by Helen Lacey
Robin did want children, but her plan had always been to have them some years in the future. For a while she’d believed she’d have them with Trey, but that idea was now out the window. She never wanted to see him again, let alone anything else. And since the only other man on the horizon at the moment would be returning to Paris within days, Robin suspected it was time she seriously got back into the local dating scene.
“Kids are way off into the future, Mom. And you can rest easy knowing that Amersen will be leaving in a couple of days now that his deal with Kate is in writing.”
Veronica Harbin didn’t look quite convinced, but she nodded. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sure,” Robin said.
Once her mother left, Robin turned the heat under the pot to low and headed for the bathroom. Half an hour later she was showered and dressed in jeans, a soft purple sweater and a pair of sparkly moccasins she’d bought from a craft market recently. She’d washed and dried her hair, leaving it to hang down her back and shoulders, played around with a little makeup and then walked from room to room in the house for half an hour waiting for him to arrive.
He turned up at three minutes to seven and stood on her doorstep, a bottle of wine in one hand and a small wrapped box in the other. And he looked so gorgeous he stole her breath. In dark trousers, a black shirt open at the throat and a leather jacket that hugged his broad shoulders, he looked totally handsome and masculine. And hot.
“Another gift?” she remarked as he crossed the threshold and she closed the door behind him.
He shrugged lightly. “It’s just a small thing, amoureuse.”
Robin wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, since she didn’t speak a lick of French, but she could guess it was some kind of endearment, which made her as giddy as a teenager in the midst of a first crush. And since he smelled absolutely divine, her giddy senses did a crazy loop-de-loop.
She met his gaze as he passed her the box. “Thank you. Let’s go into the living room.”
He followed her down the hallway and stalled in the doorway to the living area. And he was smiling as he looked around the room, eyes wide.
“Too much?” she asked.
The huge, fluffy spruce tree, complete with an assortment of gifts beneath it, took up most of one corner, and the rest of the room was decorated within an inch of its life. Garlands were looped along the picture rail, and bunches of fresh holly sat in several vases on the table behind the sofa. A ceramic nativity scene lay beside the fireplace, complete with straw, backlighting and a timber manger her father had made for her years ago. And there was an array of mismatched ornaments and festive novelties on the mantel, including the glass slippers he’d gifted her.
“No,” he replied, still smiling. “Exactly what I imagined.”
Robin’s skin prickled with awareness. “I told you I like Christmas.”
“So you said,” he remarked and pointed to the small box in her hand. “Which is why I got you that.”
Robin fiddled self-consciously with the ribbon on the top of the box for a second and then opened the gift. It was a snow globe depicting the Eiffel Tower in front of a skating pond, complete with tiny skaters, snow, reindeer and a sleigh. Paris at Christmastime. Her heart skipped a beat as she held it in her hand.
“It’s...lovely,” she said and turned it upside down, turning the small key on the base. Music began, a sweet, familiar melody. “I know this song... It’s...it’s...”
“‘Douce Nuit,’” he supplied. “‘Silent Night.’”
“Of course,” she said and smiled. “Thank you. Another favor from Ortega?”
He grinned. “Not this time. I was out looking around the city this afternoon and ended up in a place called South Congress. I found it in one of the stores there.”
“SOCO is known for being a little on the quirky side,” she explained and placed the globe on the mantel. “It has some great little restaurants and places for live music. In fact, there are several good nightclubs in Austin, if that’s your thing.”
“I suppose you could say nightclubs are my thing,” he said. “Since I own one.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I read about that online. Quite a popular place you’ve got there...home away from home for celebrities.”
“I have a no-paparazzi rule between ten and midnight, so yes, some celebrities come to unwind and keep out of the way of journalists looking for a scoop. The European tabloids can be mercenary.”
“That’s why I would never want to be famous,” she said and chuckled, thinking that Amersen was probably the most famous person she’d ever met. “I’m happy to live my low-key, middle-class, small-town life in my little house with its cottage garden. Which probably makes me sound as dull as a door.”
“Nothing about you is dull.”
Robin could barely stand the intensity of his gaze, and she swallowed hard. “I should probably check on dinner. We can open that wine if you like.”
“Certainly,” he said and followed her into the kitchen.
Robin put water on to boil for the pasta, grabbed a couple of glasses from the cupboard and placed them on the countertop, then pulled the corkscrew from a drawer, handing it to him. “Is that from your winery?” she asked.
His brows rose. “You’ve done some digging.”
She half shrugged. “Type your name in a search engine and pages of stuff come up. I read a little bit here and there, including something about the winery and nightclub and how you’ve made a lot of money.”
“The money is merely the by-product, not the motivation.”
She chuckled. “I wasn’t criticizing. Although making off-the-cuff remarks about the unimportance of money does seem to be a privilege of the rich.”
He took off his jacket and draped it on the back of a chair and then uncorked the bottle and poured wine into the glasses. “Elitist.”
Robin laughed. “You’re the snob, not me. Tell me about your family.”
He came around the counter and passed her a glass, which she held in one hand while she stirred marinara sauce. “I have a younger sister, Claire, who is studying business at university. My father, Luc, is a professional equestrian and my mother, Suzette, sells real estate.”
“And you,” she added. “Handsome and successful and soon to be the face of Fortune’s next big thing.”
“We’ll see.”
She frowned. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No,” he replied. “But nothing is ever a done deal until the deal is done. I never take opportunity for granted, although in this instance I am not entirely convinced that my image alone can sell a product in a market that is so fiercely competitive.”
Robin sipped her wine. “Kate believes in you. And so do I,” she added, then felt foolish. “Not that my opinion matters.”
“On the contrary,” he said and turned, resting his hip against the counter, so close she could feel the heat coming off him. “Since you are my only friend in Austin, your opinion does matter.”
She stopped stirring the sauce and turned, facing him, barely inches apart. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone’s only friend before. That’s a big responsibility.” She plonked a wad of spaghetti into the now boiling water.
His eyes glittered. “Tell me something. Just before, you said you were happy here, with your life, living here. Do you not have any interest in seeing the world?”
Robin didn’t let her gaze slide from him. “I would like to travel at some point. But although Kate is a generous employer, a landscaper’s salary doesn’t usually stretch itself to regular vacations abroad. But who knows,” she mused. “One day I might get to check a few places off my list.”
“Your list?”
“My Christmas list,” she said and shrugged. “I’ve always had this crazy idea that I’d like to spend Chri
stmas in different cities around the world. You know, like a wintry English Christmas in the Lake District...or a warm Christmas on a Sydney beach.” She laughed at herself. “It sounds silly.”
“Not at all. It sounds like...fun.”
There was that word again. The one he’d used to describe being around her. “It’s a shame you’re leaving soon.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, and suddenly the mood between them became intensely intimate. “You could come back with me...stay for a while...tick Paris off that list of yours.”
Robin’s jaw dropped. “Huh?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Paris is a city like no other, and at Christmas it really does come alive. There are more lights than usual on the Champs-Élysées and Saint-Germain. Street vendors at their carts sell roasted chestnuts, and the scent seems to stay in the air for weeks. And there are stalls and markets that pop up like mini villages, for the locals and the tourists alike, offering glacé fruit and cheeses and wine from every province in the country. You might find a brass band on a street corner, playing festive music. And on Christmas Eve, as the daylight fades, the Eiffel Tower comes alive with thousands of glittering lights that seem to cast a warm glow across the entire city.”
Robin’s bones liquefied. She could listen to Amersen’s sexy voice for hour upon hour and never grow tired of the way his accent made every word sound like a seduction. And he made Paris sound so inviting she was almost tempted to accept his offer.
“It sounds...wonderful.”
“It is my home. Where my heart is, tu vois?” His gaze burned into hers. “Do you see?”
“Like my heart is here.” She felt the heat of the awareness between them, like flames licking at her.
“Then we are...condamnés,” he said, taking the glass from her hand before he translated. “Doomed.”
Robin had never felt more aware of a man in her entire life. And they’d barely touched. Barely kissed. But she was so drawn to him it was terrifying. And thrilling. She managed a soft laugh. “You might be doomed after you sample my cooking.”
“No risk,” he said and placed his glass on the counter. “No reward.”
Then he curled a hand around her nape and gently urged her closer, closing the space between them. And then he kissed her. Softly. Slowly. Sensually. Like he had all the time in the world. Like they weren’t doomed. Robin closed her eyes and pressed closer and kissed him back, accepting his tongue into her mouth as though it was all she needed to exist. She couldn’t remember ever being kissed with such gentle finesse and yet such gut-wrenching passion. That was the difference between him and any other man she’d kissed. Amersen Beaudin wasn’t kissing her to seduce her into bed. He was kissing her because it felt damned good. His hands didn’t roam, didn’t grope, didn’t do anything except steady her. And his warm, seductive mouth had a power she couldn’t believe.
When he lifted his head and pulled back a little, she was breathing hard, her eyes now open, the blood in her veins on fire. “That is not so much against the rules, no?”
“No,” she muttered, smiling at the way he mixed up the words. “Yes.”
He smiled and stepped back. “Then you should probably feed me some of your bad cooking.”
Robin took a steadying breath, forced some guts into her knees and quickly finished the meal preparations. The table was already set, the salad was in the refrigerator and the bread cut up and in a basket on the counter. Within minutes she had the spaghetti, salad, Parmesan and bread on the table and invited him to take a seat. He grabbed the wine and refilled their barely touched glasses before he sat down.
His eyes kept steady with hers. “Tell me about the purple.”
So he’d noticed. “I always wear something purple,” she said and shrugged. “I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. No real reason... I just love purple.”
He ate some pasta and then rested his fork on the plate. “You weren’t wearing purple the first time I met you...remember, in the gazebo. You had on that white dress.”
“Purple thong.”
He almost choked on his meal. “Oh...I see.” He groaned softly. “Now I have that image fixed in my brain...merci.”
“The dress?” she queried. “Or the thong?”
“Both,” he replied. “You know, I haven’t seen you in a dress since. Not a fan?”
She shrugged. “I’m always digging in the dirt—that’s more of a jeans and T-shirt kind of job. I’m not much of a fashionista, anyway. And I don’t go out much these days, so no real need for playing dress up. I’m on the short, curvy side of the spectrum, so not exactly made for fancy gowns. Not like those skinny European models you date, I guess.”
“Actually, the last woman I dated was five foot three and works as a viticulturist,” he said quietly. “That’s someone who—”
“I know what they do,” Robin cut him off irritably. “It’s someone who decides what grape varieties to plant and handles pest management, irrigation and deciding the best time to harvest the grapes.”
“Yes, exactly.”
She speared some spaghetti. “So, you broke up. Why?”
He shrugged lightly. “We dated for a while. She wanted...more.”
Robin looked up and met his gaze. “Oh...commitment. How frightening for you.”
His cheeks darkened. “I wasn’t ready for anything serious at the time. And I never lied to her about a future.”
“Just long enough to get her into bed, I imagine.”
“I never lied,” he said again, his mouth suddenly a thin line. “Not all men stoop to lies and deception, Robin.”
It was a deliberate hit, and she sat up straight in the chair. “I know that. I’ve had a good role model in my own father to know the difference. Like you have, I suppose.”
“Luc Beaudin is my stepfather.”
Robin stared at him, eyes wide. “Oh...I didn’t know that.”
“No one knows,” he said quietly. “Except my parents and sister.”
Robin swallowed hard, reeling in the weight of his admission to her. “And your real dad?”
His gaze narrowed. “Luc is my real father,” he shot back quickly. “At least he is in every way that counts.”
“Of course,” she corrected quickly. “I just mean, your biological father.”
“A sperm donor,” he replied baldly. “Nothing more.”
“Have you ever met him?”
* * *
Amersen had no real idea why he’d told Robin something he’d never even discussed with his closest friends. It was the most private part of himself, like a shadow he tried to dodge at every opportunity. Although he’d always known Luc wasn’t his birth father, it wasn’t until he was sixteen that he’d demanded to know who the other man was. That was when his mother had told him an abridged version of the truth—that he was conceived from a brief affair she’d had while in America and that his biological father was a wealthy married man who had another family and would never leave his wife. She’d never said who he was, and Amersen hadn’t asked. What did it matter after so many years? It wasn’t until he was contacted by Keaton Fortune Whitfield and Ben Fortune Robinson and found out he was Gerald Robinson’s biological son that all his previously concealed resentment had surged to the surface.
Because he hated the fact he was Gerald Robinson’s bastard child.
He hated it so much he could taste the hatred on his tongue and feel it burning through his veins. And he’d never admitted that fact to anyone, not even his mother, not even once he knew the whole truth about who he was, after she told him how she’d convinced Robinson she’d taken care of her pregnancy and the man had been relieved. Because twenty-five years ago Robinson hadn’t been prepared to acknowledge Suzette’s child as his own...and now Amersen wasn’t prepared to acknowledge that other man as his father.
“And you’ve never told anyone?”
He shrugged and feigned interest in the food on his plate. “Never.”
Amersen expected her to ask him why he admitted such a thing. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached across the table and placed a steady hand on his forearm. He could feel the warmth of her touch through his shirt, the connection somehow like a tonic that eased away any regret he had in telling her. And suddenly, the rest of the story teetered on the edge of his tongue, anxious to be told.
“You can trust me, Amersen. I won’t betray your confidence.”
He glanced up and met her gaze. She drew back her hand and continued eating her meal, but Amersen was achingly conscious of the undercurrent of awareness between them. It was impossible to ignore the fact that they were drawn to one another. And he wanted more of her. Despite knowing he was leaving in a matter of days.
“Would you spend the day with me tomorrow?”
She took a breath, and he was sure he heard a tiny shudder and prepared himself for her refusal. Of course she should. That would be the sensible thing to do.
“Yes,” she said. “I will.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight and we can head into town for breakfast,” he said and then gestured to the plate in front of him. “Incidentally, you’re not a terrible cook. This is très bien...very good.”
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re very sweet.”
“Sweet?” Amersen laughed and drank some wine. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me that before.”
Robin’s face lit up in a lovely smile. “For the record, that doesn’t mean I’m going to sleep with you tonight.”
Amersen cast her an earnest look. “I know this,” he said and reached out to grasp her hand, lightly stroking her palm. “I have no illusions, Robin. I’ll be returning to Paris soon, and the last thing I wish to do is hurt you in any way. But we can spend time together as friends, oui?”
“Oui,” she said and smiled. “Yes.” Her fingertips curled around his. “After all, I am your only friend in Austin.”