by Snow, Wylie
“A bit.”
“Well you didn’t look too happy about the arrangement, either, if I recall.”
“I wasn’t.” Because I’m an ass.
“And now?”
“Jury’s still out.” A big, stupid, horny ass.
“Oh.” She looked away.
“Not because of you,” he quickly added, hating that he made her smile disappear. “It’s…it’s a long story. But why were you so against it?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“So we’ll leave it at that, then? My story’s too long and I wouldn’t understand yours, so we’ll just grin and do our jobs?” He held his wine glass up for a conspiratorial toast.
“Something like that.” She tinked her glass against his.
“So have I lived up to your last Biscuit?”
“You certainly have better table manners.”
“Well gee, thanks.”
“And you’re much better looking.”
“Than a poodle?” Luc said sardonically. “I should be flattered.”
“Biscuit wasn’t a poodle. He was an Affenpinscher with a severe under-bite and wiry, ungroomable fur,” Clara laughed.
“You definitely traded up then,” Luc said, running his hand through his hair with mock conceit. “But tell me, if anonymity is so important to this gig, wasn’t taking a dog into restaurants a bit of a giveaway? I mean, you don’t see many people with poodles under their arms around here.”
“Not here, no, but in some countries, France for instance, it’s perfectly acceptable to bring your dog.”
“That’s disgusting and probably breaks dozens of health codes.”
“They consider their pets as family, like children,” Clara said with a wistful tone, no doubt missing her dog. “You’re French, Luc. Haven’t you ever heard the endearing term, ‘Avoir du chien?’ ”
“That’s not endearing. You’re saying ‘to be a dog,’ which is a pretty ugly insult,” he explained, sure she must have her phrasing or context wrong.
“Yes, but in France, to be compared to a beloved dog is a compliment, an honor.”
“Fine, they like their dogs. But it’s still disgusting to take them into a restaurant. Do they get their own chair? Do they eat from the table?”
“It’s not disgusting that they treat their animals with love and respect! And no, of course they don’t get their own chair. Sometimes they stay on the lap, but mostly, they stay on the floor or under the table.”
“Mostly? I dunno, Bean,” Luc said with an affable shake of his head. “There’s a lot to be said for health and safety regulations.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never had a pet.”
“Not true. I had a cat when I was growing up.”
“A cat?”
“Yes. She slept at the foot of my bed. On my feet if it was a cold night. She ruled the house but we’d never have taken Maxwell Smart to a restaurant.”
“Maxwell Smart? I thought you said she?”
“I named her when I was four, and she didn’t seem to mind. And we called her Maxie for short,” Luc said, wishing he’d never brought her up. Maxie that cat wasn’t boosting his man-points. He should have pretended to have a German shepherd. Or a Doberman. “Can we revisit our conversation on politics and spanking?”
“Ha!” She delicately held her napkin over her mouth while she laughed. “Oh, Luc. We’d better steer clear away from those hot topics. Look how much trouble we got into last time.”
“Trouble? That was foreplay, baby.”
She dropped her napkin and her smile. Luc couldn’t decide if her darkened eyes meant she was horny or annoyed. His cock stirred under the table, deciding for him. Figuring now was as good a time as any to broach the subject, Luc said, “I wanted to ask you about your email.”
She picked up her coffee and took a small sip. “Mmm?”
“You said something about a misunderstanding, that when you came out, I was gone.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Yeah, but see, I waited for like ten minutes. Probably more.”
“I, um, took longer than I intended.”
“What were you doing?”
“Tidying up,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. “The room was a pigsty, things strewn all about. Wasn’t fit for a man’s eyes, trust me. It was an absolute tip.”
“Ah,” he said with an understanding nod. She seemed to relax, so he pushed on. “But I knocked.”
“I must have been in the loo. It was messy in there, too. Makeup and girly things all strewn about.”
She was lying. He didn’t know how he knew it, he just did. And it disappointed him. He let the silence be her judge. As he suspected, she filled it.
“…and perhaps I jumped into the shower for a quick rinse. You know, to freshen up.”
“Mmm,” he said with a nod. “And you didn’t call out…how was it worded? Oh yes, ‘just go away?’ ”
The restaurant’s mood lighting didn’t hide the fact that Clara’s face suddenly paled. “Luc, no. I swear—”
“Because I’m pretty sure that’s what I heard.”
Clara’s eyes widened. “No, I promise you. I think at one point I shouted ‘don’t go away’ because I realized that the five minutes had likely passed, but you must believe me, I did come back…No, please don’t look at me that way. I’m being honest.”
“So if I’d stuck around, you and I would have…” He didn’t have to say it out loud. She knew, from the flush that had appeared in her cheeks, exactly what he was asking. His heart felt like a rock in his chest, waiting for her reply.
“I…I…I don’t know how to answer that,” she said, twirling her napkin around her thumb. “We may have talked, we may have progressed to some sort of intimacy—”
“Oh, I’d say we’d progressed to that stage already.” He didn’t mean to put her on the spot again, but might as well call a spade a spade. “Unless an orgasm isn’t intimate enough for you?”
Again, she blanched. She leaned forward and rested her forearms on the table. She turned her cheek and a tendril of hair escaped its clip and fell forward, obscuring her face. How badly Luc wanted to reach out and tuck it back into place. His fingers twitched to touch it again, feel its silky softness. Feel all of her silky softness—all of her—wrapped around him. Lust coursed through his veins; anticipation of the night ahead stopped the breath in his chest.
“Luc, please,” she said without looking at him. “You’re making this awkward. We can hardly pick up where we left off.”
“Why not?”
“Because the circumstances have changed. We work together now.”
“We worked together before. For the same company, anyway.”
Clara looked him in the eye. “Yes, but now we work closely. We can’t jeopardize our professional partnership to slake a twinge of lust.”
He searched her eyes for a sparkle, a hint of mirth. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Of course I’m not joking.” She reached out, as if to take his hand across the table, but pulled it back quickly. “Look, it’s best if I just be perfectly frank.”
Luc knew he wasn’t going to like what was about to come from those sweet lips of hers.
“Lydia had just lost her position with EuroNow, and I was quite convinced I was following suit. The two of us decided to have some fun on our last night in America, a shag, a fling or whatever you want to call it. One last hurrah, leave with a bang. Oh,” she cringed. “I didn’t mean to word it quite that way.”
“Oh, so I could have been short, fat, and bald, and you still would have invited me to your room that night?”
“Yes. No! Heavens, no. No, no, no.”
“So you do find me attractive?” he pressed.
“Yes. No. Yes! I mean, you’re very beautiful—handsome! I meant handsome, of course. Oh dear, I’m not explaining this well at all.” Her shoulders dropped. He’d flustered her and damn if that didn’t please him. At least he was having some effect.
“No, but it’s fascinating, none-the-less.”
“It’s just that we…I was looking for a one-time situation. If we finish now what we began then, our entire working relationship will be compromised. Trust me, I know. I dated a co-worker, and it was an unmitigated disaster. It was unbearably uncomfortable for everyone in the office, and both Scott’s and my work suffered for it. If you and I get together, we’ll begin acting all weird, and I just cannot do that again.”
“Huh. I see.”
“No, I’m afraid you don’t. This couldn’t go anywhere. We live and work an ocean apart.” This time she did take his hand. Her voice softened. “One of us would get hurt, Luc. You do understand that, don’t you?”
He looked down at her pale fingers, so delicate and feminine, the tips painted a lovely shade of coral, and thought about kissing every one. He understood, alright.
He understood perfectly.
Game on.
Chapter 13
Everything about Luc Bisquet made her think about sex.
With him.
A slow burn had been building between them all night and it needed dousing, urgently, so Clara wasn’t upset about the awkward turn in their conversation. In fact, it offered a refreshing splash of iciness to an unbearably steamy situation.
Clara slipped the Miss C. Holmes credit card, one of a dozen aliases she used, into the leather sleeve and prayed the waitress would be quick. She wanted to get back to the hotel and lock herself away. A hot bath and cup of tea would hopefully take her mind off the fantasy sitting across the table, typing furiously on his phone’s touch pad.
Yes, getting the rules on the table was a very good thing. It was hard, of course, but absolutely necessary.
She should have stuck to Plan A: to lay out the ground rules during their walk to Daniel’s Grille so they could dine without obsessing over what would happen after the meal, but the quick taxi ride and chatty driver killed that option.
She should have stuck to Plan B, which she’d formulated while ignoring the chatty driver: to bring it up as soon as they sat down.
She should have, but didn’t. How could she? When he looked across the table at her, she could barely breathe. How could she, when she watched the way his lips wrapped around the fork, the way his lids drifted shut when he savoured the food and everything, everything led her thoughts back to that night, when he used that mouth on her.
The conversation that night had indeed been foreplay. Tonight was supposed to be about business, about food, about the article, but her silly-cow-self watched his lips move and thought of nothing else but kissing him, slow and deep.
The rules, for better or worse, had now been established.
They nodded their thanks to the hostess as they left. The absence of Luc’s hand on her elbow or the small of her back, guiding her along as he did when they’d entered, was noticeable. And missed.
“You’re angry.”
“Not angry.” With a little shake of his head, he said, “I don’t know what I am.”
“Frustrated?”
“Maybe,” he smirked.
Me too.
“It’s a gorgeous evening,” she replied, determined to move to safer ground.
“Shall we walk back?” he suggested.
A walk would be dangerous. She’d want to take his arm…like before. She’d want to look up when he spoke, stare at the angle of his jaw, the cords in his neck…like before. She’d think about reaching up to his nape so that the curled ends of his black hair could wrap around her fingers…like before.
“My heels,” she lied. She could run a marathon in her boots, they were so comfortable, but sequestering herself in the safety of her own room, as soon as humanly possible, was the only option.
The cab ride was quick. Silent. She missed the chatty driver.
“It’s early,” Luc said as they entered the hotel. “There’s a jazz pianist in the lounge. Shall we go in for a drink?”
Yes!
“I don’t think so,” she said, placing a hand on her tummy for effect. “I couldn’t bear to choke down a glass of water, I’m so stuffed from dinner.” And I can’t bear being with you and not touching you.
The elevator ride was quick. Silent.
He paused in the hall between their hotel rooms. “I’ve a got an eighty-inch television in my room. Want to watch a movie or something?”
“Am I supposed to fall for the come see my big impressive equipment line?” Clara laughed.
“It’s not a line. I really do have a big screen, with high def and surround sound.”
“Sure you do,” she said, sliding her card in the lock. “And I have a twelve person hot-tub with integrated mojito bar.”
“Fine, don’t believe me,” he said over his shoulder as he opened his hotel room door. “You can go watch your little nineteen-inch with bad reception. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“Yes, I’ll remember that,” she said and turned her back to him, key card in hand. “But it’s after midnight in London and my body hasn’t adjusted to the time change yet, so after I jot down preliminary notes for my article, I’m going to bed.”
He didn’t answer and she wouldn’t turn around. She heard the handle of his door click and released a sigh.
And I’ll lie there alone, in the dark, and wonder why I choose to tease us both by mentioning my body and bed in the same sentence.
Clara pressed the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Again, she slid the card into the slot. Red light. She rammed it in again, once, twice, while jiggling the door handle with her other hand. Still red. What was wrong with this bloody door?
He’d made no sound, but she knew the nanosecond Luc came up behind her. Her skin pebbled with gooseflesh, her heart tripped, and a hummingbird hovered in her midsection. She closed her eyes, flustered by his proximity.
“Allow me.” The baritone timbre of his voice against her ear sent her core temperature into a fever zone. “You’re shoving it in too hard, too fast. I don’t know how you do things in Europe, but here we like to slide it in, slow and easy.” He wrapped his large hand around hers and guided it toward the slot. His voice dropped to a sultry whisper. “Like this.”
Clara held her breath. The skin-to-skin contact triggered a wave of moisture between her thighs.
“Nice and relaxed, one smooth motion. Easy in, easy out.” He dipped his head so his breath fanned her cheek.
Clara leaned back into him and swallowed. His knee pressed against the back of her thigh, hard firm quadriceps against her buttocks. She gripped the cold hard steel of the handle so she wouldn’t puddle to the floor in a helpless, drippy mess.
“No, no,” he said, encircling her wrist with the fingers of his free hand…long, capable fingers…fingers that had touched her, there…
“You mustn’t put pressure on the lever prematurely, ma belle, or you’ll render it useless.”
She eased her hold on the metal, but he didn’t release his grip. Surrounded by him, engulfed by his maleness, she couldn’t help herself…she shivered.
Surely he felt it. If he did, he didn’t comment.
“Be patient,” he crooned. “Wait for it. Wait for it…and voila.”
To Clara’s vast disappointment, the green light flashed. She exhaled.
“Now the lever,” he said, exerting gentle pressure against her wrist. The latch clicked and the door moved.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His gravelled, suggestive tones went straight through her, from the tip of her varnished toe
nails to her scalp, a zing of charged particles that left her throat dry, her stomach muscles clenched.
“Th-thanks,” she whispered.
It took all of her will, every ounce of strength, to step over the threshold without turning around and throwing herself in Luc’s arms.
Though throwing herself over a live bomb would have been easier.
“Clara Elizabeth Bean, you are a silly cow,” she said to her tired-looking reflection in the mirror. She had laid awake half the night thinking of Luc. Obsessing about Luc. Fantasizing about Luc.
At five a.m., still hopelessly tired but unable to find solace in slumber, she went for a run along the shores of Lake Michigan. As her sneakers slapped against the pavement, all she heard was Luc, Luc, Luc, Luc. She was quite sure the scenery was breathtaking, but her mind’s eye only saw the blue of his eyes under dark brows, the beauty of his cheekbones, the curl of his hair on the back of his collar.
And now after a refreshingly chilly shower, she dressed with one thought in mind: Luc.
Sex with Luc was not an option, so why, why, why did she dab perfume behind her knees and between her breasts? And why was she dressing with a tart’s intent? She should put on a burlap sack and call it a day, not her favorite pair of jeans, the ones that made her ass look high and round. And if she didn’t want him to focus on her body, why on earth did she choose the tightest black tank top out of her suitcase, the one she usually slept in, not wore in public?
She gathered her hair into a mussy French twist, letting a few strands casually stray around her face, added some hoop earrings, and gave herself a once over.
She replaced the yellow silk scarf around her neck with a longer, finely knit piece, its delicate threads woven loosely so a flash of skin could be seen beneath. It was Lydia’s handiwork, no doubt crafted during a period of extreme anxiety. Clara knew her friend well. The more stress, the finer the creation, and this particular scarf felt like cashmere and had the pinkish-orange-gold glow of sunrise. That it just happened to compliment her skin tone was a bonus considering the toll the lack of sleep was having on her face.