Do you collect women, Mr. Durand, like some men do tigers?” A small strand of hair fell across her cheek and she tucked it behind one ear. Her bun felt in danger of falling, her hair feeling heavy at the base of her neck.
Durand laughed as he walked to the white sofa and sat, crossing his long, muscular legs, his pant legs fitting them tightly. She remembered his strong limbs entangled in hers beneath the sheets of the bed. “No. Not at all. I enjoy women. Of all races and nationalities.”
Asha paced in front of him as he watched her long, tanned bare legs part her fluffy white robe. “Even French blondes?” Asha stopped in front of him, the coffee table the only piece of furniture between them.
He raised an eyebrow and she felt she’d somehow given him ammunition, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d seen the territorial look on his assistant’s face, could almost feel the woman’s jealousy.
“No.” Durand didn’t blink. Didn’t even look away. “Not the French blonde you mean.”
“She’s in love with you,” Asha said. She’d come to that conclusion after replaying the conversation they’d had in her mind. The secretary who seemed a little bit too territorial, a little too involved for her interest to be purely professional.
Durand didn’t look surprised, either. So he knew about her feelings. Interesting.
Durand worked to keep his face neutral. “Does that bother you?”
“No,” she said too quickly. Too forcefully. It even sounded to her ears like a lie. Durand stood and walked around the table, and soon was beside her. He stepped closer, so close that she smelled him, the hint of his distinctive soap, his clean skin. She found herself leaning into him, despite her better intentions.
“I think it does bother you,” he said after a beat. “I think you are jealous.”
“No, I’m not.” She wouldn’t look him in the eye. Couldn’t.
Durand put his hands around her arms, squeezing her ever so gently through her sleeves. She was suddenly very much a
ware that she wore nothing beneath the robe, and from the way he glanced down the V of the robe’s neckline, Durand was, too.
“You should be honest with me, Asha.” He pulled her against him. She felt the hardness of his chest.
“Why?”
He dipped down and nuzzled her neck. She felt a shiver of desire run down the backs of her bare legs. He knew just how to touch her, just how to awaken the want deep inside her.
“Because I know you’re jealous.” She arched her back, pressing against him, overwhelmed with his gentle touch, with his delicious scent, with the promise of the pleasure she knew he could deliver. Suddenly, the idea of clothes, even a robe, seemed stupidly impractical. What she wanted was his hands on her bare skin.
“How?” she murmured, as he laid gentle kisses beneath her ear. Her breath caught in her throat. She yearned to taste him, to devour his mouth. He was teasing her, and it was driving her wild.
He met her gaze. “Because you are throwing a fit. Because you want my attention.”
“I’m not throwing a fit.” She pushed him away and crossed the room, her face feeling hot, her neck burning. But she could not escape the truth of his words.
“You are, ma chère. You are throwing a fit, no? You want my attention. And now you have it.” He crossed to her, embracing her from behind. She wanted to resist, but instead, found herself leaning into him, as he gave a hard tug on the belt of her robe. Soon it fell open, revealing miles of bare skin. He cupped both breasts from behind, kneading them reverently, so that her nipples grew hard against his palms.
“Yes,” she murmured, the admission slipping from her lips without her realizing it.
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