Chapter 1 #2
“Good night, Mrs. Stewart,” he teases.
I laugh, because it’s all I can do. Then I say good night to him, and to the tingles he leaves behind on my skin.
Lavender eye mask? On the nightstand.
High-stakes thriller? Got that.
Phone. Right here with me.
Plus, I’m wearing my newest La Perla nightie, with delicate straps and the most succulent silk, the color of amethyst, that falls lovingly against my skin.
In the ornate bathroom at this boutique hotel that’s now part of our portfolio, I reach for my favorite lotion, slather it on my legs, then put it back in my travel bag.
I brush one hand against the other and stand in the doorway of the bathroom regarding the space in front of me, looking for anything that calls to me, that might need to be changed to make this hotel a pinnacle of luxury here in Avignon, a fitting addition to our brand.
What about that mirror over the desk? It’s a little too ornate. It makes me feel like I’m in a Victorian-era home, all stuffy and buttoned-up.
The opposite of our brand.
The opposite of this hotel too.
When guests check into this establishment, they’re on honeymoons. They’re on getaways. They’re here to fuck.
I snap a picture of the mirror as a reminder that it ought to be replaced, then I dictate a note on my phone. “Look into new mirrors. Are these truly the best? Do they suggest sex enough? The people who come here probably want to watch themselves in the mirror.”
I set the phone on the desk, then smooth a hand down the front of my silk negligee.
What would I do if someone brought me here on a getaway?
Told me to watch in the mirror as he fucked me?
A shiver runs through me at that naughty scenario, but it’s fuzzy, hazy around the edges.
I don’t even know who I’m imagining saying that.
Telling me to do that.
But does it really matter? There is no time in my life, nor space in it either for that to happen.
I grab my tablet and slide into bed. I answer a message from my friend Nadia about our upcoming meeting in Paris. A few of her football team’s players are coming to Europe for an exhibition game as part of the league’s efforts to expand American football’s popularity here on the continent.
I reply and confirm which meetings I can attend with her, then sign off with a Go, team, go! GIF. As an American who now lives overseas, I haven’t lost my love of the sport I grew up watching, and I’m eager to see it develop in Europe.
I set down the tablet, take a deep breath, then slide under the covers with my book. I try to read, but there’s so much to do tomorrow, all of it flitting through my head. So much on my to-do list that’s never-ending.
But that’s what a good to-do list is. A good to-do list ought to be never-ending.
Lists are great for the soul. No list has ever let me down. Neither has work. Neither have friends.
Only relationships have left me disillusioned and disappointed.
That, and love.
On that note, I grab my eye mask, put it on and fall asleep.
Crash!
An earsplitting din rends the air.
A bolt of alarm jars me wide awake. I push up my mask and jump out of bed, flinging off the covers. I scan left then right, hunting the source of the sound and what I can do about it.
Where is the fire extinguisher? Something big and heavy in case I have to fight off an intruder?
I spot it in the corner next to the plush red velvet lounge, then I grab it, dash to the door, and peer through the peephole into the hall. I suck in a breath as I take in the carnage, then I let it escape as a sigh of relief.
I don’t need a fire extinguisher, thank God.
The sight in the hallway is horrifying, but nonthreatening.
Shards of glass are everywhere. But it’s time to woman up.
Setting down the fire extinguisher, I glance at the time.
Two in the morning. Grabbing my phones and my tablet in case I need to make a quick call or record details, I put on my slippers, unhook the chain, unlatch the door, and step into the hall.
Another door slinks open at the same time as mine, and Daniel steps out from his room across from mine.
He rubs his right hand over his sleep-rumpled hair. The hand with the jagged scar that runs down the length of it—a mark I find incomparably sexy.
He unleashes a yawn, stretching his arms and . . .
Holy low-slung sleep pants.
His sleep attire answers all my questions from the dressing room earlier today.
Every last one.
We’re talking ridges, grooves, divots.
Abs for days.
And that V?
The vaunted V cut, which I shouldn’t have imagined he had, but I don’t have to imagine anymore, because he does.
Oh yes, he does.
I ought to keep my gaze above his neck.
But my mouth is watering at the sight of his chest, his stomach, his hips.
I will my eyes not to stray downward.
I’m not a pervert.
I’m truly not.
But . . .
My eyes are traitors.
They stray to his pelvis.
To the outline visible through the fabric.
An outline that leaves little to the imagination.
My gorgeous, clever, charming business partner is rock-hard.
Nearly naked.
And sporting one hell of a bedtime erection.
Now I have a damn good sense of what he looks like underneath those devilishly handsome clothes all day long.
He looks like a man I’d like to fuck.
But then I remind myself that some things are true, even if they won’t ever come true.
And this won’t come true at all.