Billionaire's Second Chance

Both the waiter and the manager gasped.

“Monsieur, we could not possibly!” exclaimed the manager.

“I insist,” Asher said. “Otherwise, we don't uncork the bottle. Deal?”

“Very well,” the manager agreed, still flabbergasted at this proposition.

The wine was then uncorked, we posed with the manager for a photo. Then Asher made good on his word and insisted the manager and waiter each have a taste of the wine. I half expected the manager to pass out from the thrill of it.

“This is . . . It is simply . . . magnifique!” he exclaimed.

After that, he and the waiter left us to enjoy the remainder of the wine in peace. To be honest, while it was really good wine. I wasn't sure that it was the best I'd ever tasted—but then again, I didn't consider myself to be much of a wine snob. More importantly, I was enjoying Asher's company much more than I was the wine.

We sat and talked, joked and laughed late into the night, loosening up and becoming more at ease in each other's company as the night drew on and the wine did its work.

Eventually, the manager came over, wringing his hands apologetically.

“Monsieur and mademoiselle, while we appreciate your patronage, I am sorry to say that we need to close up now.”

“That's all right,” Asher said as he finished off the last of his wine. “I need to stretch my legs anyway. I think a stroll through Paris is in order.”

He handed the manager his credit card to settle the bill. When that was done, we said goodbye and began strolling along the river, taking in the sights and enjoying the atmosphere.

I slipped my hand through his arm almost instinctively and felt his fingers intertwine with mine as he squeezed my hand gently.

When we reached a point along our walk that had a bre

athtaking view of the Eiffel Tower, I stopped to take it in. My gaze journeyed along the skyline until I found myself looking into his eyes. Once more, the electricity of our connection crackled in my veins. His gaze searched mine, as if seeking permission for something.

“Asher, I . . .” I opened my mouth to admit what I’d been feeling in spite of what I’d said, but I didn’t get the chance to tell him. It was as though he’d already read my heart. Before I could finish, one strong hand enclosed gently around the base of my neck while the other wrapped around my waist. He pulled me in close and placed his lips passionately against mine. The sensation of his hands moving across my back gently, yet with power tingling in those strong arms and hands of his, sent a wave of want through me.

I could feel his longing, his intense need for control, and it made me go weak at the knees. My breath quickened and my pulse began to race.

I could hardly breathe.

He paused from the kiss for a moment and stared down at me.

“Let's go back to the hotel,” I said, panting and gasping.

“No,” he replied.

“No?”

“No.”

“But . . . but why?”

“There's a beautiful hotel around the corner, and I don’t want to wait for the 30 minute cab ride back to our hotel is going to take. I want you now. I need you now.”

I smiled up at him. There was no need to say anything.

We hurried across the street where Asher stopped at an ATM and withdrew a hefty sum of cash. We then proceeded to a grandiose, old building, shining spectacularly against the night sky with lighting that illuminated the baroque architecture.

We walked inside, still holding hands, our blood hot and eager in our veins. The reception hall was palatial and reminded me of something straight out of the 17th century, aside from the computers at the desk.

The concierge at the front desk looked surprised to see us, and I suppose he was justified in that reaction, given the nature of the establishment and the late hour.

“Good evening,” Asher greeted him in English as we approached the desk.