Copyright © 2015 Jeanette Grey
Author photograph © B. K. Phillips
Cover photographs © Craig Holmes/Getty Images
The right of Jeanette Grey to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Published by arrangement with Forever,
an imprint of Grand Central Publishing.
First published in this Ebook edition in 2015
by HEADLINE ETERNAL
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4722 2849 9
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise for Jeanette Grey
By Jeanette Grey
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Don’t miss Eight Ways To Ecstasy
Indulge in When The Stars Align
Find out more about Headline Eternal
About the Author
Jeanette Grey started out with degrees in physics and painting, which she dutifully applied to stunted careers in teaching, technical support and advertising. Almost all of her stories include hints of either science or art. When she isn’t writing, Jeanette enjoys making pottery, playing board games, and spending time with her husband and her pet frog. She lives, loves, and writes in upstate New York.
Find her online at www.jeanettegrey.com, on Twitter @jeanettelgrey and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jeanettelgrey.
Be seduced by Jeanette Grey’s powerful love stories:
‘Jeanette Grey has become a must-read voice in romance. Seven Nights To Surrender is lyrical, stunningly sexy, and brings swoons for days’ Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author
‘With its sexy setting and sensual story, Jeanette Grey’s Seven Nights To Surrender sparkles’ J. Kenner, New York Times bestselling author
‘A must-read! I couldn’t put it down. Jeanette Grey’s writing is so refreshingly honest. Seven Nights To Surrender is intensely emotional and sexy as hell. I need the next book ASAP!’ Tara Sue Me, New York Times bestselling author
‘Sensual, sultry, and exquisite, Seven Nights To Surrender will sweep you away and seduce you on every page! Crackling with tension and steamy with sensuality, it’s a feast for the senses you don’t want to miss’ Katy Evans, New York Times bestselling author
‘Achingly sexy and romantic – I couldn’t put it down!’ Laura Kaye, New York Times bestselling author
‘With her unique flair, Jeanette Grey delivers a deliciously sexy and irresistible romance that keeps you turning the pages for more. You’ll savor every word so you don’t miss a single sizzling moment’ K. Bromberg, New York Times bestselling author
‘I couldn’t put it down! I loved every sentence! The writing is outstanding, the setting entrancing, and the characters stole my heart’ S. C. Stephens, No. 1 New York Times bestselling author
‘A sassy and sexy read full of heart and adventure. This romance is like a breath of fresh air’ Jay Crownover, New York Times bestselling author
By Jeanette Grey
When The Stars Align
Seven Nights To Surrender
Eight Ways To Ecstasy
About the Book
Two strangers meet accidentally over un café au lait.
Two New Yorkers in Paris, who are worlds apart.
Kate is a soul-searching art graduate hoping to find herself.
Rylan is a gorgeous millionaire hiding who he truly is.
By day, they tour the City of Light and, under the cover of darkness, they explore one another. They have seven intoxicating nights of pure surrender and addictive pleasure together.
But with Kate’s future utterly uncertain, and Rylan escaping his secret past, do they stand a chance at true love?
Kate and Rylan’s powerful love story doesn’t stop here. . . Look out for Eight Ways To Ecstasy, coming soon. And if you’re lusting after more from Jeanette in the meantime, indulge in her beautiful New Adult novel, When The Stars Align.
To Scott, for all the journeys we’ve been on so far, and all the journeys yet to come.
Acknowledgments
I am so incredibly grateful to the people who’ve helped make this book a reality. My thanks to:
My editor, Megha Parekh, who saw exactly what the story needed to make it shine.
My agent, Mandy Hubbard, who championed me every step of the way.
My critique partners: Brighton Walsh, for holding my hand, sharing my room, fixing my furthers/farthers, and dragging me out of my sad little introvert corner time and time again. And Heather McGovern, for being a voice of sanity when the world was squishy, as well as the best enabler a girl could hope for.
The beautiful blogging ladies of Bad Girlz Write, for always raising a glass, and the amazing folks at Capital Region Romance Writers of America, for their constant guidance and support.
And my incredible husband, family, and friends, for accepting me and loving me for precisely the ball of crazy that I am.
chapter ONE
It was ridiculous, how pretty words sounded on Kate’s tongue. Right up until the moment she opened her mouth and spoke them aloud.
Worrying the strap of her bag between her forefinger and thumb, she gazed straight ahead at the woman behind the register, repeating the phrase over and over in her head. Un café au lait, s’il vous plaît. Coffee with milk, please. No problem. She had this. The person ahead of her in line stepped forward, and Kate nodded to herself, standing up taller. When her turn finally came, she grinned with her most confident smile.
And just about had the wind knocked out of her when someone slammed into her side.
Swearing out loud as she was spun around, she put her arm out to catch herself. A pimply teenager was mumbling what sounded like elaborate apologies, but with her evaporating tenth-grade knowledge of French, he could have been telling her off for running into him, for all she knew. She was going to choose to belie
ve it was the apologizing thing.
Embarrassed, she waved the kid away, gesturing as best she could to show that she was fine. As he gave one last attempt at mollifying her, she glanced around. A shockingly attractive guy with dark hair and the kind of jaw that drove women to paint stood behind her, perusing a French-language newspaper with apparent disinterest and a furrow of impatience on his brow. The rest of the people in line wore similar expressions.
She turned from the kid, giving him her best New Yorker cold shoulder. The lady at the register, at least, didn’t seem to be in any big rush. Kate managed a quick “Désolé”—sorry—as she moved forward to rest her hands on the counter. She could do this. She smiled again, focusing to try to summon the words she’d practiced to her lips. “Un café au lait, s’il vous plaît.”
Nope, not nearly as pretty as it had sounded in her head, but as she held her breath, the woman nodded and keyed her order in, calling it out to the girl manning the espresso machine. Then, completely in French, the woman announced Kate’s total.
Yes. It was all she could do not to fist-pump the air. She’d been exploring Paris now for two days, and no matter how hard she rehearsed what she was going to say, waiters and waitresses and shopkeepers invariably sniffed her out as an American the instant she opened her mouth. Every one of them had shifted into English to reply.
This woman was probably humoring her, but Kate seized her opportunity, turning the gears in her brain with all her might. She counted in her head the way her high school teacher had taught her to until she’d translated every digit. Three eighty-five. Triumph surged through her as she reached for her purse at her hip.
Only to come up with empty air.
Oh no. With a sense of impending dread, she scrabbled at her shoulder, and her waist, but no. Her bag was gone.
She groaned aloud. How many people had cautioned her about exactly this kind of thing? Paris was full of pickpockets. That was what her mother and Aaron and even the guy at the travel store had told her. An angry laugh bubbled up at the back of her throat, an echo of her father’s voice in her mind, yelling at her to be more careful, for God’s sake. Pay some damn attention. Crap. It was just— She swore she’d had her purse a second ago. Right before that kid had slammed into her . . .
Her skin went cold. Of course. The kid who’d slammed into her.
Tears prickled at her eyes. She had no idea how to say all of that in French. Her plans for a quiet afternoon spent sketching in a café evaporated as she patted herself down yet again in the vain hope that somehow, magically, her things would have reappeared.
The thing was, “watch out for pickpockets” wasn’t the only advice she’d gotten before she’d left. Everyone she’d told had thought her grand idea of a trip to Paris to find herself and get inspired was insane. It was her first trip abroad, and it was eating up pretty much all of her savings. Worse, she’d insisted on making the journey alone, because how was a girl supposed to reconnect with her own muse unless she spent some good quality time with it? Free from distractions and outside influences. Surrounded by art and history and a beautiful language she barely spoke. It had seemed like a good idea. Like the perfect chance to make some really big decisions.
But maybe they’d all been right.
Not wanting to reveal the security wallet she had strapped around her waist beneath her shirt, she wrote off all her plans for the day. She’d just head back to the hostel. She still had her passport and most of her money. She’d regroup, and she’d be fine.
“Mademoiselle?”
Her vision was blurry as she jerked her gaze up. And up. The gorgeous man—the one with the dark, tousled hair and the glass-cutting jaw from before—was standing right beside her, warm hand gently brushing her elbow. A frisson of electricity hummed through her skin. Had he really been this tall before? Had his shoulders been that broad? It was just a plain black button-down, but her gaze got stuck on the drape of his shirt across his chest, hinting at miles of muscle underneath.
His brow furrowed, two soft lines appearing between brilliant blue eyes.
She shook off her daze and cleared her throat. “Pardon?” she asked, lilting her voice up at the end in her best—still terrible—attempt at a French accent.
He smiled, and her vision almost whited out. In perfect English, with maybe just a hint of New York coloring the edges, he asked, “Are you okay?”
All those times she’d been annoyed when someone spoke English to her. At that moment, she could have kissed him, right on those full, smooth lips. Her face went warmer at the thought. “No. I—” She patted her side again uselessly. “I think that guy ran off with my wallet.”
His expression darkened, but he didn’t step away or chastise her for being so careless. “I’m sorry.”
The woman at the register spoke up, her accent muddy. “You still would like your coffee?”
Kate began to decline, but the man placed a ten-euro note on the counter. In a flurry of French too fast for her to understand, he replied to the woman, who took his money and pressed a half dozen keys. She dropped a couple of coins into his palm, then looked around them toward the next customer in line.
“Um,” Kate started.
Shifting his hand from her elbow to the small of her back, the man guided Kate toward the end of the counter and out of the way. It was too intimate a touch. She should have drawn away, but before she could convince herself to, he dropped his arm, turning to face her. Leaving a cold spot where his palm had been.
She worked her jaw a couple of times. “Did you just pay for my coffee?” She might be terrible at French, but she was passable at context clues.
Grinning crookedly, he looked down at her. “You’re welcome.”
“You really didn’t need to.”
“Au contraire.” His brow arched. “Believe me, when you’re having a terrible day, the absolute last thing you should be doing is not having coffee.”
Well, he did have a point there. “I still have some money. I can pay you back.”
“No need.”
“No, really.” Her earlier reservations gone, she reached for the hem of her shirt to tug it upward, but his hands caught hers before she could get at her money belt.
His eyes were darker now, his fingertips warm. “As much as I hate to stop a beautiful woman from taking off her clothes. It’s not necessary.”
Was he implying . . .? No, he couldn’t be. She couldn’t halt the indignation rising in her throat, though, as she brushed aside his hands and wrestled the hem of her top down. “Stripping is not how I was going to pay you.”
“Pity. Probably for the best,” he added conspiratorially. “The police are much more lenient about that kind of thing here than they are in the States, but still. Risky move.”
Two ceramic mugs clinked as they hit the counter, and the barista said something too quickly for Kate to catch.
“Merci,” the man said, tucking his paper under his arm and reaching for the cups.
For some reason, Kate had to put in one more little protest before she moved to grab for the one that looked like hers. “You really didn’t have to.”
“Of course I didn’t.” Biceps flexing, he pulled both cups in closer to his chest, keeping them out of her reach as she extended her hand. “But it sure did make it easier for me to ask if I could buy you a cup of coffee, didn’t it?”
For a second, she boggled.
“Come on, then,” he said, heading toward an empty table by the window.
This really, really wasn’t what she’d had planned for the day. But as he sat down, his face was cast in profile against the light streaming in from outside. If she hadn’t lost her bag, she’d have been tempted to take her sketchbook out right then and there, just to try to map the angles of his cheeks.
As she stood there staring, all her mother’s warnings came back to her in a rush. This guy was too smooth. Too practiced and too handsome, and the whole situation had Bad Idea written all over it. After the disaster that had bee
n her last attempt at dating, she should know.
But the fact was, she really wanted that cup of coffee. And maybe the chance to make a few more mental studies of his jaw. It wouldn’t even be that hard. All she had to do was walk over there and sit down across from him. Except . . .
Except she didn’t do this sort of thing.
Which might be exactly why she should.
Fretting, she twisted her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. Then she took a single step forward. She was on vacation, dammit all, and this guy was offering. After everything, she deserved a minute to let go. To maybe actually enjoy herself for once.
Honestly. How much harm could a little conversation with a stranger really do?
Rylan Bellamy had a short, well-tested list of rules for picking up a tourist.
Number one, be trustworthy. Nonthreatening. Tourists were constantly expecting to be taken advantage of.
Number two, be clear about your intentions. No time to mess around when they could fuck off to another country at the drop of the hat.
Number three, make sure they always know they have a choice.
Lifting his cappuccino to his lips, he gazed out the window of the café. It hadn’t exactly been the plan to buy the girl in front of him in line a cup of coffee or to pick her up. It definitely hadn’t been the plan to get so engrossed in the business section of Le Monde that he’d managed to completely miss her getting pickpocketed right in front of him. But the whole thing had presented him with quite the set of opportunities.
Trustworthy? Stepping in when she looked about ready to lose it seemed like a good start there. Interceding on her behalf in both English and French were bonuses, too. Paying for her coffee had been a natural after that.
Clear about his intentions? He was still working on that, but he’d been tactile enough. Had gotten into her space and brushed his hands over her skin. Such soft skin, too. Pretty, delicate little hands, stained with ink on the tips.
Just like her pretty, pale face was stained with those big, dark eyes. Those rose-colored lips.
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