Lost In France (Firebird Trilogy) (14 page)

Alain spoiled me with breakfast in bed, again. I sighed, feeling content and cherished; no man had ever done this for me before. It was pure luxury and definitely a turn on.

My previous lovers had never understood that it was these small things that made a difference—to spoil their woman—to make her feel special and wanted. Doing small things to pleasure her, like breakfast in bed or helping with the dishes. It was the key to unlocking a woman’s legs and libido easily. Yet so few men actually used it to their advantage.

Instead, they just complained about the lack of action in the bedroom. If only they knew how easy it was to get more sex. They could take a few lessons—Alain was definitely on the right track here.
My Frenchman was not only sexy, but smart too.

“Not that I’m complaining about my delicious surprise last night, but who were you talking to on the phone? Is everything OK?”

I averted my gaze, masking my eyes, and tried to sound as casual as possible. “It was my boss. He wants me in New York tomorrow.”

Alain let out the now familiar French curse. “The man is crazy. Doesn’t your workshop start in two days?”

“Yes, but he said to reschedule. He called a meeting in New York.”

“Mon
Dieu. I can’t come to New York. I have to get back to the Estate. I was hoping you’d join me there at the end of the week. I don’t trust that man. He wants you. I’ll fucking kill him if he lays a finger on you.”

I giggled nervously; no man had ever wanted to kill another man for me. “Don’t worry, Alain. Maxwell will never touch me. Of that I can assure you,” I said, flashes of our last encounter in my hotel room fresh in my mind.

I sure put him in his place. He won’t touch me with a barge pole. Probably hates my guts now, anyway.

The relationship between Maxwell and I became more strained with each interaction. Why would it bother him so much that I was with Alain? And why was he constantly trying to break up my new romance? It didn’t make sense. I was entitled to love and happiness as much as anyone else. And this time I was grabbing it with both hands. Alain and I were good together. God, we could hardly keep our hands off one another.

That has to be a good sign, right?

“Then, we better get back to Paris tonight, so you can prepare for your journey. We must make the best of the time we have before we go. Today we’ll drive to Monaco. I have another business meeting there.”

“You don’t understand,” Maxwell said, deep lines furrowing his brow.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “What’s to understand, Mr. Grant? You’re married,
right
? It’s really simple. You’re married and I'm not available.”

He groaned. “It’s the Frenchman,
isn’t it
?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Are you serious about him?”

“Well, that’s none of your damn business. But I don’t have anything to hide. So yes, Alain and I are seeing one another.”

“I see.” His eyes were glacier cold now, his jaw muscles clenched and released a few times.

What’s it to him who I’m seeing?

He stroked his chin. There was a faraway look in his eyes. “I wanted to…explain a few things to you.” He swallowed hard. His eyes met mine and I caught my breath. There was a vulnerability I had never expected to see in Maxwell’s eyes.

It lasted all of maybe three seconds before a mask slipped over his face.

What the hell was that? Maxwell has a soft side? I must be fucking dreaming.

“Explain?
About what?” My curiosity was piqued. I narrowed my eyes as I tried to fathom Maxwell. The man was an enigma. Would I ever understand him?

Alain on the other hand was easy to understand and easy to please. He said what he thought and asked for what he wanted.
Which was usually to feed or fuck me. I could deal with both.

Maxwell, on the other hand—he made me feel inadequat
e and a blubbering mess in his presence. Sure, I managed to keep it together most of the time, but only by the skin of my teeth. And only because I’d been practicing to fake it for a very long time.

Maxwell sneered.
“Never mind. It’s irrelevant if you are involved with someone.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. What the fuck did that have to do with anything? I wasn’t about to justify my actions to my boss. My private life was my business. As long as it didn’t interfere with my performance at work, it was none of his frigging concern.

“Anything else, Mr. Grant?”

Impatient to get out of this conversation, I tapped my foot. If it wasn’t going anywhere, there was no further point in continuing. I’d had enough of his interrogation about my whereabouts and time spent with Alain.

Mr. Grant tugged at his collar. Seemed both of us were struggling to remain civil. Yet I still had no idea why my life choices would annoy him as much as it did.  Was he like this with all his employees?

He rounded the desk and came to stand directly in front of me.
I had to tilt my head backward to meet his eyes.  For a split second I panicked. I preferred something between us.

There was a magnetic field around Maxwell that somehow drew me to him. Something I could not resist. He wasn’t touching me
—his hands were safely in his pockets—yet my body automatically wanted to lean toward him.

My breath hitched as I became aware of his scent.
Strong and masculine. My brain was tripping out.

Don’t stand so goddamn close to me.

I took a step backward.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Maxwell blew out a long, slow breath and jingled some coins in his pocket. He narrowed his eyes. “Well, Rebecca, I still expect you to accompany me to the function tonight.”

Seriously?
I scrutinized his face for answers.

His eyes narrowed, shutting me out. “
My…wife…is out of town. It’s all business. You have nothing to panic about.”

Nodding, I realized I didn’t really have a choice. Not if I wanted to keep my job. And I did.
On what grounds could I refuse? Nothing came to mind. I’d drawn a blank.

“I’ll pick you up at seven fifteen sharp. Don’t be late.” He gave me a knowing look and I was reminded of what’d happened last time I was supposed to meet him at seven fifteen in Paris.

A warm flush spread over my neck up to my cheeks. By the grim expression on his face, he remembered it too.

The night I rejected him and told him to never touch me again.
He’d never attempted to touch me after that, not even shaking hands to greet me when I arrived from Paris. In fact, his hands were still firmly stuck into his pockets.

Trying to ignore the uncomfortable silence between us, I said in my bravest voice, “Of course I will be ready, Mr. Grant.”

“Maxwell…
please
,” he said with a sigh. He shook his head wearily. “I’ll get you a cab back to your hotel.”

He turned and left the office.

I guess that discussion is over.

I
wasn’t sure what to wear to the function. How much did New Yorkers dress up for industry awards? I chuckled to myself, wishing I could call Sarah Jessica Parker and ask her; after all, she had an apartment in Manhattan. She’d know; she always looked immaculate. Trying to connect with my inner Carrie Bradshaw, I asked myself what she would wear.
Something fabulous, no doubt
.

Not expecting to have to go to a function, I hadn’t brought anything suitable with me, which meant I’d have to fit in a quick shopping spree this afternoon. I decided to take a stroll up Fifth Avenue to see if anything caught my eye. It was a quick walk from the historical Algonquin hotel on West 44
th
Street I was staying at.

When the going got tough, there was nothing like a bit of retail therapy to lift the spirit
.

Time to spend some of my large paycheck.
 

Just thinking about it put a smile on my face. I peeked into Versace first, browsing their beautiful new collection. My eye fell on a long white one shoulder dress which was feminine yet had a fierce edge to it
.

Exactly what I need.

I didn’t want to look sexy tonight. I wanted my boss to get the message that it was hands off—I was taken.

The assistant helped me into the dress. “It fits like a glove.” For once it wasn’t just sales talk.

No cleavage on display.

Ticks box number one.

The sheer fabric on the sleeve was scattered with crystals, it was beautiful and feminine. I grinned when I turned to appraise the other side. It was edgy, studded in a rock chick way and not showing much leg either.

Ticks box number two
.

I’d found the perfect dress.

I had to rush to get to the hairdresser on time for my appointment. I decided to go for a simple look so I simply had my hair straightened. It made me look very different to when my hair was in soft waves—it was more severe, in keeping with the image I wanted to portray to my boss tonight.

I’d melted my credit card enough for one day, so I headed off to the nail parlor as my final treat and sat back, relaxing while I had my hands and feet manicured. I opted for something different to my usual French tips, having my fingernails squared off and painted in midnight black.

Fierce.

Relaxed and pleased with the afternoon’s shopping spree, I headed back to the hotel.

As I entered the hotel, Kevin, the friendly doorman, helped me with my parcels. Matilda, the beautiful ragdoll cat and the hotel’s most famous resident, stretched herself out before strolling over to inspect my purchases. Usually she lazily observed the comings and goings of hotel guests from a luggage trolley, so Kevin assured me I was special when she rubbed up against my leg. 

“Matilda has the run of the house.” Kevin laughed. “A resident cat at Algonquin is an old tradition—since 1930, when a scraggy-looking cat wandered into the hotel searching for shelter and food. The owner, Frank Case, being a very hospitable man, welcomed the feline traveler into the hotel.”

I loved how the history of the early twentieth century had been preserved throughout the hotel. The Gatsby-styled rooms reminded me of a bygone era, when this had been the center of the literary and theatrical way of life in New York, welcoming actors and writers alike.

Pictures on the walls were testament that a few famous women flocked to the hotel as well, including Gertrude Stein and Maya Angelou. Thrilled to be staying in one of America’s great historic hotels and a New York landmark, Kevin assured me that I was in good company. The Algonquin had accommodated single female guests long before it was conventional to do so.

I was ready at 7.05 p.m. Even my makeup matched my fierce mood—dark smoky eyes and nude lips. I grabbed my clutch purse and headed to the hotel lobby.

Maxwell stood close to the elevator, looking somewhat irritable.

Is
he thinking I’ll stand him up again?

I suppressed a chuckle, wondering if he would have the guts to come knocking at my door again. 

My boss cut a fine picture dressed in a suave black evening suit, even if I didn’t want to admit it.  Again, his sandy-blond hair reminded me more of a surfer dude’s hair than that of the illustrious CEO of Grant Industries. The modern short cut with the flicked up front, looked great on him.

He took a step forward and held out his arm, grinning like a schoolboy. My breath hitched as I hooked into his arm gracefully, feeling the raw power in his taught muscles beneath my fingertips. His sapphire eyes were beaming. I put it down to the fact that he was nominated for an award at the ceremony. 

His head dipped to the soft skin below my ear. With his lips barely touching, his warm breath skimmed over my skin. I suppressed a shiver.

“Can I ask a huge favor? Can we call a truce tonight? Please?” His voice was husky and sincere. How could I refuse his request tonight of all nights?

I nodded.   

I didn’t trust myself to speak. I swallowed the lump in my throat. I might have been a bit harsh on him in the past. Maybe I’d cut him some slack tonight.

“Hope I’m not being too forward. You look…breathtaking.”

That wasn’t the reaction I wanted from him
.

Or was
it?

A little voice nagged in my head, and in spite of my best intentions, I couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. Completely taken aback when I realized how much I enjoyed his compliment, and the feeling of pleasure that had just washed over me, I snorted, quite loudly.

Remember he’s married, Rebecca.
Don’t go there.

Besides, I had a red-hot lover waiting for my return to France
.

Pretending he didn’t just witness my unladylike behavior, he held open the door of a black
Masarati. The sexy little sports car suited Maxwell. I sank into the soft leather seat, thankful there wasn’t any bum slapping—Americans weren’t into that like European guys.

We didn’t bother making small talk as Maxwell weaved through the traffic. I’d never seen so many yellow taxis in one night. Every now and then, he cursed, before accelerating and slipping through the congestion. I held my breath, exhilaration coursing through my veins, watching how man and machine melded,
enjoying the power of both.

With a sideways glace, I peered at Maxwell. He was in his element. He didn’t waiver for a second when he saw a gap. The man had killer instincts.
Confidence oozed from him and I felt just a little turned on by it.

I shrugged it off. I’d always found confidence and intelligence
a huge turn-on. There was even a word for it—I was sapiosexual. 
One who finds intelligence the most sexually attractive feature.
And I did.
Chloe had teased me about it when I had a crush on my professor at university.
A tight ass and bulging biceps could only hold my interest for so long. If a guy was incapable of intelligent conversation, it would be a deal breaker for me.

So.
It wasn’t Maxwell himself that caused these feelings and the knot in my stomach. No, it was merely the characteristics he was portraying. Nothing more or less than my professor.

Yet
I did avoid his eyes when he opened the car door and held his hand to help me out
.

Let’s not give him too much credit…

With his hand in the small of my back, Maxwell steered me toward a table near the stage. Placed with other CEOs, who were also nominated for business awards, I was glad I’d gone to the effort of shopping and splashing out on a striking outfit. I noticed that every other woman was dressed to the nines, dripping with expensive jewelry, and looking fine in designer frocks.

I chuckled. Women dressed as much for the approval of other women, as what they did to impress a
man.

The mayor and his wife were seated at our table. Holding my elbow, Maxwell introduced me to everyone.

“Oh Max, where is your lovely wife?” enquired the mayor’s wife. “I hope she’s not sick?”

Max?

“No, unfortunately she’s out of town, on a consignment. That’s the life of a famous model. She’s always traveling the world,” Maxwell replied, irritation in his voice.

Was he annoyed that he had to bring me instead o
f her? My heart squeezed at the thought.

“I don’t know how your marriage can last under such circumstances. You young people always surprise me with your modern attitude to marriage,” she said.

Interesting comment.
Exactly how
did
Mr. and Mrs. Grant’s marriage work? Did they have an open marriage? I wouldn’t be surprised. That would explain a few things—like his actions in my hotel room.

Maxwell
responded with a grunt, pulling at his collar, his lips drawn to a thin line.

My sixth sense kicked in. There was more to Mr. and Mrs. Grant than was obvious and the mayor’s wife had just hit a nerve.
I enjoyed watching him squirm. “Yes,
Max
? Please explain?” I couldn’t hide the bitchiness in my voice. The twinge of jealousy I felt completely unnerved me. It wasn’t an emotion I was used to feeling.

Maxwell’s brow knitted. His jaw was tightly set. “Rebecca. Don’t test me. You won’t win.”

“Want to bet on that?”

Totally disarming me, he laughed as if I’d just made a joke and rubbed my back. He leaned toward me and whispered in a
softened tone. “Truce. Remember?”

Cocky Mr. Grant was back.

What was it he wanted to explain to me earlier at the office?
Damn it. I should have made him tell me.

“Ladies and gentleman, can I have your attention please?” Everyone turned to the podium.

The mayor of New York made a speech welcoming everyone. I was surrounded by the who’s who in the business world, rubbing shoulders with the movers and shakers of today.

Donald Trump, a proud New Yorker, was the next speaker. It was his job to honor Maxwell Grant’s achievements. The list was long and impressive. But, what I hadn’t known was how much of a humanitarian Maxwell was; his philanthropic deeds exceeded the norm.

A lump settled in my throat. Oddly, I was proud to be at his side and to be a part of this organization. I hoped I could live up to the expectations he had of me and also make a difference, just as he had.

Receiving hearty slaps on his back as he made his way back to our table, Maxwell grinned sheepishly as a few eager women hugged him or planted a kiss on his cheek. He took it all graciously in his stride, enjoying his moment.

As he reached our table, my heart swollen with pride and lost in the moment, I leaned forward on tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. But, instead of presenting his cheek to me as he’d done to the other ladies, Maxwell turned his face so that my lips unintentionally landed on his.

His lips were soft yet strong and sensuous. His eyes widened a fraction as he stared down at me, both of us caught completely off guard. I giggled to hide my embarrassment and turned away, but not before seeing a glint in
his eye that completely unsettled me.

I’d let my guard slip.
Goddamnit
.

For the duration of the meal, I chatted and joked with everyone at the table, mostly ignoring the man who sat by my side. I sensed that something had changed subtly between us, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Just thinking about it gave me a headache, so I avoided going there for the time being. Eventually I ran out of steam and stopped talking so much. It was damn hard work making conversation with strangers. 

After dessert, Maxwell leaned over and laid his hand my arm.  Still I refused to look at him.

“Tired, Rebecca? Shall I take you home? Want to go to
bed?”

My head shot up, my gaze meeting with intense blue eyes. I couldn’t read them. I didn’t know if he was mocking me with his double entendre or if I saw something else in those dark eyes. Something I didn’t want to give a name to.

“Oh no, you can’t leave now,” said the mayor’s wife. “The band is just striking up now. Surely you are staying for a few dances?”

My heart did a flip.

No, please, I don’t want to be in Maxwell’s arms tonight.

Already confused, I didn’t know what was going on with me.

“Of course,” Maxwell conceded, and held out his hand as the band started playing their first song. “How remiss of me,” he said, with a wicked smile on his lips.

As if having an out-of-body experience, I placed my hand in his. I felt ill.

Where the hell has my fighting spirit gone?

Holding me close, we sashayed across the floor, aware that half of the room’s eyes were on us. A few times I nearly stumbled over my dress.

“Just relax and follow me, Rebecca,” he chided. I was as stiff as cardboard, every muscle in my body tense. “I’m not going to eat you in front of all these people.” He sighed. “It’s only a goddamn dance.”

My cheeks burned as he gazed down at me. He was right. I was completely overreacting. Trying to relax, my body followed his. My boss was a great dancer and once I just relaxed and let him
lead, everything became less awkward.

The smell of his cologne drifted to my nostrils; I was acutely aware of every muscle in his hard body pressing against the softness of mine.

He whispered, “See, just relax and let go. I’m here to lead you…but also to catch you if you fall.”  He planted a soft kiss in my hair as the music ended, before stepping away.

I thought I’d be relieved that it was over. A pang in my heart told me otherwise. I’d felt safe in his arms in spite of myself.

What the hell was coming over me? I disliked this arrogant man.
Didn’t I?
Yet tonight, I yielded to him in ways I didn’t want to. Wordlessly Maxwell steered me back to our table, his hand firmly on my back, burning through the fabric.

I had to make a quick getaway. I couldn’t let him drive me home.

As I picked up my purse, I let out a stifled yawn. “Good night. I’m very tired. Must be jetlag. Please excuse me, my taxi is waiting.” I turned to face a stunned Maxwell. “Thank you, Mr. Grant, for inviting me and once again congratulations on your wonderful award.”

Maxwell’s mouth moved to say something, but before he could utter a word, I’d spun on my heels and strode toward the
door.