by Lauren Smith
“Monsieur Wes, I’m glad to have you back so soon.” The driver, a man in his early forties, and fairly attractive, shot a glance at her and then spoke to Wes. “Qui est la femme? Elle est très jolie, mais non?”
Wes smiled at the man and turned to Callie. “This is Monsieur Michel Lavoie. Michel, this is Callie Taylor.”
Michel’s brown eyes twinkled and he bent over her offered hand, kissing the backs of her knuckles.
“Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
Callie blushed and nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
Michel straightened and took the bag from her hands. “This way, mademoiselle. The car is waiting.”
She and Wes followed Michel to the temporary parking area outside of the airport where private taxis waited. Michel led them to a black Porsche SUV and quickly loaded their luggage into the back. Callie was too distracted to notice much about the car as she climbed into the backseat with Wes. The distant city skyline of Paris held her captivated. The thin needlepoint of the Eiffel Tower was beautiful and she blinked several times, expecting it to vanish.
“We’re really here,” she exclaimed in wonder.
Wes brushed a lock of her hair back from her face. “Yes, we are.” The smile on his lips was indulgent and sweet, making her insides warm.
“Ahh, the mademoiselle, it’s her first time in Paris?” Michel’s eyes met hers through the rearview mirror, his gaze mischievous.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Then bienvenue, Mademoiselle Callie.” He pronounced her name “cahl-ee” and it made her grin.
“Merci.” She remembered that much from her year of French. Michel laughed merrily and she couldn’t help but laugh, too.
The traffic was overwhelming, along with the sights and sounds. Callie nearly had her nose pressed to the glass of her window as Michel took them over a bridge and into the right bank of the Seine. Large riverboats with multiple decks cruised the scenic river, tourists’ cameras snapping wildly at the views around them. Callie sighed. She had no camera or even a cell phone with a camera and wouldn’t be able to get any snapshots. She and her father hadn’t been able to afford anything but the landline.
Wes’s hand settled on her arm, and she turned back to him. “Here, this is for you. It has an international plan with unlimited minutes. I gave your father one before I left. You can call him whenever you like.” He offered a slim shiny smartphone, the latest and most expensive model on the market. Her eyes widened and she hesitated. Wes pressed it into her hands.
“But—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “No, no protesting, or I’ll be tempted to put you over my knee. This is a gift. You can’t refuse it. You can…however, repay me in pictures. There is a twelve-megapixel camera on this model and it’s supposed to be excellent.” His lips quirked into a crooked grin.
Callie shivered inside. This man was so different from other men. He gave her expensive things, yet his idea of repayment was unexpected. And she didn’t let herself dwell on his other comment, the part about him putting her over his knee. He meant a spanking. The mere idea made her lower half throb with a sudden pulse of awareness. She’d never been spanked in her life, not by her father, or another man, in punishment. So why did Wes’s subtle, almost teasing threat stir her body to life? Surely she couldn’t be aroused by the idea of—
“What on earth are you thinking about?” Wes asked, still smiling.
“Huh?”
He leaned closer to her, slightly crowding against her side of the car. “Your face is an enchanting shade of pink. I’m dying to know what you’re thinking about,” he mused. “Was it something I said?” He drew the tip of one finger down the bridge of her nose, then over her lips, his gaze intense as he stared at her mouth.
“Was it…the part about putting you over my knee?”
A new rush of heat flooded her, no matter how hard she wanted not to react to him.
“Ahh, that was it.” The dark triumphant light in his eyes would have scared a rational woman. But, as Callie was discovering, she was not rational when it came to Wes.
“You like the idea?” he asked in a soft tone, too quiet for Michel to overhear. “I love a woman who likes a little spanking. Her bare bottom open for my touch, the light sting, the gentle stroke that follows. Oh, Callie darling.” His breath roughened slightly and his pupils dilated. He was on the edge of his control and they both knew it.
“Wes.” She uttered his name in a panicked warning.
She sensed an animal just beneath his skin, a primal creature ruled only by desire and it frightened her, not that she feared he would hurt her, but more that she would surrender to him and that darkness. The need to offer herself, like a sacrifice to a lusty god, was so strong that she feared her own control, or the loss of it. When he looked at her like that, eyes so heavy with sinful intent…a side of herself threatened to emerge, a side she never knew existed, probably shouldn’t exist. She wasn’t ready to be that woman.
His lashes lowered to half-mast and he remained close to her, their noses almost touching, letting the intimacy, the closeness of their bodies almost drug her with a need to be touched, held…and so much more. Then he shifted back to his side of the car.
“Michel, have you notified Françoise that my kitchen needs to be stocked? Callie and I have not had breakfast yet.”
“Oui, Monsieur Wes, it is full of food. She went to the market early this morning and is ready to prepare your meals.”
“Thank you,” Wes replied, his focus on the view outside his window, away from her.
The foot of space separating them seemed so wide, a gulf now, as though a galaxy could drift in the space between them. Worlds apart. And she didn’t like it.
I’m addicted to him. To his touch, his arms around me. How had that happened? She loved Fenn, but already the memories felt dusty, faded, and she knew they were beyond saving. Her heart could never resurrect that love. It had died the day before and all that was left behind were the slow healing wounds. What a strange thing to wake up one day and have become a completely different person.
Michel stopped the Porsche in front of a tall stately apartment building. It was a grand-looking street, too, with tall old trees and dozens of little colorful produce stands dotting the street’s landscape between the apartment buildings. There were quite a few little stores with awnings that had words like “Charcuterie” and “Patisserie” on them. From the contents of the windows it looked like Charcuteries sold meat products and Patisseries sold pastries.
“Welcome to the Rue Cler,” Michel announced as he got out and walked around to the trunk to fetch their bags. Callie opened her door, which faced the curb. Wes walked around and joined her, watching the pedestrians on the street.
“Rue Cler?” Callie asked.
“It’s a little neighborhood tucked between the government district and Les Invalides.”
Callie felt silly, but she had no clue what any of that meant. “What’s Les Invalides?” There was so much about this place she didn’t know. It made her feel very small and a little overwhelmed. Not like at home. She could navigate her way through mountains and forests and never feel lost. Here in this land of monuments and stately old buildings she was lost.
“Les Invalides is a set of buildings containing museums and monuments relating to the military history of France. I’ll point it out when we pass it. It has a gold dome at the top of one of the main buildings.” Wes took their bags from Michel and gestured for Callie to head into the apartment building.
“We’re staying here?” She tilted her head back and admired the stone building with its dark green roof.
“Yes. My apartment is on the top floor.”
She and Wes left Michel. The lobby was a beautiful old-world style blended with modern touches. Marble floors, rich carpets, but sleek leather furniture and crisp, bright light fixtures. A man sat at a welcome desk and waved to Wes.
“Welcome back, Monsieur Thorne.” The way he said Thorne left the �
��h” almost silent due to his heavy accent.
“Bonjour, Paul,” Wes greeted and then pointed out a set of silver elevators down a corridor. “We’ll go over there.” He nudged her in that direction.
Callie led the way, trying to stem the nervous flutter of butterflies in her stomach. She was really here. After a seven-hour flight from New York, she was in Paris.
The elevator doors opened and Wes hit the sixth-floor button. When the doors slid apart again they revealed a long hall and only three sets of doors. One on each side and one at the end of the hall.
“We’re at the end,” Wes said. Callie reached the door first and Wes pulled out a set of keys and let her unlock the door. When she pushed it open, she gaped.
There were no words for it. It was too beautiful. A warm walnut wood floor was a striking contrast against the entryway’s white-painted walls. There was a set of doors on the left that opened to a dining room and on the right were two rooms: a family room with a billiard table, couch, and huge TV, and a room next to it that had a fireplace and a cushy-looking loveseat ringed with two plush armchairs. A study with a large oak desk covered in folders, papers, and a laptop at the end of the hall was the last room before the space opened up to the library. Callie’s feet moved, guiding her through the endless wonder of surprises this apartment held. Off the library was a kitchen with a small nook. Granite countertops and sleek stainless-steel appliances were pricey and state of the art. At the back of the library there was a curved staircase, which hinted to more rooms upstairs.
“This way.” Wes headed for the stairs and Callie snagged her duffel bag off his shoulder so he wouldn’t have trouble in the small curved passage.
“There are two bedrooms, one for you and one for me. We’ll share the bathroom.” He led her through the first room, which had a large four-poster bed with a red coverlet. The room was masculine and yet…strangely inviting, like Wes’s embrace. Callie touched her face with the back of her hand, sensing the heat flare in her cheeks. She prayed he wouldn’t notice.
A large Jacuzzi-like tub sat in the middle of the bathroom, with a pair of French doors opening out onto a large balcony facing the Eiffel Tower. Callie doubted there was a better view of the tower in the world than this. No wonder Wes owned this apartment. If he wanted the best, he would have it. In so many ways he was predictable, except when it came to why he wanted her. She wasn’t the best and she wasn’t perfect. Perhaps that was her allure. She was a novelty he’d acquire and then grow tired of. It was a chilling thought.
“This is your room.” The expectant look on Wes’s face drew her attention to the new room as they entered.
The walls were a soft gold color and a king-size bed sat against one wall. The headboard had a tapestry on it of a rococo-dressed woman in a flowing blue gown, who sat swinging on a large garden swing. Her lover leaned against a marble column in the midst of the background foliage, watching the woman gaily swinging. Like a moment trapped in time, a world nearly forgotten, yet here it was, woven in threads. Callie’s gazed transfixed, aching to paint the piece. Her hands vibrated with energy, needing to expel the rush of creative juices suddenly flowing through her. Her father had often teased her and said she was possessed when she felt like that.
“Do you like it?” Wes’s smooth, seductive voice teased her left ear.
Smack! The duffel bag slipped from her fingers and hit the wood floor as she was jolted out of her artistic daze.
“It’s amazing,” she admitted, a little breathless. The bed’s coverlet was a rich blue, with gold embroidery of fleur-de-lis across it that glinted and sparkled in the morning sunlight that filled the room. A pair of French doors opened onto the balcony, giving her another view of the Eiffel Tower. But rather than look at the tower, she was looking at Wes. The faint streaks of gold amid the red of his hair were distracting. She hadn’t noticed the depth of colors there before, the subtle blend of many colors to make one. He ran a hand through it, slightly tousling it, and Callie’s insides quivered. She had the urge to touch his hair, to grasp its strands and feel them between her fingers. To touch him was to risk herself and she couldn’t do that. At least not yet.
He turned, a look of satisfaction or perhaps more relaxation on his face. He seemed to be a different man than the hard brooding soul she’d known from Long Island. There was a softness to his mouth, a warmth to his eyes as he gazed at her, as though Paris had lightened whatever burdens rested upon his shoulders.
“Are you happy to be here?” He moved slowly, cautiously toward her as though approaching a skittish colt. She didn’t move, didn’t want to move, if it meant he might caress her. For some reason, she needed human touch, knowing it would ease the homesickness she felt.
When he was standing right in front of her, he cupped her face, his large palms shockingly gentle on her skin.
“Happy?” she asked dreamily as his blue eyes, that arresting shade, seemed lit by an inner fire of desire that robbed her of rational thought.
“Yes,” he murmured, his head slowly lowering to hers. “I want to make you happy.” There was a faint note of pleading in his tone and then he was kissing her.
A melding of mouths, tender and exploring. Callie responded easily, naturally, learning how to move her lips with his. A dizzy sense of delight made her purr when he parted her lips with his tongue. The playful thrusting motion of his tongue stimulated a deeper need her body had now. Before she was aware of it, she was rocking against him, trying to rub herself along the lean lines of his body. Wes groaned against her mouth, his hands almost shaking as they kept her face framed, as though he was doing everything in his power to restrain himself.
Was she happy? The question seemed to float through her desire-fogged mind like a single feather caught upon the breeze. Here…in this moment, half a world away from the man who broke her heart, she felt something. If not happiness, then it was close to it. And she was with a man who seemed to want her. Her, not anyone else, as hard to believe as that was. The bet be damned, she wanted to enjoy Wes’s kiss.
When their lips parted, Wes’s heavy-lidded gaze sent shivers through her.
“Let me show you everything Paris can offer,” he said, with a little grin. “Starting with a Parisian breakfast.” His eyes twinkled as he stepped back. “Get settled in. I’m going down to one of the patisseries and will select something for us to eat.”
Callie nodded, shocked by the boylike look of excitement on his face. Who was this man? It certainly wasn’t the Wes Thorne with dark secrets and threats of seduction she’d grown used to over the last few months. He was someone else. She couldn’t seem to reconcile the two men and yet strangely she was drawn to both sides of him, like a moth to fire. She would fly closer and closer to the sputtering flame until her wings were lit with fire and she burned.
Chapter 5
Wes inhaled the Parisian air, loving the smells of the city as he stepped onto the Rue Cler. With all of the produce stands and patisseries as well as delis, the street itself seemed to have a taste. Sugar and butter coated the air, mixing with the subtle tang of meats. It made him feel alive to be here. After kissing Callie, his entire body was as active as a live wire. She would love it here. He’d prove to her this was a place she belonged, like he did. He wished he had an excuse to come to Paris more. With Callie, he might just have the chance.
Everything had to be perfect. Showing her Paris would create the romantic ambience that would woo Callie to his bed and inspire her to pursue her art. She should be a happy woman in his bed and giving her everything would be the best way to do it.
A small patisserie on the corner caught his eye. The window displayed a wide variety of sweet breakfast items bathed in the gold light of the shop. Wes strode inside and studied the numerous racks stocked with every sinful sugary delight. There were croissants filled with dark chocolate, and brioche bread baked with chocolate chips. The tortes were succulent fruit arranged symmetrically in tiny pie crusts that fit in the palm of his hand, covered in a
honey glaze to make them shimmer. Wes’s mouth watered at the thought of kissing Callie after she’d tasted a torte, the way the sugar would mix with her own natural sweetness. He shifted uncomfortably as an instant erection stretched his trousers.
Damn.
He focused back on the crème-filled éclairs. He could only think of Callie, on her back, his head buried between her thighs, her crème on his tongue…
Fuck.
He would never look at éclairs the same way again.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Que voulez-vous commander?” the plump female baker asked. Her apron was splashed with chocolate stains and flour as though she’d just come from crafting an edible masterpiece.
“Bonjour, madame. Je voudrais deux éclairs, deux tartes aux fruits, et deux brioches au chocolat, s’il vous plait.”
“Oui, monsieur.” The woman collected the items and tucked them into a white box with care and Wes slid his credit card across the glass countertop.
He took the box and headed back to the apartment building. He knew Callie would be tired after the long flight. She had barely slept on the flight and had spent hours watching movies. He had hoped she would trust him enough to use his shoulder to rest on but she hadn’t. She’d seemed almost too quiet, whether from nerves or worries he didn’t know. It was a big step for her to leave her father and the ranch behind. It had driven home the fact that she really had seen nothing of the world and was so young and innocent.
As he reached his front door and unlocked it, he noticed the apartment was quiet. Wes set his keys down and headed for the kitchen. He set out the brioche and put the éclairs and tarts in the fridge. Françoise had fully stocked up on fruit, eggs, butter, meat, juice, and freshly ground coffee for his coffeemaker.
“Callie?” he called out. No answer.
Wes shrugged out of his coat and headed for the stairs. He passed through his room and the bathroom and then halted in the doorway to her room. Her bag was open and half of it was unpacked. Callie lay on the bed, her face pressed against a pillow, deep asleep. Wes’s heart gave an uneven thump in his chest. She looked so perfect, lying there in the bed he had chosen just for her. It was an antique frame that had once belonged to a French princess who had lived in the 1700s. He hadn’t missed the way her eyes had immediately focused on the tapestry of the headboard. A look of longing and hunger, not sensual but creative, took hold of her.