He shifted in his seat, resisting looking over at her for another minute. The third part about making sure this was all her choice was necessary but frustrating. If she didn’t come over here of her own free will, she’d never come to his apartment, either, or to his bed. He’d laid down his gauntlet. She could pick it up right now, or she could walk away.
Damn, he hoped she didn’t walk away. Giving himself to the count of thirty to keep on playing it cool, he set his cup back down on its saucer. Part of him worried she’d already made a break for it, but no. There was something about her gaze. Hot and penetrating, and he could feel it zoning in on him through the space.
He rather liked that, when he thought about it. Being looked at was nice. As was being appreciated. Sized up. It’d make it all the sweeter once she came to her decision, presuming she chose him.
Bingo.
Things were noisy in the café, but enough of his senses were trained on her that he could make out the sounds of her approach. He paused his counting at thirteen and glanced over at her.
If there’d been any doubts that she was a tourist, they cleared away as he took her in more thoroughly. She wore a pair of purple Converse that all but screamed American, and a dark skirt that went to her knees. A plain gray T-shirt and a little canvas jacket. No scarves or belts or any of the other hundred accessories that were so popular among the Parisian ladies this year. Her auburn hair was swept into a twist.
Pretty. American. Repressed. But very, very pretty.
“Your coffee’s getting cold,” he said as he pushed it across the table toward her and kicked her chair out.
A hundred retorts danced across her lips, but somehow her silence—and her wickedly crooked eyebrow, her considering gaze—said more. She sat down, legs crossed primly, her whole body perched at the very edge of her seat, like she was ready to fly at any moment.
He didn’t usually go in for skittish birds. They were too much work, considering how briefly they landed in his nest. He’d already started with this one, though, and there was something about her mouth he liked. Something about her whole aura of innocence and bravery. It was worth the price of a cup of coffee at the very least.
She curled a finger around the handle of her cup and tapped at it with her thumb. Wariness came off her in waves.
“I didn’t lace it with anything,” he assured her.
“I know. I’ve been watching you the whole time.”
He’d been entirely aware of that, thank you very much. He appreciated the honesty, regardless. “Then what’s your hesitation? It’s already bought and paid for. If you don’t drink it, it’s going to go to waste.”
She seemed to turn that over in her mind for a moment before reaching for the sugar and adding a more than healthy amount. She gave it a quick stir, then picked it up and took a sip.
“Good?” he asked. He couldn’t help the suggestive way his voice dipped. “Sweet enough?”
“Yes.” She set the cup down. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She closed her mouth and gripped her mug tighter. Reminding himself to be patient, he sat back in his chair and rested his elbow on the arm. He looked her up and down.
Ugh. Forget patience. If he didn’t say something soon, they could be sitting here all day. Going with what he knew about her, he gestured in her general vicinity, trying to evoke her total lack of a wallet. “You could report the theft, you know.”
Shaking her head, she drummed her finger against the ceramic. “Not worth it. I wasn’t a complete idiot. Only had thirty or forty euros in there. And the police won’t do much about art supplies and books.”
“No, probably not.”
The art supplies part fit the profile. Matched the pigment on her hands and the intensity of her eyes.
He let a beat pass, but when she didn’t volunteer anything else, he shifted into a more probing stance. Clearly, he’d have to do the conversational heavy lifting here.
Not that he minded. He’d been cooling his heels here in Paris for a year, and he missed speaking English. His French was excellent, but there was something about the language you grew up with. The one you’d left behind. The way it curled around your tongue felt like home.
Home. A sick, bitter pang ran through him at the thought.
He cleared his throat and refocused on his smolder. Eyes on the prize. “So, you’re an artist, then?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess?”
“I just graduated, actually.”
“Congratulations.”
She made a little scoffing sound. “Now I just have to figure out what comes next.”
Ah. He knew that element of running off to Europe. Intimately. He knew how pointless it all was.
Still. He could spot a cliché when he saw one. “Here to find yourself, then?”
“Something like that.” A little bit of her reserve chipped away. She darted her gaze up to meet his, and there was something anxious there. Something waiting for approval. “Probably silly, huh?”
“It’s a romantic notion.” And he’d never been much of a romantic himself. “If it worked, everybody would just run off to Prague and avoid a lifetime of therapy, right? And where would all the headshrinkers be, then?”
She rolled her eyes. “Not everyone can afford a trip to Europe.”
Her dismissal wasn’t entirely lighthearted. Part of his father’s old training kicked in, zeroing in on the tightness around her eyes. This trip was an indulgence for her. Chances were, she’d been saving up for it for years.
Probably best not to mention his own resources, then. Mentally, he shifted their rendezvous from his place to hers. Things would be safer that way.
“True enough,” he conceded. “Therapy’s not cheap, either, though, and this is a lot more fun.”
That finally won him a smile. “I wouldn’t know. But I’m guessing so.”
“Trust me, it is.” He picked up his cappuccino and took another sip. “So, what’s the agenda, then? Where have you been so far? What are your must-sees?”
“I only got here a couple days ago. Yesterday, I went out to Monet’s gardens.”
“Lovely.” Lovelier still was the way her whole face softened, just mentioning them.
“I mostly walked around, this morning. Then I was going to sit here and draw for a bit.”
Asking if he could see her work some time would be good in terms of making his intentions clear. It was also unbearably trite. He gave a wry smile. “A quintessential Parisian experience.”
“And then . . . I don’t know. The Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay, of course.” The corner of her mouth twitched downward. “Everything else I had listed in my guidebook.”
Ah. “Which I’m imagining just got stolen?”
“Good guess.”
Eyeing her up the entire time, he finished the rest of his drink. She still had a little left of hers, but they were closing in on decision time. He didn’t have anything else going on today—he never really had anything going on, not since his life had fallen apart. But was he willing to sink an entire afternoon here, offering to show her around?
He tried to be analytical about it. Her body language was still less than open, for all that she’d loosened up a bit. Given her age, probably not a virgin, but he’d bet a lot of money that she wasn’t too far off. Not his usual fare. He preferred girls who knew what they were doing—more importantly, ones who knew what he was doing. What he was looking for.
This girl . . . It was going to take some work to get in there. If it paid off, he had a feeling it’d be worth it, though. When she smiled, her prettiness transcended into beauty.
There was something else there, too. She was romantic and hopeful, and between the story of her lost sketchbook and her delusions about Paris having the power to change her life, she had to be a creative type. Out of nowhere, he wanted to know what kinds of things she made, and what she looked like when she drew.
He kept coming back to her
eyes. They hadn’t stopped moving the entire time they’d been sitting there, like she was taking absolutely everything in. The sights beyond the window, the faces of the people in the café. Him. It was intriguing. She was intriguing, and in a way no other woman had been in so long.
And the idea of going back to the apartment alone made him want to scream.
Decision made, he pushed his chair out and clapped his hands together. “Well, what are we waiting for then?”
“Excuse me?”
“Travel guides are bullshit anyway. Especially when you’ve got something better.” He rose to his feet and extended his hand.
Her expression dripped skepticism. “And what’s that?”
He shot her his best, most seductive grin. “Me.”
chapter TWO
Kate stayed firmly planted in her seat as he offered to help her up. Trying her best to appear unaffected, she arched one eyebrow. “Does this usually work for you?”
The guy didn’t pull his hand back or in any other way appear to alter his strategy, and Kate had to give him points for that. “Yes, actually.”
“Interesting.”
The sad truth was, his offer was beyond tempting. The attention was nice, especially after her self-esteem had been beaten down the way it had in the past year. Hell, in the past twenty-two. It wouldn’t hurt to have someone who spoke fluent French showing her around, either. That he was as attractive as he was just made the deal sweeter.
“Not working so well on you, then?” he asked as she considered him.
“Not so far.”
His smile only widened. “Good. I like a girl who’s hard to crack.” Standing up straighter, he held his palms out at his sides. “Come on, what have you got to lose?”
“I’d say my wallet, but that’s already gone.”
“See? Low stakes. Listen, you don’t trust me.” That was an understatement. Was there a man left on earth that she did? “I don’t blame you. Devilishly handsome man wanders into a café and buys you a drink without asking? Offers to show you around town? Very suspicious.”
“Very.”
“So let’s make this safe. You said you wanted to see the Louvre? Let’s go to the Louvre. I’ll show you all my favorites, and then if I haven’t murdered you by suppertime, you let me take you someplace special. Someplace no guidebook in the world would ever recommend.”
She was really running out of reasons to say no. It was a good plan, this one. They’d be in a public place. She’d have time to feel him out a little more. And if he wasn’t too much of a psycho, well, everyone had to eat, didn’t they?
Still, she kept up her air of skepticism. She rather liked all his efforts to convince her. “I don’t even know your name.”
The way his dimples shone when he lifted up one corner of his mouth was completely unfair. Extending his hand again, he offered, “Rylan. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Rylan. That was unusual. She liked it.
“Kate,” she volunteered in return, and with no more real excuse not to, she accepted the handshake, slipping her palm into his. Warm fingers curled around hers, his thumb stroking the side of her hand, and oh. The rake. He bent forward as he tugged on her hand, twisting ever so slightly so he could press his lips to the back of her palm.
“Charmed.”
“I’ll bet you are.” But her pulse was racing faster, and the kiss felt like it seared all the way to her spine.
This man was dangerous.
He straightened up but he didn’t let go. Sweeping his other arm toward the door, he asked, “So?”
She hummed to herself as she gazed up at him, as if there was any question of what she was going to do. His blue eyes sparkled, like he already knew her answer, too.
“Well.” She rose from her seat, feeling taller than usual. More powerful. Maybe it was all the flattery of a guy like this hitting on her. Maybe it was the headiness of making this kind of a decision. Either way, it made her straighten her shoulders and insert a little sway into her hips.
“Well?”
“Lead on,” she said.
He didn’t let go of her hand. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” With a squeeze of her fingers, he took a step toward the door. “Let’s go look at some art.”
External pressures aside, she had come to Paris to be inspired by beauty. She could find it on the walls of a famous museum. And she could find it in the lines of this man’s shoulders and throat. The latter might not have been what she’d had in mind when she’d set out, but what was a little bit of a diversion?
You couldn’t find yourself without taking a couple of side trips, after all.
The girl—Kate—wiggled her hand free as they approached the front of the café. Disappointing, but not really a problem. Rylan reached forward to get the door for her and shepherded her through it with a gentle touch at the small of her back. Following her out onto the sidewalk, he gestured down the street. “It’s only a little ways. You up for walking?”
“Sure.”
Good. Paris came alive this time of year, with the trees and flowers in full bloom, the sky a brilliant blue. Even the traffic seemed less suffocating now that summer was on the horizon. The influx of tourists made the walkways more congested, but at least the travelers occasionally smiled.
As he led them off in the direction of the museum, she fell into step at his side. He pressed his luck whenever the crush of pedestrians got thick, keeping her close with a hand on her hip, letting his fingertips linger. She fit so well against him, every brush of their bodies sending zips of awareness through him. Making him want to tug her closer in a way he hadn’t entirely anticipated.
The whole thing seemed to amuse her, but her efforts to act like she wasn’t affected were undercut by the flush on her cheeks. The way she allowed him to keep her near.
Until they paused to wait for a light to change, and she pulled away, turning so she was facing him. “So. Rylan.”
A rush of warmth licked up his spine. His name sounded so good rolling off her tongue. Far better than Theodore Rylan Bellamy III ever had. He’d rid himself of the rest of his father’s burdens only recently, but he’d shed the man’s name years ago. And yet it still made him smile whenever someone accepted the middle name he’d taken as his own. Didn’t question it the way his family always had.
Ignoring the ruffle of irritation that thought shot through him, he met her gaze and matched her tone. “Kate.”
She looked him up and down. “What’s your deal?”
Right. Because this wasn’t all just flirtatious touches. He’d asked her to a museum for God’s sake, not back to his bed. She wanted conversation. To get to know him.
Just the idea of it made him feel hollow.
He put his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight, glancing between her eyes and the traffic going by. “Not much to tell.” Liar. “Jaded expat skulking around Paris for a while. Ruthlessly showing lonely tourists around the city in exchange for the pleasure of their company.”
“What makes you think I’m lonely?”
Shrugging, he put his hand to the base of her spine again as the light switched to green, feeling the warmth of her through her jacket as they crossed the street. “You have that look.”
“For all you know, I could be here with a whole troop of friends, or my family. My”—her breath caught—“boyfriend.”
And there was a story there, a faint, raw note. Temptation gnawed at him to press, to dig to the bottom of it.
But if he went digging into her pain, that gave her the right to do the same.
He hesitated for a moment, then went for casual. “Ah. But then you’d be with one of them, and instead you’re here with me.”
She didn’t contest the point, moving to put a few inches between them as they stepped up onto the opposite curb. Changing tacks, she asked, “How long have you been—what was it? Skulking around Paris?”
“About a year. I wander elsewhere from time to time when I get too bor
ed, but a man can do a lot worse than Paris.”
“And what do you do?”
Nothing. Not anymore. “I pick up odd jobs from time to time,” he hedged. The things he had to do to get at his money felt like a job, sometimes. “But I don’t have a lot of expenses. Buying intriguing women coffee doesn’t put too much of a dent in the wallet.”
“Hmm.” One corner of her mouth tilted downward.
“You don’t like that answer?”
“I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”
Perceptive. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“So, what, are you staying in a hostel or something?”
There he hesitated. “Something like that.” After all, the bed was the only thing in the place that felt like his. “Is that where you’re staying? A hostel?” It would be the most logical choice, if she were worried about money.
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
She actually rolled her eyes. “Like I’m telling you that.”
“Fine. I’ll just wait to find out when I walk you home.”
“Is that a threat?”
“An offer. One I hope you’ll accept.” He leaned in closer and caught a whiff of her hair. Vanilla and rose. Sweet and warm. It drew him in, awakening something in his blood. “Because I would love to”—his lips brushed her ear—“see you home tonight.”
She gave a full-body shiver. Flexed her hands at her sides so her knuckles brushed his thigh. Inside, he crowed.
Then she crossed her arms over her chest and took half a step to the side. A twitch of disappointment squeezed at him. But he wasn’t fooled.
He laughed as he let her have her space. Resistant though she might be, she was warming up to the idea. He didn’t have any worries.
He bumped his shoulder against hers. “And what about you? What’s your ‘deal’?”
“Not much to tell.” It was a clear imitation of his own response, and she narrowed her eyes for a second before shrugging. “I’m from Ohio, but I went to school in New York. My mom sends me paranoid emails, asking me if I’ve gotten mugged yet once a week.”
He winced. “At least you’ll have something to say to her this week, then?”
Seven Nights To Surrender Page 2