Daniel’s Epilogue
DANIEL’S EPILOGUE
Daniel
A Little Later
I catch sight of her legs first.
They come into view as I turn the corner on Rue Saint-Dominique.
Long, lean, and sexy as sin.
Scarlett kicks one high-heeled foot back and forth, laughing lightly. The sound of her laughter floats down the street and briefly, ever so briefly, warms my cold heart.
What is she laughing at? A friend on the phone? Something the waiter said? A book?
I haven’t seen her in nearly two months. I spent four weeks in Vegas, then the last four in London. Now I’m in Paris again, and it’s time to catch up.
When I reach her, I tilt my head to the side. “What’s making a woman like you laugh like that?”
A bright and sensual smile from my business partner comes my way. “The waiter.”
“Ohh,” I say, curious. “Was he funny? Did he entertain you as well as I can?”
She pats the red wicker chair at the outside café, pouting her lips. “No one entertains me the way you do, Daniel. Now join me.”
“That’s not how you greet someone you haven’t seen in what feels like a decade, love.”
“Oh, excusez moi . Do it properly, then, mister.”
I bend to her, bring my face close, and dust a soft, barely-there kiss across her cheek. Then the other.
Her breath catches the slightest bit, then she seems to collect herself as I join her, taking the seat right by her side.
This is Paris, so we are packed in. She’d be in my lap if she moved another inch or so, and honestly, I would not object to this brunette beauty sitting on me.
But there are lines.
Lines you cross.
Lines you don’t cross.
And you don’t cross them with business partners.
This kind of business partner, that is—a beautiful, daring, clever woman. A woman whose body you want to explore.
A woman whose mind you admire.
And a woman whose heart might be as damaged as yours.
“What made the waiter so hilarious?” I ask, pressing.
She gives me a coy look as evening crowds stroll by, chattering in French, talking about the Metro, their days, the things they’re doing tonight. “He wanted to know if my husband was joining me.”
I shoot her an unamused look. “Presumptuous of him.”
“Indeed it was, and he apologized immediately. We had a laugh. And then we laughed again when I assured him that the man I was meeting had no heart to ever be a husband.”
I clasp my hand to my chest. “You cast aspersions on me when I can’t defend myself.”
“I’m so terribly cruel.”
“You are. I’m wounded. But I’ll let you buy my drink.”
She pats my hand, her index finger briefly traveling along the jagged scar. She stops her journey, meeting my gaze. “I do love this scar. It’s so very you. So handsome.”
“Thank you,” I say, not wanting to discuss it more, but somehow glad she’s lured by this mark that says so much more than any other cut could.
“Now, let’s get you that drink, and tell me everything about your time in Sin City,” she says, then calls the man over and orders a bourbon for me and another wine for herself.
I spend the next hour entertaining Scarlett with tales of business and debauchery.
She seems to revel in both, and I revel in telling her them. They make everything else disappear for a while, except the sound of her voice and her laughter.