All Mixed Up

by Angel Payne

  Greer yanked in a teary sigh. Leese’s wasn’t far behind. “You’re right,” they said in tandem, and moved reluctantly toward me for our departing hugs.

  “Just get your cute little derrieres out of here,” I finally chided. “And I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

  Brave smiles emanated from both as they disappeared around the corner to their plane.

  I wasn’t so brave about cloaking my sadness while walking back to the Metro station.

  Once back on the train, I mentally smacked myself. And then added aloud, “Gratitude is an attitude, missy, and you’d better hock off a giant slice of one.”

  Rarely had a self-flogging been truer. A week ago, I’d been ready to face these four weeks alone—as in alone. Now, thanks to Milo Proust’s generosity, I’d had three full days with my dearest friends, all of whom had been there for one of the biggest opening nights of my career. Better yet, I’d had a phone call from Mom this morning, in which she’d assured me she was feeling better and stronger every day. She’d kicked cancer’s ass—and if I kept getting gigs like this, I’d be able to pay off all the medical bills in a couple of years. Of course, that would be happening much sooner, had I not decided to compensate for my anger about Dad in a relationship with an equally deceitful pretty boy—but I was, as everyone couldn’t stop noticing, young. And youth was for mistakes, right?

  Just not ones to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars.

  So much for the self-smacking. My chastisements felt like feathers compared to the fresh weight of that realization. I leaned my head back against the train’s window, and at last allowed tears to seep from my lashes, etching hot trails toward my hairline.

  I was alone.

  For a girl who went to work in an “office” full of three thousand people every night, that was usually something to be grateful for.

  But in moments few and fragile, alone became lonely.

  Moments like this one.

  But I refused to become the ultimate Paris cliché. I would not sob on the train. I turned inward instead, letting emotions snowball into exhaustion. Between working all night then hanging with Leese and Greer the rest of the time, I’d had about six hours of sleep in the last two days.

  I’d just escape for a few minutes…

  Why was there an accordion blasting in my ear?

  Despite the din, I woke in groggy stages. Wondered if I was dreaming…though I couldn’t link any of this craziness to anything from my life, in any way, shape, or form.

  There were a dozen women, with hair in various shades of purple and blue. They were dressed in flouncy tea dresses to match. They had flawless skin, and even more flawless voices. Were they singing along to the accordion? An Adele song? In…French?

  Where was I?

  Shit.

  I repeated it out loud as I bolted upright. Wiping the sleep drool from my chin, I blinked at the dream women…who weren’t a dream at all. Nor, for that matter, were they women. But hell if I could remember a grander group of drag queens, in looks and talent.

  When they finished the song in perfect harmony, I applauded—but was stunned to observe I was one of a small handful who did. I was more surprised when the purple-and-blue-hairs applauded back at me. Wait. Me? I glanced around, ensuring they were really directing their praise my way.

  One of them rose and strutted over. Five-inch heels on a rocking Metro car; I was already impressed. “Elle habite,” the he-she crooned. “C’est bien!”

  She lives. This is good.

  “Did you really think I was—” I stopped, mentally recomposing the words in French. “Avez-vous penser…je mort?” Okay, it was missing some pronouns but the guy chuckled, meaning most of the message was clear.

  “Of course not, luv.” His/her rural British came as less of a surprise than the nicotine rasp. It had followed a singing voice like melted honey. “It was a joke.”

  “Oh.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Sorry.”

  “So you’re not dead. But are you all right?”

  “I think so.” My sight cleared a little. “Uh…where is everyone?”

  “Everyone?”

  “Here. On the train.” I blinked again. “It’s Monday, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And not a holiday?” And, best of all, my night off. Aside from tentative-ish dinner plans with Gigi, and—they all went home on Wednesday—I planned on getting acquainted with the apartment I’d barely seen since arriving—especially the pillow on the bed in that apartment.

  “No.”

  I scowled. “I thought rush hour was insane on this line.”

  “Rush hour?” A sharp cock of his head—but amazingly, the bright blue wig stayed perfectly in place. “Babes, that was hours ago.”

  I jerked up straighter. “Hours?” Yanked out my phone. The display told me it was nine o’clock. As in, p.m. “Oh my God. This—uh—this can’t be right.”

  But my plummeting belly and racing heartbeat told me otherwise—along with fifteen missed calls from Gigi, an equal number from Milo, and twice that many from an unknown Paris number.

  Okay. Maybe it could be right.

  As if to drive in the point, the device suddenly vibrated in my hand. My brain, still struggling between deep sleep and shocked consciousness, sent a jolting reaction straight to my grip.

  Correction. My nonexistent grip.

  The phone bounced once on the seat next to me, showing that unknown Paris number again, before my blue-haired friend leaned scooped it up. Again, in those heels, impressive. After I nodded my consent, he tapped the green button and issued a throaty “Bonjour?” Two seconds in, his shiny lips pursed. “Pardon-moi? C’est Sapphire Roulette, chéri. Qui est-ce?” His false eyelashes almost slammed against his gorgeously arched brows. “Lucien Paget? Well, in that case, my name is Princess Adrianna, lover!”

  I ripped the phone back. “H-hello?”

  “Juliette.”

  Holy. Crap.

  My stomach dropped even farther. My blood throbbed in my ears…and yes, between the sudden trembles of my thighs. I rubbed my free hand against my jeans, hoping the friction would return me to some kind of linear thought processes. Some kind of thought, period.

  “It…is you.” Beyond the silken savagery of his voice, tearing me open and sewing me up in the same instant, I managed to blurt it.

  “And it’s you.” His rush of breath, sounding like relief, filled the line.

  “H-How’d you get my phone number?”

  “I coaxed it out of Gigi.”

  “Coaxed?”

  “Maybe that is not the right word. Sometimes, my English is—how do you say?—sketchy.”

  “Oh, I think your English is fine.” I sat up a little straighter. Struggled to get a full breath of air. Not a chance in hell for that. “Wait. You didn’t hurt her, did you?”

  A strange grunt roughed the line. “I am a rake, Juliette; not a barbarian.”

  “And so the ‘coaxing.’”

  I huffed out a little laugh.

  He was silent.

  “You were scheduled to have dinner with her and Arista.”

  “H-How did you know th-that?”

  “I might have overheard it while meeting with Milo today.”

  “You mean you eavesdropped? Or is your English ‘not so good’ on that one, either?”

  A sound resonated from his end, like a growl pinched short. “There was no need for subterfuge. You have not been answering your phone for hours. I am not the only concerned one here, Juliette. Milo has all but phoned the police.”

  “The police?” I gulped. It hurt. “Oh, God.” I dug a finger into my hair and started twisting. Hard. “Shit.” My ear was filled with the grate of him clearing his throat. The disapproval in his “tone,” or whatever it was called when it sounded like a man was into role-playing the stern professor to his naughty student, was obvious—and arousing as hell.

  Oh, dear hell.

  Was I really and truly in trouble here?


  “Milo.” I stated it without a falter, boosting my fortitude. I wasn’t about to let this—what was his word?—rake turn the word into a verb across my self-control. “I’d better call him,” I asserted. “I didn’t mean to…”

  “Where are you?”

  “You mean you really don’t know?”

  It came out snarkier than I intended. I wanted to feel bad about that and probably did, at least a little. After all the Google searches of the man I’d been subjected to by Leese and Greer, it was obvious Lucien Paget had earned his place as an investor in Avanti. Everything he wore, ate, drank, lived in, traveled by, and had on his arm for dates was the highest end of everything. It made sense that his technology access would match, right? Even if that wasn’t the case, there were apps for this kind of stuff now. Really easy, really cheap apps.

  “No.” It was tight and unpleased—though this time, I sensed it wasn’t at me. “I don’t know, but I soon shall. Or you can just tell me.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why should I tell you?” I huffed into the line. “For that matter, why don’t you already know?”

  “Know what?”

  And who’s on first? And what is that red shell around gouda cheese? And why the hell didn’t anyone stop Quill from pissing off Thanos?

  I shook my head, clearing it from those mind-crushing queries to retort, “Why don’t you know where I am? You could’ve had my phone tracked in minutes.”

  He pushed out breath again. A lot of it. The export sounded like a sigh, though a reluctant one. “Because Gigi only relented the information to me thirty minutes ago, and sometimes, the process really does take longer than that.”

  “Why?”

  “When a cell signal is faint, and yours is, then it takes more precise—”

  “No. Why did Gigi relent to you only a half hour ago?” And had he seriously gotten in all those calls since then?

  A loaded silence. Or at least from my perception. The longer he held back his reply, the hotter and heavier the pressure in my senses. And my chest. And behind my eyes. And in the thick, hot magma stirring in the most intimate cavities of my body. But despite all that, I rejoiced. Had I actually thrown the wolf off his game? Welcome to the club, mister.

  “I don’t answer any more whys until you answer me where.”

  The weighted sigh was mine this time—as well as the reminder that playful or not, we hadn’t all compared him to a wolf for no good reason. That a lot of times, wolves wanted to know where you were before they ate you.

  Not a thought that helped my cause at all. At least not when it came to all the stuff I’d just gone through the worst hell of my life for. The massive mistake I swore I’d never make again. Like letting a beautiful man—wolf, professor, billionaire, whatever—into my head. My thoughts. My bloodstream. My nervous system. My libido…

  But damn it…he was already there.

  I was so screwed.

  “I’m…I’m on the train.”

  So.

  Screwed.

  A pause. A really long one. When Julien answered, it wasn’t preceded by one grunt of the Professor Rake noises. Not a single frustrated sigh either. Instead, confusion seemed to be the new bite at his soft response. “All right.”

  Oh, yes. That was confusion.

  As well as an unspoken plea for further explanation.

  Oh, yes. Definitely a plea.

  Which I totally didn’t owe him.

  “I…I saw Greer and Leese off at the airport.” Don’t owe him, remember? “And on the way home, I fell asleep.”

  “You…”

  More confusion from him even in the one syllable, but I didn’t need an explanation about it. A man who slept on sheets with quadruple-digit thread counts would never understand the seductive lullaby of a rolling train. And I didn’t have the time or patience to enlighten him. I’d even say I didn’t want to. Despite his effortless elegance and his jaw-dropping gorgeousness and the easy wit that were my total Kryptonite in a man—and even if I was in a position to be intrigued by them—there was a larger truth at work here. A greater lesson that I’d already learned.

  Being from a different world than a man wasn’t the ace card everyone was taught to believe.

  And Lucien Paget and I were from really different worlds.

  That much was plain. Simple. Unavoidable. And definitely unchangeable.

  “Look, I—” Twirled more hair. Because like an idiot, I was stalling. A lot. Too much. Stupid; so stupid—but even the tiny hesitations in his voice, coupled with those huff-grunt combinations, had me under a spell I couldn’t bear to break yet. The sorcery of thinking that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t simply a chew toy for wolfie. That there was a weird little chance Lucien Paget really cared about me. Yeah, after only two meetings. Okay, so technically only one real meeting. Didn’t stop my twisted brain from interpreting our attraction in the steamiest senses possible.

  Stupid, Juls. More than stupid. Snap the spell. Right now.

  “I should probably call Milo and—”

  “Done.”

  “What?”

  “Done,” Lucien repeated. “I messaged him thirty seconds ago. He’s responded. Says you owe him a year of his life back.”

  I rolled my eyes and smiled. Protective, papa bear Milo. I’d never call him that to his face, especially knowing him mostly as my boss at this point, but it seriously fit. “I probably do.” An awkward moment slipped by. “Thank you…for taking care of that.”

  For taking care of me.

  Such a dangerous, impossible dream…

  “I—I mean that it must go against some rake’s code or something…”

  “Oh, many.” His voice changed to wry warmth. “So now you are sworn to keep my secret safe.”

  I ducked my head, trying to hide the new giddiness in my grin from the watchful gaze of Madame Sapphire Roulette. It was bad enough, admitting to myself what Lucien Paget ignited in every molecule of air I seemed to breathe. Admitting it to someone else was beyond stupid. And dangerous.

  “Done.” I let the smile invade my returning echo, but only because the train was slowing. Luckily, the upcoming station was Châtelet-Les Halles, a few blocks from my apartment. Milo had spared no expense about putting me up for the month in the heart of the first arrondisment. This neighborhood was so Parisian, it was used in high-end perfume ads. Okay, so Gigi had probably selected it and he’d signed the check, but I really didn’t care. I refused to fall in love with Paris as a whole, but maybe my little patch of it would be okay.

  “I have to go now.” I couldn’t be farther from feeling the conviction I’d somehow summoned, but was proud for verbally sticking to it. “We’re at my station.”

  “All right.”

  His easy agreement came as a surprise—and, I openly admitted, a little disappointment. Nevertheless, I did my best to remember all the giddy golden moments from the exchange while disembarking the train and ascending to street level.

  Until I emerged and beheld the most beautiful sports car I’d ever seen. The only thing more stunning was the man leaning against it. The crisp night wind tugged at his inky waves. His cable-knit sweater barely hid his broad torso. A self-sure smirk made magic out of his carved, cruel lips. He’d just gotten done sliding his cell into jeans that caressed his long legs like—

  Oh, dear God.

  Like I wanted to.

  A sound began as a laugh in my throat, but sounded like a gagging kitten when it emerged. Could I be blamed? What he’d done to me with these kinds of stares had been a dim prelude to this crazed mix of hot and cold self-consciousness. This feeling that he’d turned off awareness of everything else but me. Only me. Okay, maybe the half-naked girl in the breath mints poster behind me counted. They used half-naked people to sell everything here. It was kind of fun, except for moments like this.

  His quizzical look forced me to focus on forming words. “I’d just been wondering why you gave in so easily.”

&nb
sp; The question in his eyes turned into an insolent smile. “But then you corrected yourself, knowing I wouldn’t.”

  I pictured roots sprouting up from the sidewalk, a la the big plant in Little Shop of Horrors, holding me to the spot. It was the only way to resist stepping closer to him…giving in to the chemical-level pull the man seemed to have on me. On everything inside me…

  “I’m not surprised to see you here, if that’s what you—” I choked again. “Wait. No; I am surprised. How did you know…”

  I trailed off as he again cleared his throat. As if I needed to be shot up with more “hot for teacher” juices, he curved his hands around my shoulders, squared his head atop his own, and then dialed in the angle of his stare so I was drilled with it.

  Let me be clear.

  Drilled.

  As if our connection was filling his head with the same fantasy as my own. Our gazes entangled like this in a much different circumstance. With both of us naked on those damn luxury sheets of his. With his grip on my shoulders a necessary thing, securing me in place as he ruthlessly rutted his cock into my—

  Ohhh, holy shit.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit.

  Damn it. What was going on here? Was this real chemistry, or was I just hormonal? When was my next period due? Maybe this was just a case of overseas travel, eager estrogen, and a Frenchman used to charming the panties off of—well, every female he met. And here I was, dreaming of being the next conquest in his Corinthian leather conquest journal.

  No. Not dreaming.

  Hoping.

  Already envisioning…

  Shut it down, Juls. Now!

  A questioning ripple crossed his face, as if he’d heard my inner lashing but not the conflict that had led to it, before he ordered his power drill stare back into place. “Your phone signal was a challenge,” he went on to explain. “But your apartment—”

  “You went to my apartment?” The runaway train of my libido smashed a lead wall. I glared with matching shock, though the man reacted as if I’d simply told him his fly was down—and he’d planned it that way.

  “You mean my apartment?”