Perfect Strangers

12

James whisperssweet words against my lips that I don’t hear because I’m floating somewhere out in space. It’s only when he slips his hand from between my trembling thighs that I open my eyes and find myself back in the book store, in a hazy cloud of afterglow.

Through a gap in the shelf in front of me, I see the blonde cashier. She’s looking right at me. Our gazes hold for a moment, then she turns away to help a customer.

I know she saw us.

I don’t care.

James turns me toward him and kisses me softly, then whips out the silk pocket square from his suit jacket and swipes it between my legs, gently drying me. Then he stuffs the square of silk back into its place, adjusts the hem of my dress, and kisses me again, cupping my face in his hands.

Weaving slightly on my feet, I grasp his jacket’s lapels and pronounce, “This is the best book store I’ve ever been to in my entire life.”

He chuckles. “It’s my favorite, too. Been coming here for years, since I first moved to Paris.”

I bite my tongue not to ask From where? Instead, I manage the presence of mind to tease him. “If you tell me you bring all your girlfriends to the Russian section, I’ll be forced to take off one of my shoes and stab you with a heel.”

His expression turns serious. Rubbing his thumbs back and forth over my jawline and gazing into my eyes, he murmurs, “I’ve never brought anyone here, love. No one but you.”

Love. My heart does this complicated thing where it seizes up and melts, all at the same time. Then I notice the hard pressure against my hip and suffer a twinge of guilt.

“What’s wrong?” he asks sharply.

I blink, startled again by how easily he sees through me. “Did you take a course in mind reading? You’re crazy good at it.”

He hesitates a moment before answering. “I’m experienced with deciphering people’s facial expressions.”

I can tell we’re in Touchy Subject area, but I’m not sure why. It makes total sense that an artist who creates portraits as detailed and full of emotion as his would obviously have a lot of experience reading the nuances of people’s expressions, but he’s acting like there’s more to it than that.

You’re the one who insisted on no personal questions, genius. Move on.

“I was just thinking that you’ve, ahem”—I glance down briefly toward his erection, trapped between us in his trousers—“taken care of me twice now, but I haven’t taken care of you at all.”

His blue eyes grow warm. “Delaying gratification is something I do well.”

Another mysterious statement that I know will go unexplained.

The man is a sphinx.

“Let me show you around the rest of the shop,” he says, offering his arm and smiling his sphinxlike smile.

I curl my fingers around the rock of his biceps and let him lead me out of the alcove and down another winding passageway toward the back of the store.

* * *

“So a famous book store,a famous library, and the former residence of one of the most famous writers in the world. You’re giving me the grand tour.”

“The grand writer’s tour,” corrects James, smiling at me. “Paris isn’t known as the literary capital of the world for nothing.”

I study him. Sitting across from me at a table in a restaurant on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower, he’s elegance personified. He’s powerfully magnetic, too, his raw masculinity straining the edges of his graceful manners and exquisite suit. The woman at the table next to us can’t stop ogling him, despite her male companion’s obvious irritation.

She’s not the only one. I’m aware of several women and their heated stares turned James’s way.