Seven Nights To Surrender

by Jeanette Grey

  “I haven’t spoken to my dad since I was twelve.”

  Some of the tension bled out of his shoulders. “That’s a long time.”

  “Yeah. Well. He was . . . not a nice man.” That wasn’t even the half of it. He’d left her with this mess in her head, this tiny piece of herself that always said she wasn’t good enough, didn’t deserve what she did get, was never going to make anything of herself . . . She swallowed hard. “Not to me and not to my mom. He . . .” Manipulated us. Made us think we couldn’t stand on our own two feet and then . . . “He lied to her. For years. Cheated.” That was an offense anyone could understand. One she could explain without tearing herself apart. “Not exactly the kind of thing you get over quickly.”

  Or at all.

  Rylan chuckled, rubbing his thumb across the back of her palm. “Fathers, huh? They fuck you up.”

  She shivered. “You can say that again.”

  She loved that he had said it. He couldn’t possibly understand with how much she’d kept unspoken. But for one shimmering instant, it felt like he did.

  They lay there, gently touching and holding each other in the quiet of that space. It was tentative, a shaky intimacy built on half-formed confessions and the barest hints of their histories. But it felt good. Safe.

  After a minute or two, he let out a breath and squeezed her shoulder. “So.” A brightness crept into his tone, a false levity. Letting go of her hand, he reached over to the nightstand for the remote. “You had a chance to try French television yet?”

  The fuzzy closeness of the moment shivered, but it didn’t shatter.

  She turned her gaze toward the screen as it came to life on the other side of the room. “No. I haven’t.”

  “It’s an experience.”

  As he pressed a button, the sounds of fast-spoken French filled the room, and she frowned.

  “Do they have English subtitles?”

  “Don’t worry.” He pressed a kiss to the side of her temple. “I can translate.”

  He flipped through the channels for a bit before he found something that must have appealed to him, and he set the remote down at his side, shifting to hold her hand again. True to his word, he murmured his interpretation of the dialogue into her ear, his voice deep and warm. She let it wrap around her the way his arms did.

  And if she couldn’t keep her gaze from flickering to the bit of gold between his collarbones, well. At least she did her best.

  chapter NINE

  “So.” Rylan tapped his razor against the rim of the sink before dipping it under the stream of water again. “What’s on your agenda for the day?” He smirked at himself in the mirror. “Besides checking out of your hostel and grabbing your things, of course.”

  “Of course.” Kate’s eye roll was audible in her voice. So was the sound of the sleep in her eyes. The hint of a yawn. Not a morning person, that one.

  She’d slept in later than he’d thought she would, while he’d blinked his eyes open at the crack of dawn, same as usual.

  Well, not quite the same as usual. Most mornings, restless energy plagued him, only he didn’t have an outlet for it anymore. He stalked around the apartment or went to the gym or read the business section of the paper, reminding himself even as he did that it didn’t concern him anymore. Today . . . today, there’d been Kate, face soft with sleep. Somehow, just watching her had been enough to calm him. Tracing the line of her throat with his gaze. Gently brushing his knee against her soft, bare thigh.

  From the main room, the sounds of her moving around filtered quietly over the running of the tap. He frowned and gripped the handle of the razor tighter.

  It was killing him, knowing she was right around the doorway getting dressed while he was standing here, naked but for a towel and the chain around his neck. Still damp from his shower. Half-hard at the thought of what she might be up to out there.

  Scowling, he tipped his chin up and swiped the razor across the tricky spot beneath his jaw. He’d promised to be good and not look. It was the only way she’d let him open the damn door to let some of the steam out so he could see his own face in the mirror well enough to shave.

  He ran his finger over the damp patch of new skin, feeling for any stubble he might have missed. “Seriously, though. What do you want to do today?”

  “I’m not sure. I picked up a new guidebook.”

  He scoffed. “Which you obviously don’t need since you’ve got me.”

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Which I haven’t had a chance to look at yet. So I guess I should sit down somewhere and go through it at some point.”

  “Waste of time,” he muttered under his breath. Louder, he said, “But what do you want to do today?” He considered for a second. “How long are you staying, anyway?”

  “My flight home is on Friday.” It was Sunday now. They must have both been doing the math in their heads, because just as he was thinking it, she announced, “So, another five full days, including today.”

  Plus the two they’d already had. Seven nights in total. He could work with that.

  Finishing up, he rinsed his razor and set it aside. “Well, you’re not going to get as much done today as you might like. Hazard of traveling in Catholic countries.”

  “Yeah. But there will still be some places open, right?”

  “Sure.” He turned the tap to full blast and cupped some water in his hands before splashing it over his face, cleaning away what was left of the foam and hair. He dried off and patted on some aftershave, then tiptoed toward the door to sneak a peek.

  Except he’d promised. Groaning at the conscience he’d apparently grown overnight, he slapped his hand over his eyes. Pitching his voice, he asked, “Can I come out yet?”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  Finally. Grinning in spite of himself, he stepped around the corner to find her perched on the edge of the bed, fingers worrying the strap of her bag, which was sitting beside her. She was wearing last night’s jeans, but she’d stolen another of his shirts. He raked his gaze up and down her form.

  There was just something so damn sexy about a woman in a man’s shirt. The thing was two sizes too big on her, but the way she’d tied it off, her waist looked tiny, her breasts and hips fuller. Worse, she’d only buttoned it partway up, leaving this swath of skin across her collarbones exposed, this hint of cleavage. His throat went dry, his cock giving a twitch of interest that he didn’t even bother to try to hide.

  All day long, he’d have to look at her like this. See her draped in his clothes. How the hell was he supposed to stand it?

  “What?” she asked, pulling his attention from her chest back up to her face. She arched a brow.

  He smirked, unashamed to be called out. The way she acted, she could stand to be the subject of some open ogling.

  “You’re wearing my shirt,” he said.

  A flicker of uncertainty passed across her eyes, but she lifted her chin and looked at him head-on. “Is that a problem?”

  “Only if you expect me to keep my hands off you today.”

  She flushed, but it was with a pleased little smile playing on her lips. “I wouldn’t expect you to keep them to yourself entirely.”

  “Good.” He stalked over to her and bent to place a hard, fast kiss to her lips, hooking a finger into the gap of the shirt and peeking down it. Delicious.

  Swatting his hand away, she shook her head. Her smile didn’t fade, though. “Go get dressed.”

  “Well, that’s no fun,” he muttered, but it was getting late. He made his way over to the corner where he’d dropped his bag, considering for a second as he leaned down to paw through its contents. It was slim pickings for five days, especially with how freely she was borrowing from him, but he’d make do. Plus, she probably wouldn’t notice if some more clothes magically showed up. He could sneak off to the apartment at some point if he needed to.

  Unself-consciously, he dropped the towel from around his hips and shook out a pair of boxers. He was standing with his ba
ck to her, and he delighted in the little sound she made as his ass came into view. When he was pretty sure she’d looked her fill, he stepped into his underwear, then picked out a pair of pants. After pulling on a shirt, he sidestepped to check himself over in the mirror on the wall, running a hand through his still-damp hair to mess it up a little.

  “Would you like to hear what I had in mind for our outing today?” he asked.

  She hesitated. “You really don’t have to spend all this time with me. I wasn’t expecting . . .”

  Of course she wasn’t. He didn’t like the note of insecurity in her disclaimer, though. He half twisted around. “Do you not want me to?”

  And that wasn’t an immediate no forming on her lips.

  Huh. He faced the mirror again. “You can have the day to yourself if you want.” Annoying, because he’d thought his plan was pretty good, and he wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of spending the day alone. Not when there was someone interesting to spend it with.

  “I want to get some more drawing done,” she said after another brief pause. “But it doesn’t have to be today. What were you going to suggest?”

  He’d been starting to think she’d literally never ask.

  “Well.” He fixed the collar of his shirt, then turned around. “Since you’re a tortured artist and everything.” With a little spring in his step, he threw himself onto the bed, landing on his stomach with his head by her side, his elbows braced beneath himself. The mattress bounced around as he settled, and he laughed at her yelp of surprise as she was jostled. Sneaking in under her arm, he pushed the hem of her—his—shirt up and planted a smacking kiss to her side. “What do you say we head up to Montmartre?”

  Tugging the shirt back down, she gave him a playful shove. He let her go and twisted around, clambering to sit beside her on the bed, close enough to catch the echoing sweetness of her scent.

  “Montmartre, huh?” She reached up, threading her fingers through his hair.

  “Sure. See some of Picasso’s old haunts, steep ourselves in what’s left of the whole turn-of-the-century art scene. Drink some absinthe. You know, like artists do.”

  She smiled, a real, nice, genuine smile. “That’s actually a really great idea.”

  “Of course it is. I came up with it.” He nipped his way down her neck, sliding an arm around her waist.

  Laughing, she leaned into him, and suddenly it wasn’t just silliness anymore. They fit together so nicely like this, and his throat got tight.

  “Plus,” he said. “It’s beautiful. All set up on the hill like that. You can walk to the very top, and there’s Sacred Heart Basilica. All these gorgeous stained-glass windows. And the view from up there? You can see all of Paris, spread out at your feet.”

  “Sounds amazing.”

  “It is.”

  He wanted to show it to her. Wanted to show her a lot of things, and as he held her closer, it was a little too easy to imagine they were any ordinary couple, heading off to explore the city together.

  Dangerous, entertaining thoughts like that. They were only fucking, after all—and they hadn’t even gotten around to doing that yet.

  Retreating slightly, he cocked one eyebrow in a leer. “Unless you’d prefer to stay in today.”

  “Nah. Tempting as you are”—she unwrapped her hand from around his neck, sliding it lower, fingertips lingering for a second at the chain where it crossed his collarbone—“daylight’s burning. And there’s plenty of time for that later.” Her voice wavered, and her thumb stroked lower, drifting closer to his father’s ring. “Right?”

  Instinct had him grabbing her hand, but his rational mind stopped him from pushing her away from the ring. Instead, he lifted her knuckles to his lips, kissing each one in turn. “Plenty,” he agreed.

  Five more days, he reminded himself.

  The golden band against his breastbone felt like a weight.

  Five days was more than enough.

  Kate didn’t think she would ever get enough of Paris.

  Rylan was barely hiding the bemusement on his face as she all but skipped along at his side, her hand wrapped around his elbow. She loved Montmartre. How much time had she spent studying all the people who had lived and died and loved and painted here? Pablo Picasso and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Renoir and Degas and Van Gogh.

  So much must have changed since their time, but the whole place had this feeling to it, like you could picture someone whipping out an easel and a set of paints at any moment. She and Rylan had had brunch in the kind of dingy café she’d always imagined artists sipping coffee in—not one of the fancy ones near the museums down by the Seine. Ducked into little shops and even taken cheesy selfies in front of the Moulin Rouge, and she was bursting. She just wanted to set up shop and draw hungover people in black clothes, smoking cigarettes and talking, forever.

  And always, in the background of every one of those scenes would be Rylan. Rylan with his self-satisfied smirk and his fake frown. He liked to stand aside and watch her have her fun, scowling at it all, but she saw through him. He was having fun in spite of himself.

  It was sort of strangely adorable. Like a cat who didn’t want to admit he loved being petted.

  “Okay,” she said, putting down a hat she did not need to spend any of her dwindling resources on. She tugged at his arm as they set off down the sidewalk again, nudging him until he took his hand from his pocket so she could intertwine their fingers. “You’ve indulged me all day.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  She was ignoring that. “So now what do you want to do?”

  Suggestiveness colored his tone. “I can think of a couple of things.”

  She could think of a couple, too. Montmartre had kept the lion’s share of her attention today, but it had taken effort not to slip into daydreams about how patiently he’d touched her the night before. Images of those big hands on her breasts and framing her hips. The warm lapping of his tongue . . .

  Blinking, she squeezed his hand harder. “Things you want to do in Montmartre,” she clarified.

  “You’re not narrowing it down much.”

  “Be serious.”

  “Well, that’s no fun.” He eyed her legs, but not in quite so suggestive of a manner. “Your feet too tired yet?”

  They were, a little, but considering how much walking she’d been doing, that was basically to be expected. “Not too bad. Why?”

  He gestured up the hill, and she squinted against the brightness of the sky. “It’s a heck of a climb, but it’s worth the effort.”

  She considered. “That’s Sacred Heart up there, right?” A big, old, famous church. That didn’t sound like something that would be particularly enthralling for him.

  “Yup.”

  “Why do you want to go there?”

  “Isn’t it on your list of things to see?”

  “Yeah, but I asked what you want to do.”

  “I told you.” He wasn’t looking at her. “I want to show you around town.”

  “Which you’ve done. A lot of. There must be something you’d like to do for you.”

  His mouth settled into the lines of a frown, and he didn’t answer for a solid minute. Finally, just when she’d been about to start needling him, he offered, “It’s got the best view in the entire city. If we’re this close already . . .” He shrugged. “I’d like to see it. And I’d like to see you see it.”

  “Oh.”

  And it wasn’t lost on her, that half his entertainment really did seem to amount to watching her taking in the city he’d clearly come to know so well. She couldn’t pretend she entirely understood it, but she wasn’t going to question it anymore.

  “All right,” she said, looking to cross the street in the direction of the hill. “Let’s go.”

  He yanked her back, chuckling at her as he led her farther down the way. “Lesson one about navigating any European city. The shortest path between two points is never a straight line.”

  “No?”

&n
bsp; “Nope. Gotta go this way.”

  She was glad he knew where he was going, because by the time they reached the steep stairs heading up, she was out of breath and completely turned around. He slung an arm around her shoulders, tugging her close as they avoided a couple more aggressive street peddlers, deflecting them with his body language and a short burst of annoyed-sounding French. It made a warmth grow in her chest, to have him looking out for her like this.

  Working to keep up with him as they ascended, she asked, “How did you get to be such a good tour guide, anyway?”

  “Dunno. Just had a lot of time to learn my way around the city. Figured out what my favorite places were and decided to share them.” His voice trailed off before he could mention how many people he had shared them with.

  And it was funny—she didn’t have any illusions that she was the first one he’d given this tour to. He’d taken her to places that had seemed tailored to her tastes, but he was clearly pretty practiced at this whole thing. Hell, he’d basically admitted that his shtick had served him well with women in the past.

  Still. Her gaze drifted to the center of his chest, where the drape of his shirt concealed the ring he wore around his neck. Maybe the hitch to his voice as he’d told her about his father had been a part of the act, but she didn’t think so. This time they were spending together was only temporary, and she was far from unique. But she had some claim on him. Something that set her at least a little bit apart from the rest.

  That thought made her bold.

  “You know.” Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, she tested the waters. “You never did tell me what brought you here.”

  He hummed, frowning, and subconsciously or not, picked up the pace at which he climbed. She quickened her own gait, hooking her hand into his belt for something to hold on to.

  “What brings anyone to Paris?” he asked after a moment, shrugging and dropping his arm. “Great city, good art, better food. I already knew the language, so I figured why not?”