- -
- 100%
- +
Was that asking too much? He didn’t think so.
And yet he wasn’t feeling attraction to any of the women. All of them were dressed to the nines with hair that must have taken hours in a salon and makeup that had probably been professionally applied. The diamonds flashing on fingers, necks and ears could light the New Year’s Eve ball dropped in Times Square. He guessed none of them would even look at a man whose bank account didn’t scream high seven figures.
Didn’t matter. Now that Blade had taken off, he could focus on the art. He’d browsed through the jewelry display. Diamonds were just sparkly chunks of carbon, right? He couldn’t figure their appeal. Here in this large open area many sculptures held court. Carved from white marble, he was awestruck how the stone looked as if it was real, warm flesh. As if he should touch one of them the statue would startle. Cool.
He glanced around. Would an alarm go off if he did touch one? He crossed his arms to fend off the compulsion but the suit coat tugged at his shoulders. Vail was definitely less broad in the shoulders than he was.
A waiter offered more champagne and he refused. “Thanks, man—er, non, merci.” Yeah, he’d picked up a few French words. He would be working the language like a native in no time.
Stryke heard all languages babbling about tonight. Earlier he’d listened to a couple of women chatter in English about their hemlines. Why were the conversations he could understand the boring ones?
A crew of well-suited men passed him, each with a gorgeous looker draped on his arm. Stryke tilted back his shoulders. He didn’t need a woman to look important. He preferred his females a bit tussled and wilder, anyway. The princess of his pack would need endurance, patience and, hell, she must be fun, too. And like beer.
“But maybe I should reconsider lace,” he muttered as his eyes landed upon a sheath of black lace caressing the most gorgeous figure he had ever seen. He felt sure he couldn’t even dream up something so luscious.
Black lace caressed long legs and hugged a tight ass and narrow waist. Red-manicured fingernails glided over a hip before gesturing as she spoke to another woman. The gesture directed Stryke’s eyes to the deep-cut neckline that exposed the cusps of perfect, round breasts. And up the slender neck where a single diamond glinted, yet didn’t distract from the soft, pale skin.
Petal-pink lips caught his interest. Kissing those lips would be better than tasting the home-brewed beers he enjoyed and brewed in his basement. Kissing those lips, and running his fingers through that soft dark hair that was pulled up in back yet fluffed on top to frame black-lined eyes could ruin a man for other women.
After a man kissed those lips, there would be no going back. And to stroke his fingers down her neck and arrive at the curves of her breasts? Mercy.
Think rednecks and beer.
Stryke smirked and caught himself laughing quietly. He didn’t do stuff like moon over a gorgeous woman. That chick was so out of his league he’d never get closer than the nosebleed seats. He bet she would never wear flannel or even consider a hike through the pine forest out back of his home.
And yet, she was something to look at. Much more intriguing than the sculpture of a naked man immediately to his left.
So he let his gaze linger as he strolled closer, hoping to catch a whiff of her scent. It would be expensive, for sure. His werewolf senses picked up too much from the room. Perfume, aftershave, champagne, salted crackers, sweet treats, body odor. The sensory assault was overwhelming, but he knew how to turn it down and had done so within minutes after arriving.
Now he sought to home in on her scent. A piece of her to tuck into his memory and take along with him tonight. Something upon which to dream.
As he neared, she dismissed the person she was talking to and brushed close to him, not noticing him, but Stryke felt her heat pierce his borrowed suit and dress shirt. Her body heat was visceral. And her scent was sweet but not like sugar, more like a garden full of flowers with bees buzzing among the petals. Subtle yet intensely heady.
His wrist jerked as she passed, and Stryke swung to see what had happened. “Oh, shit. Uh...” He followed as she walked, unknowing, until she did realize and turned to bump chests with him.
“Sorry,” he said. “My cuff link is hooked on your dress. You passed so close.” He twisted his wrist, but could feel the resistance. “Uh, parlez vous Anglais?”
“Interesting way of picking up a girl,” she said in a cultured voice that belonged in a jewelry box aside all that was precious. And on the box? A sign labeled Don’t Touch. “Oui, I can manage English when I must. Can you get it unhooked?”
“Give me a minute. Your dress is all lace and so delicate. I don’t want to tear it.”
“Please do not, monsieur. It’s one of my favorites.”
He’d snagged her right over the ass, and he worked the back of his hand against her derriere, feeling guilty for the stolen touch, yet at the same time, loving the freebie. The diamond cuff link Vail had loaned him was worth a pretty penny, he felt sure. One of the clasps holding a stone had dug its clutches into the thin black lace.
He straightened, standing beside her with his hand behind her and fingers curled so he didn’t blatantly cup her ass. Causing a scene was the last thing he wanted to do, so he’d act casual. Mercy. She smelled good. It was all he could do not to tilt his head against hers to sniff her hair.
“My name’s Stryke Saint-Pierre, by the way.”
“Blyss Sauveterre,” she offered. And oh, yes, she was. “What sort of pre nom is Stryke?”
“The one my parents gave me. Uh, I’m from the US.”
“That is obvious from your accent,” she said with not even a smile.
Nope. He wasn’t going to win her over this way. Damn. Way to spoil things. Worst pickup ever. Now to extricate himself without humiliating her more than himself.
“Uh, could we move over near that column where there’s more light?”
He nodded toward a marble column at the edge of the gathering. Not a lot of people milling on that side of the gallery. They’d be granted some privacy to perform this delicate operation.
“If it’ll deliver me of your groping hand, then oui.”
She started toward the column and he followed, but it was easiest to let his fingers gently curl about her behind. Yeah, it wasn’t cool, but what about this situation was cool?
Once at the column he pulled her around to the other side, where they found privacy and better light.
“Excuse me for what I’m going to do,” he said.
Her lips pursed. Her bright green eyes were the most valuable jewels in the room tonight. And those pink lips. They looked moist and so wanting of a kiss. No chance of kissing them after this embarrassing debacle. Not as if he’d a chance with this delicious bit in the first place.
Stryke bent behind her to work at the tangle. She slid a hand down her hip, uncomfortable, he guessed. And impatient. God, she smelled amazing. All flowers covered in sugar and fluttering over him until he was buried in sweetness.
“So this is how American men meet women?” she asked over her shoulder. “Snag them like a poisson?”
Poisson? What was that? Poison? Hell, he didn’t know. “Not generally. I like to take a less aggressive tact when I’m interested in a woman.” Though certainly he was on the hunt. Wrong breed, though. This one he’d have to toss back. Ah! Poisson meant fish. “I suspect I’m not your type anyway.”
“What, or rather, who do you guess is my type, Monsieur Stryke?”
When she said his name like that Stryke wished they were the only two in the gallery, and that he had the courage to kiss her and steal away more of her elegant French words.
“Your type...” He stood and kept their close proximity by running his hand over her hip, and said, “...is rich.”
She quirked a perfectly arched brow. The eyeliner circling her beautiful bright eyes had been drawn out at the corners in a catty tease. As he had with the marble statues, Stryke reminded himself not to touch. This wasn’t the venue or crowd that appreciated his kind of sensual curiosity. He’d have to save the smoothing of his fingers over her skin for the bedroom. Which was never going to happen.
“So you do not qualify?” she asked. “Rich?”
“I do well enough.”
In truth, he could probably beat most of the people here tonight in a show of financial statements, but he didn’t like to brag. He was most comfortable living below his means. And if a woman judged a man by his checkbook? He wasn’t interested.
She tapped his free wrist where the diamond cuff link glinted. “I suspect you do.”
He wasn’t about to correct her assumption. Why create another mark against him?
“I’ve been in Paris two days,” he offered. “I have to say you’ve made the trip worthwhile.”
“How is that?”
Leaning closer, just managing the skim of his coat front against her back, he spoke near her ear when a curl of her hair tickled his cheek.
“You’ve pulled me out of my world and into a fantasy. Not often that happens to a guy. Would it be crass to ask if you’ve a boyfriend?”
“It would.”
He nodded. Yeah, he wasn’t going to score interest from this glamour girl.
She tilted her gaze at him and he couldn’t determine if she was disgusted or maybe intrigued. “Have you managed to detach yourself?”
He displayed the cuff link he’d freed from her dress minutes earlier. But since she’d been engaged in talking, he’d not informed her of her freedom too quickly. And the stolen moments of standing in her air? Priceless.
She clasped the cuff link. And then he remembered it wasn’t his. He shouldn’t just hand it over like that.
“Blyss,” he repeated, not addressing her, more feeling the taste of her on his tongue.
She dipped her lashes before looking directly at him and dragging the diamond cuff link across her kiss-me-now lips. “Oui?”
Oh, man, those lips said things he wanted to be true. He breathed her name again. It was so appropriate. Every pore on his body inhaled her perfume and imagined her sugar-flower taste as her silken skin glided against his body.
Before he could claim the cuff link, she strode off. Long legs moved her swiftly, high heels clicking the marble floor. The hand behind her back toggled the diamond cuff link, allowing it to catch the light teasingly. She didn’t reenter the crowd, but instead veered toward the curved marble wall where he had earlier seen the waiters coming and going.
Before walking through an open doorway, she cast a look over her shoulder at him. The cuff link was in her mouth, glinting between those luscious lips.
Stryke’s jaw dropped open. He didn’t need an interpreter to guess what she was saying.
Come claim it. If you dare.
Chapter 2
Stryke Saint-Pierre was one gorgeous man. And polite. While he could have copped a feel when they’d been tangled out on the museum floor, he had remained the consummate gentleman. Too bad for her. Blyss wanted to feel his deft fingers smooth over her derriere. She wanted to lose herself in the rugged smell of him, the roughness of him.
And she wanted to feel that now.
She strode down the dimly lit hallway toward the back office. It was her office, but she shared it with Lorcan, her assistant, and used it principally for paperwork, business calls and the occasional make-out session with a sexy man. It was what she did. She saw an attractive man. She wanted him. She won him. The winning part gave her immense satisfaction. And sometimes a sparkler for her finger or ear. She was choosy, most certainly, and discreet. And never greedy.
Tonight the win was born of necessity.
“You live in Paris?” she called back.
“Staying for a week or so, then heading back home to Minnesota.”
Perfect. He’d be gone and out of her hair as soon as she had accomplished her task.
Minnesota? Blyss vaguely imagined a tundra with blowing winds and snow and—not of interest to her.
As she unlocked and opened the door and strode into the office, she surreptitiously glanced over a shoulder to catch the strut of the man’s long, confident strides. Following at a distance. Smart man. Well, she did have something of his that he wanted back. The cuff link was too small to sell for any worthwhile amount, so she would give it back.
But first, to enact part two of tonight’s plan.
Stryke closed the door behind him.
“Lock it,” Blyss cooed. She stood across the room and turned, back against the wall, one leg bent and a black patent leather shoe heeling the wall.
The man’s long fingers flicked the steel door lock. Something about those sexy, strong fingers. She needed to feel them on her body. And she would. And the man’s name was Stryke. So bold and macho. Everything about him screamed alpha—yet to think that term gave her a shudder.
She eyed the small drawer at the corner of her desk. Inside was the key to securing her future. She must concentrate on the task at hand. Not on his virile attraction or her increasing need to surrender to that virility.
“Where are you staying?” she asked, because it was important.
“On that little island behind the big church.”
The man was quaintly rustic. But that smile of his was dangerous. It said to her, “I like to have fun, and if you’re lucky, you can go along for the ride.” Blyss couldn’t remember when last she’d had fun with abandon. Had she ever?
“Île Saint-Louis?” she guessed, keeping her growing desire for his touch under control by pressing her palms against the wall behind her.
“That’s the one. My grandfather owns one of the buildings and my entire family is staying there. We’re in town for my aunt’s wedding. The apartment I’m staying in is right above a candy shop. In the mornings I wake up to the smell of chocolate.”
“Oh, I know that one. About center of the island.”
“Yeah, exact center, I’d guess. It’s a neat little neighborhood. I haven’t done much exploring since arriving, but I hope to walk the city tomorrow. So...”
His eyes followed the lines of her body, up the slit that exposed her leg, which was darkened by a sheer black stocking. A red bow teased at the top of the stocking. All carefully planned, of course. Blyss thrived on male attention. It fed a part of her soul. If not her bank account.
He strode toward her and she smiled and placed the cuff link between her lips. He wanted her. She wanted him. Too bad this was to be a business engagement.
“Quickly,” she said around the cuff link. “I can’t be away from the event for too long.”
“Is that so?” He stepped before her and plucked the cuff link from her mouth. They matched in height, but that was only because of her heels. She tapped his long blade of a nose, gliding her finger down it and to his lips, which were firm and, over the upper, topped with stubble. His tongue lashed her finger and she pushed it into his mouth for him to suck. “You want me?”
He pressed closer so she could feel the fabric of his suit brush against the lacy dress, yet he didn’t push his body against hers. Teasing? Or not so daring as she had hoped?
“You are like those diamonds displayed out in the gallery,” he said. “Pretty to look at, yet a man could never dream to possess them.”
“Good boy. So you know you’ll not be walking out of here tonight with me on your arm.”
“I get your game. A quickie with a stranger?”
“Quickie is a vulgar term. I prefer an amorous liaison.”
“I like the sound of your French words, glamour girl. Then I guess I’d better get to it. Quickly,” he whispered against her ear.
The brush of his mouth along her jaw made her sigh and tilt her head back, wanting him to paint his warm breath along her skin and to, for one moment, feed her the warmth she sought.
Stryke’s hands glided up her thighs. One stopped at the ribbon that topped her stocking. The tickle of his finger shimmered a delicious hum through her mons and core.
“Mustn’t tug,” she admonished. Placing her hand over his, she again claimed the cuff link.
“Let me guess. You don’t like to be mussed.”
She slid her hands down to his fly and unzipped him.
“No mussing, it is,” he groaned tightly.
He was hard and ready. Just the way she wanted him. But before they began, she lifted his wrist and stuck the cuff link through the buttonhole. “I’ll let you keep this trinket.”
And gliding her hands inside his coat, she slid them up his back between the crisp dress shirt and the silk coat lining. So many pockets lining the interior. Excellent. And then back around to unbutton his trousers and push them down.
“Take me,” she insisted, defiantly holding his wondrous gaze. She did love it when they seemed shocked, the treat of a stolen liaison so unexpected to them. “Fast and hard.”
His swallow was audible. But he didn’t balk. Pushing up her dress, he lifted her against the wall at the same time. She wrapped her legs about his hips. His erection fit like a hot steel rod against her mons.
“You’re soft and you smell great, and you’re so hot,” he babbled as he found his way inside her.
Blyss gasped as his thickness entered her in a smooth glide. She hadn’t required lubrication because she’d been turned on since he’d gotten caught on her dress. Mmm, he felt like hot, hard steel. Every in-and-out motion teased at her apex, and she thought she might even climax, even though simple thrusting generally didn’t do it for her.
She glided her fingers through his hair, seeking to grip hanks but it was so short, like uncut velvet. And then she did something she never did with her hookups. She didn’t even think about it. Her head simply tilted and her mouth sought his. He tasted like champagne. His moan echoed inside her, stirring up her own moan. His powerful biceps flexed under her hands. His hips slammed her against the wall.
Gripping him at the back of his neck, she kissed him deeply, wanting to get lost in him, to find... No. Mustn’t be a fool.
Stryke gasped harshly, yet quickly muffled the noise by pressing his mouth against her neck, his teeth pressing gently into her skin. “Shoot, I didn’t use a condom...”
“I am on the pill,” she whispered. “No worries.”
“Whew.” And as his body shook against hers, she reveled in his quick yet furious orgasm that shuddered his body against hers. Until she remembered...
The desk drawer beside her slid open with ease. She palmed the item she’d placed inside earlier and then slid her hand inside his suit coat. He was lost in the orgasm, oblivious to her actions.
“That was so—mmm, good.” His eyes sought something in hers, so desperately, Blyss felt as if she’d done something wrong. “You’re...” He sniffed, pushing his nose against her neck again and lingering at the base of her ear where her hair must tickle his face. “God, you smell good. But there’s something...”
She dropped her legs and tugged down her skirt. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. I just...” He pressed a hand over her breast, and it was only then that Blyss noticed how her heartbeats thundered. She’d love to do it again with this one—to actually take her time and find her own orgasm—but...
She would see him again. He just didn’t know that yet.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “But you don’t belong here.”
The hand at her chest suddenly felt like a two-ton weight. Blyss gaped. She shook her head. “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know why I feel that, but I do,” he said. “Something about you. Are you...lost?”
A knock at the door sounded.
Stryke quickly zipped and Blyss tugged down her dress and adjusted the red ribbon at the top of her silk stocking. “Lorcan?” she called.
“You busy?” a British voice called from outside the door. They’d done this drill before. He knew never to simply open the door and walk right in.
“He’s my assistant.” And such perfect timing!
She pushed by Stryke and strode toward the door, hands smoothing over her hair. “I have to get back. They’ll be looking for me. You should leave now. Please.”
She unlocked the door and opened it, revealing Lorcan waiting outside. He knew better than to show a cheeky grin or even a raised brow. The man was ever discreet. She returned the same courtesy to him. Turning, Blyss gulped down the longing that had been planted there by Stryke’s sensual prowess. She’d wanted to linger.
Really? Linger against his heat, his overwhelming essence of man, sex and muscle? Sounded delicious. But indulgence in what her heart desired was something she never allowed.
Stryke passed her and slowed, as if he wanted to say something to her, but with Lorcan standing in the doorway, his eyes respectfully gliding along the door frame, Stryke simply nodded and walked out.
“Don’t go back into the gallery!” she called after him. “Please.”
He nodded as his strides took him down the hallway and away from her.
And she turned and strode back to the desk, palm pressed over her heart and biting her lip to prevent the tears.
Tears? What had he meant when he’d insinuated she was lost? Perhaps he hadn’t been such a wise choice, after all. It was too late to alter her plan. She’d already completed the main step.
She would have to see Stryke again. And she looked forward to it. She dreaded it, as well.
“Everything all right, duck?” Lorcan asked.
She nodded. “I’m sorry. You know sometimes I just...”
“No need for an explanation. I’m headed out myself with a pretty young thing. Wanted to let you know I’m leaving. Unless you need me to stay and lock up?”
“No. Thank you, Lorcan. I’ve the security guard and the waitstaff will be around, as well. Go have some fun. I’ll see you in a few days.”
“Yes. We’ll cement our plans for the showing then, eh?”
She nodded.
If all went well, that showing would never occur. And the only one aware it had failed would be her. She had a plan for keeping Lorcan in the dark about it.
He left the office door open, and Blyss bent and peered past her assistant to see if she could still see Stryke’s back, but he was gone.
“The Île Saint-Louis,” she whispered. “Now to step three in the plan. This will be the most difficult.”
And if her heart got in the way again she truly would be lost, as he’d guessed.
* * *
Talk about the cold shoulder.
Stryke actually shivered as he strode down the darkened hallway, passed by the gallery and aimed straight for the exit.
Outside, he shrugged off the uncomfortable suit coat and tossed it over a shoulder. He should have hailed a cab, but he could see the river Seine from here. One thing he’d learned since arriving in Paris: if a man could locate the river, he’d never get lost. There was the left bank and the right bank, and the river. And he knew the island where he was staying was to his left.
It would be about a twenty-minute walk. He could use the fresh air. It was July and even nearing midnight the air was sultry. But not as sultry as the sexy handful he’d just held up against the wall.
“Blyss,” he murmured.
And yet.
“What happened back there?”
Earlier this evening he’d donned a borrowed suit, met Blade on the street before the chocolate shop and entered the gallery with hopes to view some interesting artwork. A couple of rednecks mingling with the snooty set. It was supposed to be a kick. Stryke hadn’t expected to pick up the hottest chick in the place.
And to have sex with her.
Blade and his miniskirted twins had nothing on what he’d scored.
But the craziest thing of all? There had been something about her. And it wasn’t her beauty or her bold tease or the quick but satisfying liaison. He toggled the cuff link she’d returned to him. Her scent had been... Well hell, he didn’t know how to categorize the uniqueness of her. Beyond the sweet flowery perfume, he had scented something deeper. Intriguing. Familiar?