Lost In France (Firebird Trilogy) (5 page)

Our final stop for the day was the
Musee d’Orsay on the left bank of the Seine, housed in a former railway station. There were so many other places I planned on showing Rebecca, but I thought it wise to spread it out over a few days. It was a lot to absorb, and I didn’t want to overwhelm her. Besides, it was the perfect reason to see her again.

Gaston pulled up outside the ancient building.  Often visitors to Paris missed this museum, opting for the Louvre instead if they had limited time. Although the Louvre was spectacular in its own right, the artworks in the
Musee d’Orsay had a magnetism that drew me to it.

As we entered the large hall, Rebecca spotted the magnificent clock, clapping her hands like an excited schoolgirl. I loved that she was so much a woman, yet could be childlike in her enjoyment of life.

Her pure delight and joy at the beauty and history of the city humbled me. I was so used to women who were jaded and cynical. It was refreshing to see Paris through her eyes.

Eagerly pulling at my hand, she couldn’t wait to explore works of the great masters. In reality it was I who couldn’t wait to explore more of
her
. She was delicious in every sense of the word. Her soft skin, the taste of her mouth, her ample bosom, everything about her pleased me as much as these artworks. Except that she was real—a flesh and blood woman.

“Look, women knew about Brazilian waxes even back in 1856,” I joked.

The sensuous painting of a curvy naked woman pouring water from an urn, had my imagination running wild, images of Rebecca naked, making my cock twitch. Her dewy skin and soft full lips were any man’s dream. And her fiery red hair, that fell around her shoulders and down her back like a lion’s mane, made me just want to entwine my fingers in those locks and fuck her hard.

She smiled wryly. “I would’ve fitted in so well in that era. Curvaceous bodies were desirable
then
.”

If only women realized that men actually liked a woman’s curves.
We men are simple beasts: we want to feel the softness of a woman’s skin, the curve of her back, the fullness of her breasts.
Healthy child-bearing hips had attracted men for centuries. Most men wanted a woman who could bear their children with comfort. It was primal instinct.

Standing behind her, I enfolded her in my arms and kissed her neck, feeling her softness yield against me. “My God, as desirable as you are now,” my cock throbbed against her ass, “I want to fuck you so badly,” I croaked into her
ear. She responded by pushing her ass back into me.

Goddammit, I’m going to lose my mind
. The thought of fucking Rebecca in a public place was beyond erotic, I wanted to bury my cock deep inside her and didn’t give a damn about the consequences.

At thirty-one, I’d been labeled as one of France’s most eligible bachelors. That was because I’d very deliberately managed to escape the snares that had been set by eager parents wanting their daughters to marry well.

Besides my considerable fortune, my long line of nobility seemed to be equally enticing. I’d dodged quite a few traps over the years from desperate females who’d declared they loved me, but all the while just wanted to be mistress of the chateau.

I wanted a woman who loved me for who I was, not for my heritage, or my wealth, or what I could give them—other than my heart.

Ever since I was a young boy, my mother said I was a hopeless romantic. Like her. She told me it was OK to listen to my heart in matters of love, to follow my instincts. She was the one who taught me the value of real love. That it was worth waiting for.

My father and I, on the other hand, didn’t get along as well. He believed it was my duty to marry well, to carry on the long line of nobility; whatever it took. He wasn’t in love with my mother when he married her, his affections were elsewhere. But when the time came to marry, he sensibly chose my mother for her beauty, and above all, her aristocracy; but also because she loved him unconditionally, and promised him, that one day he would love her too. He never did. Not the way she wanted him to.

I planned to marry for love. I didn’t want to be indifferent to my wife, like my father was most of his life toward my mother. It pained me to watch her suffer, knowing how much she loved him. I wanted passion and fire in my marriage.

Was the fiery redhead who made my cock throb and my head spin the one to offer that? Could I really feel this way about someone within such a short amount of
time?

I loved that Rebecca was so feminine, yet so completely unaware of her sexual magnetism. It made her even more desirable. She didn’t use it to trap or ensnare a man, she had no hidden agenda. She was just herself, down to earth and fun to be with. Her sense of humor was downright sexy too. I loved when she giggled spontaneously and her megawatt smile melted my heart. I found myself wanting to do things that made her laugh more, just so I could see her face light up.

I couldn’t get enough of the way she made me feel when I was around her.

There was one problem however: I could hardly keep my hands off her. Every time she responded to my touch with such volatile reactions, it stoked the desire in me even more. I had a hard time keeping my fucking cock calmed down.

How the fool she was in love with hadn’t claimed her permanently and made her his wife, was something I couldn’t understand. I really wanted to know more. I wasn’t fooled by the story of a new career. I’d have to do a bit of digging into her past and hopefully she would tell me what had made her cross a continent. There was definitely more to it.

If she were mine, I would make damn sure no other man could lay a land on her.

“I’m staying in the penthouse at the same hotel,” Alain said, with a wicked grin.
Hotels have penthouses?
And was it purely coincidence that Alain was staying at the same hotel or was he really stalking me?

Outside the door of my hotel room, Alain pulled me to him and kissed me till I was breathless.

“Goodnight, my beauty,” he murmured at the corner of my mouth.

I was tired, yet after all the flirting, I was totally shocked and certainly disappointed that he wasn’t trying to get me into his bed. He was behaving like the perfect gentleman. He wasn’t going to remove the decadent new underwear after all.

Doubt filled my mind.
Is it me?
Was there something wrong with me? Maybe he wasn’t really
that
into me? One minute he could hardly keep his hands and mouth off me, the next he was all polite and civil. God, it was frustrating.

Back in my room, I just wanted to have a quick shower and jump into bed. Physically and mentally exhausted from the flight and time difference, not to mention the sightseeing and excitement of being with Alain, I felt worn down.

On my pillow lay a single long stem yellow rose. Beautiful. The delicate fragrance filled the room. I opened the card.

Dear Miss Clarke,

I hope you had a very pleasant first day in Paris.

Enjoy the conference tomorrow.

Sleep well,

Maxwell Grant.

Surprised that he would go to the effort of having this done for me, I thought it rather sweet, and placed the flower into a glass of water next to my bed. It was probably all arranged by his personal assistant, and just the company’s way of welcoming new contractors.

I smiled as I drifted into sleep. It had been a good journey so far; I hoped it kept going this way. I hadn’t had a moment to think about Julian Palmer since meeting Alain. The sexy Frenchman was exactly the distraction I needed right now.

The next morning after breakfast, I signed up for the conference which was being held at the same hotel I was staying at. Happy that I could avoid peak-hour traffic, I hummed a tune as I made my way to the elevator; I hadn’t felt this upbeat in a long time. Was it something in the Paris air? Or was it the sexy man I’d hoped to see at breakfast?

Even though I was somewhat disappointed that Alain hadn’t shown up for breakfast, I was still in a positive frame of mind throughout the morning events. But, I often caught my mind drifting to my sexy tour guide, and the way he made me feel when I was with him.

Just as we broke for lunch, a smartly dressed hotel staff member handed me a note. Was it from Alain? My heart fluttered as I opened the note with trembling fingers.

Miss Clarke,

Have dinner with me tonight.

It was an order rather than a request. I drew in a sharp breath when I recognized the now familiar signature of Maxwell Grant.

He’s here, in Paris? Seriously?

My stomach twisted into a tight knot. I’d only ever communicated with him via email and Skype; I had yet to meet him personally. Even on Skype he appeared intimidating, self-assured to the point of arrogance. The type of man I avoided at all costs. Besides, I was hoping to spend time with Alain tonight.

I had no choice. If I wanted to keep my job—and I definitely did—I had to accept his invitation. After all, he was forking out an outrageous amount of money for me to deliver a series of workshops. In addition, his company had paid for my first-class flight and this luxurious hotel. And so far, I was really enjoying the Paris experience. I wanted to stay.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, so I scribbled a reply on the note and returned it to the man who had been waiting patiently. It was a local number. I answered hesitantly.

“Ma cherie, I have missed you,” Alain’s husky voice greeted me. My heart skipped a beat, before pumping erratically.

“Alain, I’d hoped to see you at breakfast
— ” Was I sounding too eager?

Too bad.

“I couldn’t join you for breakfast. I had an urgent business meeting early this morning. I can’t wait to see you again, but I will have to wait till dinner. Please, say yes.” His voice was full of expectation.

I bit into my lip. “Um…I can’t…my new boss is in Paris. He insists I meet him for dinner. It's all business,” I said, keeping my voice light, hoping I sounded convincing.

“Sacrebleu.” I jumped at the loud curse in my ear. Clearly he was not happy. Neither was I, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. This contract was important to me; it was giving me the opportunity to live my dream. I had to please the man signing my paychecks for now.

Alain groaned. “I’ll have to keep you by my side at all times to ensure this doesn’t happen again. I want to see you tonight.”

“After dinner maybe?” I offered, trying to placate him. Right now I didn’t want him to know I was just as eager to see him tonight, and secretly delighted that he was so obviously wanting to see me.

“Definitely.
If not sooner,” he growled. “I will call you at nine. Till then, Cherie.”

My mind was racing. I found it harder to focus on the afternoon’s conference session as my mind kept drifting. I hardly knew Alain and already he was so possessive. And meeting Maxwell Grant for the first time was going to be intimidating as hell.

From what I’d heard and read, he was one of the richest men in America and one of the most successful businessmen in the world, all self-made. He’d built his company up from scratch after a harrowing and impoverished childhood. The details were sketchy, as apparently Mr. Grant was a very private person. He didn’t do interviews, thus his private life and youth were clouded in mystery.

If only he’d kept the mystery alive longer. I had better things to do
tonight.

Before the last session of the day, I’d had enough, my head was pounding and I couldn’t concentrate anyway, so I slipped back to my hotel room to get ready for dinner. This time, there was a small box on my pillow. I groaned and pulled a face.

Please. Not from Mr. Grant again.

I opened it gingerly. Inside the expensive looking box was an exquisite Mont Blanc pen.

What the hell?

The card read:
To sign a very important contract tonight.

I rolled my eyes. This was way too extravagant. Really, any freaking pen would do the job just as well. And what was this with going to dinner just to sign a goddamn contract? Hadn’t the man heard of couriers? Maybe I was just annoyed because I couldn’t see Alain till much later, but I was already starting to dislike my boss.

Tonight I was channeling Audrey Hepburn, and was going for elegant and aloof. I tied my hair into a chic French-style chignon to match the simple black dress I was wearing. Diamond earrings and a diamond pendant completed the picture. Twirling in front of the mirror, I smiled. I totally rocked this look; all that was missing were the long gloves and cigarette holder. Ms. Hepburn would have been proud.

Men wore red ties to show confidence and intimidate their opponents. So I
figured, that a woman’s equivalent was red lips. And, red lips paired with my flaming-red hair, was a killer combination, equally as intimidating. I refused to be anything less. Mr. Grant may be signing my paychecks, but that didn’t mean he owned me.

Over the years, Mom had drilled the mantra
Fake it till you make it
into me, so tonight, I planned to do just that. Needing the extra height, I slipped into the tallest heels I owned—kick-ass confidence-boosting Louboutins.

Besides being ridiculously good looking, I’d never seen a photograph of Maxwell Grant where he wasn’t overshadowing every other person, male or female. The man was a giant. And, I didn’t want him looking too far down his nose at me when I first shook his hand.

Cool, sophisticated and confident. Check.

Pouting my vixen-red lips, I thought about my strategy. Should I be early and stake him out, or should I be late and make a grand entrance?

I would have the advantage if I were early, so I made my way down to the lounge where I was meeting Mr. Grant, feeling confident that I would recognize him from his pictures. And, if all else failed, his American accent was going to be a dead giveaway.

I entered the cocktail lounge a good fifteen minutes early, providing enough time to choose a comfortable spot from where to observe everyone as they entered. The best option would be a table in the corner so that I could have a full view of the room.

My blood froze in my veins and I stopped dead in my tracks, staring into the bluest of midnight-blue eyes I’d ever seen.

Damn
. Maxwell Grant had beaten me at my own game.