Emily: Sex and Sensibility (The Wilde Sisters 1)

“Bien, monsieur, très bien.”

Marco put his hand lightly in the small of Emily’s back.

“Cristoffe, c’est Madame Madison. Elle est mon aide. Emily, this is Cristoffe. He is—”

“Bonjour, Cristoffe,” Emily said, and she and the delighted doorman chatted in French while he opened the doors to a lobby that was as charming as it was handsome, done in polished wood and gleaming marble floors.

The staff greeted Marco like an old friend; he introduced her and everyone nodded and smiled and shook her hand before a bellman led them to a cage of brightly polished brass, the kind of elevator she’d always associated with Paris.

It took them to the tenth floor.

The doors opened directly onto the lounge of their suite.

The bellman who’d accompanied them assured them that their luggage would arrive shortly. Marco thanked him politely, discreetly handed over a tip that made the man’s smile even wider, and waved him out.

“Well?” Marco said, once they were alone, “what do you think?”

What did she think? Emily walked slowly through the lounge, skating one finger over an ormolu clock, brushing her hand lightly across the back of a beautiful Louis XIII chair. He didn’t know it, of course, but she’d been in a lot of upscale, elegant hotel suites—and this outshone them all.

“I think—I think this is absolutely beautiful. What’s the name of the hotel?”

“La Boîte à Bijoux.”

“The Jewel Box. Oh, that’s perfect!”

He nodded, his gaze wary, his answering smile hesitant.

“Is it new?”

“It went up four years ago.”

She walked to a pair of French doors that gave onto a small terrace enclosed by window boxes filled with more bright yellow chrysanthemums. A pair of wicker chairs were drawn up to a round table topped by a glass-enclosed candle and a small vase that held yellow roses and tulips.

Beyond, the Eiffel Tower rose against a perfect blue sky.

Emily stepped onto the terrace. She turned toward him, her face bright with pleasure. “What a wonderful place!”

His smile became a little more certain.

“The terraces are my favorite part. There are two more, one off the master bedroom and another off the dining room. Because of the way the suite was constructed, there’s a 360 degree view of Paris. The tower. The Arc de Triomphe. The Palais Royale…” He gave a small laugh. “Listen to me. I sound like a travelogue.”

“You sound like a man who understands how lucky people are to stay in

such a beautiful suite. I can imagine who does stay in it. Kings. Princes. Presidents.”

“Actually,” he said, color creeping into his face, “I am its only occupant. The suite is mine.”

“Really?”

Marco smiled. How little it took to make her happy, he thought, and heard himself say what he had surely not intended to say.

“Actually, the entire hotel is mine. I built it.”

Her eyes widened. With shock? No, he realized. With delight.

“I designed it, too,” he said because, what the hell, why not go for the bottom line?

“You mean the furnishings?”