other ones were even worse. In the end she grabbed a coat and went out, finding her way downstairs without mishap this time, only to find him waiting by his tiny little car.
It was a cloudy day, so at least the top was up. Despite the lack of brilliant sunlight he was wearing dark glasses, and he was leaning against the side of the car, arms folded across his chest, calmly waiting for her. Another custom silk suit, probably Armani, with a pale silk shirt and no tie. His black hair curled behind his neck, and his face was unreadable. He opened the door for her, and the interior looked very small and cozy. Too cozy.
And she could think of absolutely no excuse not to go with him. She pulled Sylvia’s Hermès bag to her shoulder, stiffened her back, and climbed into the low-slung car, avoiding his helping hand. She heard him laugh before he closed the door behind her.
The interior of a Porsche was as tiny as she’d feared. And he seemed bigger. In the château he’d seemed average size—elegant, clean lines, not too tall, not too bulky. In the car his presence was overwhelming, and his legs were a lot longer than she’d realized. He had the seat all the way back, and he peered up at the sky before putting the car into gear.
“Are you sure you don’t want to bring an umbrella?” he asked. “The weather looks uncertain.”
Sylvia hadn’t packed an umbrella. “We’ll just have to hope the rain holds off until we get back. We shouldn’t have to be gone too long. I just need to choose a few novels for Monsieur Hakim’s guests and then we can come back.”
“What about lunch?” He started down the long, curving drive away from the château.
“I’m not hungry,” she lied. “I can get something when we get back if I change my mind.”
“Whatever pleases you, Chloe,” he said, his voice as silken as his charcoal-gray suit, as silken as the tanned skin at his narrow wrists. His hands on the steering wheel were lean, beautiful, and he wore a wedding ring. Of course he did. Those hands looked very strong as well. “Better use your seat belt. I drive fast.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. By now she should have gotten used to the crazed speeds used in Europe, and the faster he drove, the faster this would be over with. She pulled the seat belt across her and fastened it, leaning back in the leather seat.
“I presume you don’t wish to talk to me?” he asked. They were speaking in English, she realized, and had been for the last few minutes. She hadn’t even noticed.
She certainly wasn’t in the mood for light conversation in either French or English, since his light conversation included flirtation, and his wedding ring was plainly visible. “I’m very tired,” she said, closing her eyes.
“Then I’ll put on some music.” The sound of Charles Aznavour filled the car, and Chloe stifled a little moan. Aznavour had always been her great weakness, and listening to the sadness of Venice made her bones melt.
She could always lose herself in the sound of his voice, forget who she was with. Except that Bastien wasn’t easily ignored. Without speaking he still filled her senses—the subtlety of his very expensive cologne teased at her, the gentle sounds of his breathing serenaded her.
The cologne was insidiously appealing. She ought to ask him what the name was, so she could buy some for her brothers. On second thought that might not be so good an idea. She would never smell that particular scent without thinking of Bastien Toussaint, and the sooner his presence—his very married, womanizing, undeniably seductive presence—was out of her life, the better.
It was her own damned fault, Chloe thought, as Aznavour’s voice surrounded her like a swathe of rough silk. She’d been longing for adventure, a little vicarious sex and violence to shake things up. She’d had the vicarious sex, and that was already more than she’d bargained for. And it had been nothing more than a kiss.
It was a cloudy day, so at least the top was up. Despite the lack of brilliant sunlight he was wearing dark glasses, and he was leaning against the side of the car, arms folded across his chest, calmly waiting for her. Another custom silk suit, probably Armani, with a pale silk shirt and no tie. His black hair curled behind his neck, and his face was unreadable. He opened the door for her, and the interior looked very small and cozy. Too cozy.
And she could think of absolutely no excuse not to go with him. She pulled Sylvia’s Hermès bag to her shoulder, stiffened her back, and climbed into the low-slung car, avoiding his helping hand. She heard him laugh before he closed the door behind her.
The interior of a Porsche was as tiny as she’d feared. And he seemed bigger. In the château he’d seemed average size—elegant, clean lines, not too tall, not too bulky. In the car his presence was overwhelming, and his legs were a lot longer than she’d realized. He had the seat all the way back, and he peered up at the sky before putting the car into gear.
“Are you sure you don’t want to bring an umbrella?” he asked. “The weather looks uncertain.”
Sylvia hadn’t packed an umbrella. “We’ll just have to hope the rain holds off until we get back. We shouldn’t have to be gone too long. I just need to choose a few novels for Monsieur Hakim’s guests and then we can come back.”
“What about lunch?” He started down the long, curving drive away from the château.
“I’m not hungry,” she lied. “I can get something when we get back if I change my mind.”
“Whatever pleases you, Chloe,” he said, his voice as silken as his charcoal-gray suit, as silken as the tanned skin at his narrow wrists. His hands on the steering wheel were lean, beautiful, and he wore a wedding ring. Of course he did. Those hands looked very strong as well. “Better use your seat belt. I drive fast.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. By now she should have gotten used to the crazed speeds used in Europe, and the faster he drove, the faster this would be over with. She pulled the seat belt across her and fastened it, leaning back in the leather seat.
“I presume you don’t wish to talk to me?” he asked. They were speaking in English, she realized, and had been for the last few minutes. She hadn’t even noticed.
She certainly wasn’t in the mood for light conversation in either French or English, since his light conversation included flirtation, and his wedding ring was plainly visible. “I’m very tired,” she said, closing her eyes.
“Then I’ll put on some music.” The sound of Charles Aznavour filled the car, and Chloe stifled a little moan. Aznavour had always been her great weakness, and listening to the sadness of Venice made her bones melt.
She could always lose herself in the sound of his voice, forget who she was with. Except that Bastien wasn’t easily ignored. Without speaking he still filled her senses—the subtlety of his very expensive cologne teased at her, the gentle sounds of his breathing serenaded her.
The cologne was insidiously appealing. She ought to ask him what the name was, so she could buy some for her brothers. On second thought that might not be so good an idea. She would never smell that particular scent without thinking of Bastien Toussaint, and the sooner his presence—his very married, womanizing, undeniably seductive presence—was out of her life, the better.
It was her own damned fault, Chloe thought, as Aznavour’s voice surrounded her like a swathe of rough silk. She’d been longing for adventure, a little vicarious sex and violence to shake things up. She’d had the vicarious sex, and that was already more than she’d bargained for. And it had been nothing more than a kiss.
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