The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

He goes around to the driver’s side, gets in, and pulls out.

Tristan called earlier, and he couldn’t pick me up because his meeting ran late. He’s meeting me at the hotel. I smile as I think back to taking his call when I was sitting with his groupies, and none of them had any idea that he and I had hooked up.

It all feels so naughty.

So not who I am.

I clutch my handbag on my lap with white-knuckle force. My breath quivers as I try to calm myself down.

This is the craziest, most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done.

Half an hour later we pull into the hotel, and I peer out the window at the sign.

FOUR SEASONS HOTEL GEORGE V

Jeez, looks fancy.

“Arrived safely.” The driver smiles over at me.

I take my purse from my bag.

“No, no, it’s all taken care of,” he says as he gets out of the car. He retrieves my suitcase from the trunk and wheels it up to the doorman. He introduces me. “Mrs. Anderson.”

The man in a white doorman uniform smiles and nods. “This way, Mrs. Anderson,” he says.

“Merci,” I say to my driver as he returns to his car.

“Au revoir,” he calls.

The man leads me to the reception desk, and I look around. Everything is beige marble, and big exotic artwork lines the walls.

Huge vases of pink fresh flowers are everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It looks like an over-the-top wedding venue.

“May I help you?” the lady at reception asks.

“Yes. I’m here to see Tristan Miles.” I clutch my bag.

She types into her computer. “Your name, please?”

“Claire Anderson.”

“Yes,” she replies. “He’s expecting you. Do you have identification, please?”

I pass over my license, and she studies it and types my license number into the computer. She passes me a key. “You are in the Eiffel Tower Suite on level seven,” she says. “We can take you up if you would like?”

“No, that’s okay.” I smile. “I can go myself.” I take the elevator to level seven. Frigging hell, this hotel is next level. Even the damn elevator is fancy.

I let out a low, deep breath. I’m suddenly nervous. I fix my hair in the mirror, and the doors slide open.

Holy hell.

Lush carpet, chandeliers, and insane luxury . . . and this is just the corridor. I walk down until I get to the room number on the key. Do I knock?

No. Just go in.

I swipe my key and am hit in the face with a visual sensation. I feel the blood drain from my face.

It’s huge—not a room at all. A whole apartment of over-the-top wealth. A perfectly decorated beautiful space of creams and whites, with french doors going out onto a terrace that overlooks the Eiffel Tower. It’s like a movie, only better.