Текст книги "Seven Nights to Surrender"

Автор книги: Jeanette Grey

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

chapter THREE

“I have to admit,” Kate said, licking at her thumb.

It was distracting, watching that little pink tongue. “Hmm?”

“This is not what I expected.”

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

And he’d had a feeling she would enjoy being surprised like this. Instead of going to whatever cozy, intimate bistro she’d probably imagined her Lothario would take her to, they’d stood in line for almost an hour at the best little crepe stand in Paris and ordered galettes from a man who’d made them right in front of them. Eggs and onions and mushrooms and spinach, all wrapped up in a buttery crepe for her. Ham and cheese for him, and a final one with Nutella and banana clutched in his free hand for dessert. He was still holding out hope she’d let him lick it off her, but it was starting to matter less to him.

He was having too much fun. Ambling around the Latin Quarter. Eating crepes with a pretty girl. He took a big bite and swallowed it down.

“So what did you expect?” he asked, nudging her with his shoulder.

“I don’t know. You talk such a big game. I was thinking candles, wine. Maybe a table, at least.”

“Ooh, big spender.”

She gave him a sideways glance.

Sloppy. He’d been giving off all kinds of mixed signals when it came to his finances, and she was too smart by half. He was going to have to be a bit more careful about that if he wanted her to buy into the idea that he was working with a budget.

And he . . . did. It wasn’t a game he’d played before—not with any real sense of dedication. A Black Amex was such a shortcut to seduction¸ and he’d been leaning on it more heavily than usual this year. Throw a little cash around, and women tended to throw themselves right back at you in return. It was easy, uncomplicated.

But with this woman . . . He’d made the split-second decision to do it differently, and now he was in so deep. Opening up to her, showing her that painting as if she gave a damn about the faint hope he’d clung to as a boy that his parents didn’t hate each other quite as much as they always seemed to. And she had. She’d glanced back at him with those soulful eyes that saw so fucking deep, and asked him questions about his life. She’d acted like she cared.

It warmed something in him that had gotten so cold.

Dropping her gaze back down to her crepe, she tugged at the paper it was wrapped in, and a smile teased the edges of her lips. “Just as well.” She waved a hand vaguely. “Skipping the whole fancy dinner thing.”

“Yeah? You like this better?”

“I do.” She took a careful bite and chewed. “But I think you knew I would.”

“I had a hunch.”

She was the kind of girl more interested in the experience than the cliché. The food over the ambiance. The romance of open air and a warm Parisian night.

“Good hunch.”

By the time they’d finished up their entrees, they’d wandered into a busier part of the neighborhood. Colored lights from restaurants and storefronts made the darkness glow, and the pavement seemed to shine, the air buzzing with sounds of life that didn’t quite manage to pierce their bubble.

He tossed the wrappers from their crepes in the trash, then took her hand and led her over to a low stone wall that separated a patch of grass from the sidewalk. She’d grown increasingly accustomed to him touching her as the day had rolled on. At this point he was damn near addicted, craving more and more. Releasing her fingers, he trailed the backs of his knuckles over her thigh through her skirt, over the smooth, bare skin at her knee. It sent fire licking down his spine, but he forced himself to pull away. He breathed hard against the simmer of arousal in his blood, but his voice pitched lower all the same.

“Have you had a Nutella crepe before?” He unfolded the paper protecting it. The contents had cooled, but they were still warm enough.

“No, but I’ve never met a Nutella anything I didn’t like.”

“You’re not about to be disappointed. The funny thing is that they should be the same anywhere. The filling comes from a jar, and the crepe is just flour and milk and eggs. But their griddles must be magic, because”—he tore off the gooey corner of the crepe, the edge crisp, and brought it up toward her lips—“these, my friend, are the best dessert crepes in the city.”

“Those are some pretty high expectations you’re setting.”

“And yet you’re still going to be blown away.”

Her expression was skeptical, even more so when he tsked her attempt to take the bite from him with her hands, insisting on feeding it to her directly. She rolled her eyes but opened that soft, pretty mouth, and his throat went dry. This was cliché, was so close to the kinds of seductions he’d carried out without thought before, but never with this kind of anticipation. Never with this level of focus on how close they were, this dedication to savoring every sight, every sound. Maybe because he’d had to work so hard for every one of them.

He placed the morsel on her tongue with care, barely grazing the edge of her lip with his fingertips, tempted to press his thumb inside and feel the warmth of her closing her mouth around him. But no. Not yet. He let his hand fall away while his body thrummed.

Gazing straight at him, she rolled the flavor around in her mouth, taking her time about it. Once she was done, she smiled, eyes sparkling. “Okay”—her voice trembled, her only tell that the low intimacy of his feeding her was affecting her as much as him—“that’s pretty amazing.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” He tore off a piece for himself and then another for her.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said when he offered it to her again. Embarrassment colored her cheeks, and they couldn’t have that.

“Of course I don’t.” He made as if to pull the crepe away. “I don’t have to share my dessert with you at all.”

Except he did. The desire to slip that sweetness between her lips had risen to the point of need.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Ha-ha.”

“I’m not joking. I’ll take this and walk away.”

She paused for just a second. “No. You won’t.”

It wasn’t said as a challenge but as a statement of fact. Something in his chest gave a little twist. It bothered him, that she was right, but it was offset by a deeper understanding of what they were saying. His throat went rough. “And you’re not going to, either.” He swallowed hard. “Open up.”

A long moment passed as they gazed at each other. She tilted her chin upward before softening her jaw, lips parting gently. He didn’t move his hand, but she bowed her neck, keeping her gaze steady as she dipped to take the bit of crepe from him. He watched the way she moved, the bob of her throat, the pink of her tongue as she swiped it across her bottom lip.

And he wanted to tell her a line, something about how Paris wasn’t as pretty as she was, or about how he adored her mouth. All the words that came to him were true enough—as true or truer than when he’d said them in the past. But for one time in his life, the delivery felt false.

So he held his tongue as he fed her and fed himself. When they were done, she had a dab of chocolate at the corner of her lips. He brushed it away with his thumb, and her cheeks pinked. She shifted her gaze and shifted her body, looking off to the side as if something had caught her attention, but if there was anything to see there, it’d slipped right past him.

At the moment, all he was seeing was her.

“Was it good?” he asked, leaning in close. He liked the smell of her hair, the soft sheen to her skin. “Was it everything I promised?”

He would promise her a lot of things, if there was any chance she’d believe them. Things about how he could make her feel good. About what he could do with his tongue.

She nodded stiffly. Her shoulders had gotten tense. She looked at him, though, and her eyes held an invitation. He just had to strip a layer of fear from her. Distrust. Whatever was holding her back.

Slipping his hand over the breadth of the stone between them, he placed his palm atop her knee. Edged in close so his breath washed hot across her cheek. “Open up,” he said quietly.

His lips brushed the corner of her mouth, and she was sweet and warm, letting him kiss her for just a moment. Just a heartbeat. Then she was turning away, a little stutter to her breath.

The warmth of the space surrounding them shivered, but he closed his eyes and pressed his face against her hair. Pressed another soft kiss to her cheek. “What are you afraid of?”

A huff of a laugh escaped her throat. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing with me.”

“No game.” He’d played games all his life. Had thought he was starting one with her when he had picked her up, but it didn’t feel like one now. He let his voice deepen. “I just want you.”

She looked away, off into a distance. “And that’s the thing.” Turning her gaze back to him, she said. “That’s the part that I don’t understand.”

Kate held herself together tightly as those words hung in the air. She could hardly believe she’d said them.

For God’s sake. She wasn’t a demurring flower or anything. She knew her weaknesses and her strengths: pretty enough but not a knockout, talented but not so talented she didn’t have to work hard. The idea that a guy wanted her wasn’t entirely the norm, but it was hardly an alien concept.

Men were good at telling a woman what they wanted to hear. And then turning into something else entirely the second you let your guard down. Her father had done it to her mother—had played with Kate’s head, too. Until she’d tried to push herself into a shape that was all wrong, just to please him, leaving her with phantom aches to this very day from twisting herself so hard.

He wasn’t the only one. Aaron had done it. And the guy at the bar that once . . .

Rylan pulled away, brows uneven as he stared at her. He hesitated for a moment, and she was ready for him to turn the charm on even higher. Spout some too-rehearsed poetry, or worse, start quoting One Direction lyrics. But then, instead, he tilted his head to the side and asked, “Who was it?”

Excuse me? “Who was who?”

“The person who made you think every man you came across would use you.”

Her breath caught in her throat as memories swamped her. But before she could go too far down that road, she pushed those thoughts from her mind. Laughed him off. “And who made you think you could spend an entire day trying to work your way into a stranger’s pants and then ask that kind of question?”

“Touché.” He grabbed her hand and held it to his chest. “But you’re deflecting. Which means I’m onto something. So who was it?”

Seriously? Was there anyone out there who didn’t teach a woman that? “Um. My mom? The US Senate? Law and Order: SVU?”

“No.” He shook his head. “What was his name?”

That made her pause. When he phrased it like that, she couldn’t help it. She’d been burned enough times now, but there were those still-lingering bruises, throbbing hotly in the center of her chest. She dropped her gaze and tried to tug her hand free. “It doesn’t matter.”

She didn’t want to think about her dad. Or about Aaron. About how she’d nearly made her mother’s mistakes all over again. She’d been such an idiot. Such a fool.

“Of course it does.” He let their hands fall from his chest, but he didn’t let go, wrapping his fingers around her palm. Rubbing his thumb into the tender spot in its center where the muscles always cramped from drawing. “Because I’m not him.” When she made another move to pull back, he held on even tighter. The heat in his tone abated, a forced casualness taking over. “I mean, sure. You’re not from around here. You’re only in town for, what? A few days? A week? It’s a fling. But a fling can be fun for both of us. I didn’t decide to spend the whole afternoon in an art museum or invest the absurd sum of nearly five euros on your dinner just because you were the first girl I happened to lay eyes on.”

That made her crack a smile. He ducked his chin, and brought his other hand up to touch the side of her face.

“See?” he said. “That right there. That goofy smile when you like one of my crappy jokes and don’t entirely want to admit it? That’s why I’m still here.”

“Just my smile?”

His gaze darted upward. “And your eyes. I like how they seem to watch everything.” He trailed his fingers down the line of her neck. “I like how you give me shit and don’t let me get away with anything.”

“You like a challenge?”

“A conversation. They’re hard to come by with the kind of life I lead.”

It hit someplace resonant inside of her. She’d come on this trip all on her own without really thinking about the solitude. How many times had she spent all-nighters in the studio, or locked herself in her tiny apartment for days to paint? Conversation wasn’t something she needed. But not being able to have it, being surrounded by a language she didn’t understand, even on the radio and the television . . . it was lonely. And Rylan made her feel anything but.

She faltered for a second. “And if you didn’t like any of those things?” She made her tone flippant, to try to hide how much his answer mattered. “You wouldn’t still be here, trying to get laid?”

“I might be.” His smile was lopsided. Soft and kissable. “But I wouldn’t care as much about whether or not it worked.” With that, he leaned down and pressed his lips to her hand. He lingered just a little too long, breath warm on her skin. Then he pulled away and rose, tugging gently to help her up. “Come on. Let me walk you to the Metro station.”

Her head was spinning as she stood. He’d just basically said he was invested now, but if he was offering to walk her to her train, did that mean he was giving up? For all her resistance, the idea of it made a little bubble of disappointment lodge in her throat.

Maybe she should kiss him. Make some kind of statement that no matter how uncertain she was about this, she wasn’t entirely ready for it to end.

Or maybe it was all for the best.

Mind working overtime, trying to sort out the possibilities, she followed him down the street. They walked side by side, hands entwined. When the entrance to the subway loomed, he slowed, stopping to lean up against a lamppost.

Her heart thundered behind her ribs. All her worries about him giving up had been premature, because the way he was looking at her now didn’t even begin to speak of resignation. Leaning in close, he cupped her face with his palm, fingers weaving themselves through her hair.

He nosed at her temple, and his breath was warm against her ear. “Invite me back to your hotel.”

God, she was tempted. Her bones felt watery, and there was a heat coiling up in her abdomen, flames fanned by the scent of him. By the subtle press of his body to hers. Her chin tilted back, spine arching ever so slightly.

But then her breath caught in her throat. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” He danced his fingertips up her arm and pressed his lips to the column of her throat.

“I—” She couldn’t even remember why. Except—Oh, right. “Can’t. Actually can’t.” Why was her voice so breathy, her skin so sensitive? “Cheap hostel, remember? Roommates.”

“All those friends you said you were traveling with?”

“Worse. Strangers.”

“Strangers you don’t want to know what you sound like when you come?”

Jesus. Part of her wanted to grab him by the collar and pull him down into that subway, just for the heat of that promise.

A promise no man had ever bothered to make to her before. A promise no man had ever managed to fulfill.

His words and kisses were all persuasiveness, like he could feel her wavering on the point of indecision. “Because,” he continued, “this may be a fling.” He pulled his lips from her skin, shifting until his face was right in front of her. His eyes burned hot and dark. “But I promise. You will get exactly as much out of it as I will. More, if you’re willing to show me what you like.”

And goddammit. Men broke their promises—they did it all the time, but she wanted to believe this one. She’d had sex only once since she and Aaron had broken up, and it had been awful. Worse than it had been with Aaron even, and after everything . . . didn’t she deserve something good?

Before she could overthink it any more, she reached up. Grabbed him by the hair and pulled him down, taking the kiss she’d been so afraid of a few minutes before.

And it was worth it. He tasted like chocolate and sin, the rasp of stubble a delicious burn against her chin. He was still against her for all of a second before he pulled her close, surrounding her with his warmth and pressing forward with his tongue. Scraping his teeth over her bottom lip and accepting everything she offered.

But giving back to her, too. With every push forward, he let her in a little more, until her skin hummed and her breath was coming too fast, heat and need pooling deep inside her abdomen.

This was insane. It was how she’d landed herself in trouble last time. She should disengage, get her breath back, calm the racing of her heart.

But it was also nothing like the last time. This man had coaxed her along, patient through every step, his kiss and his million casual touches promising she wouldn’t regret letting him in. They’d talked, shared stories. She’d glimpsed more than simple lust in his eyes.

She could do this. This one time, maybe she could have this.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she tore away with a gasp, fingers curled tightly in the fabric of his shirt, breasts pressed to the solid muscle of his chest. “Your place?”

His laugh was pure frustration as he tucked her head against his shoulder, rocking them side to side. “Not a good idea, either, sadly.”

Dammit. “Roommates?”

“Something like that.” He dipped his head again and kissed her, softer this time but with no less warmth or intent. With one last sweep of his lips over hers, he retreated to rest his brow against her temple. “This isn’t going to happen tonight, is it?”

“Doesn’t seem that way.” She shouldn’t feel so conflicted about that. Reason said it was better to wait, but her body said she only had so many days here. She could be laid out on a bed right now, being taken apart the way she’d always imagined the right man could.

Putting his hands on her shoulders, he took a step back, looking at her square on, and there was an intensity to his gaze. One that went straight to the very center of her. “Meet me tomorrow.”

“I—” The tick of hesitation caught her by surprise. She had so many things she wanted to see and do and experience in this city. While he was swiftly moving up that list of things, she wasn’t ready to ignore the rest of them. “When?”

“When are you free?”

If she took the morning and maybe the early afternoon for herself, she could hit a few sights. Spend some time with a pad of paper and her charcoals trying to capture the light. Think some more about what the hell she was going to do with her life.

With this man.

“Maybe four?” she suggested, then hedged. “Five o’clock?”

“Four thirty it is.” He didn’t sound disappointed about it being so late. “You know the Tuileries Garden, right? Back near the Louvre?”

“Of course.”

“Meet me there. By our statue.”

“Our statue?”

He smirked and nodded. “Our statue.”

“We’ve never been there before.”

“Nope. But we’re going tomorrow.” He leaned in and kissed her once more, lightly, on the mouth. “And you’ll know it when you see it.”

She remembered looking at the garden on her map, before it had been stolen from her. The place was huge, its sculpture legendary. She could spend half the day trying to figure out which piece he happened to be thinking of.

“And you’ll know I didn’t when I’m two hours late.”

“Not going to happen. And anyway, as we’re proving tonight”—he tweaked her chin—“I can be a very patient man.”

“Ha.”

He dropped his arm and turned, but then he paused. “You’ll meet me, then?”

She knew the answer in her toes. Her lungs fluttered as she filled them with breath.

This might be insanity. Might be folly of the highest order, and a distraction she couldn’t afford. Her smile wavered. Still, she nodded. “It’s a date.”

chapter FOUR

It didn’t seem to matter how long he’d been living like this, or how late he’d been up the night before. Barring the worst kind of jet lag, Rylan snapped awake at seven every morning, alert and blinking and ready for somebody to start barking at him.

Sighing, he forced himself to relax and sagged against the headboard, scrubbing a hand through the mess of his hair. He looked around at his surroundings, at the pale light streaming in through the curtains. The four gray walls and the bookshelves and the sheer quantity of stuff he’d managed to accumulate over the course of the past year. There were noises out on the street, but in here it was blissfully quiet. It was just him in the apartment, same as every morning.

Well, most mornings. He chuckled to himself as he slid his palm down his face. The few occasions he did bring someone back with him—the even rarer ones when they spent the night—they usually weren’t barking at him. Not his scene, thank you very much.

No, his scene was pretty art students, apparently. Pretty art students he could have had in his bed right now, if only he’d been willing to give up the pretense of what kind of life he was leading here in Paris.

Roommates. She’d wondered if he had roommates.

He groaned and shook his head at himself. He probably should have just been upfront about things with her. There hadn’t seemed to be much reason to, though. She hadn’t even told him how long she was going to be in town, but it wouldn’t be more than a week. Two at the most. Why rock the boat? She wanted her charming bohemian adventure, replete with shitty hostels and smelly, backpacking roommates? He wouldn’t spoil it for her.

He wouldn’t spoil it for himself. She hadn’t known what he had to offer, and she’d kissed him anyway. She’d chosen normal¸ ordinary him. No one else had ever done that before—he’d never given them the chance to.

Besides. He really didn’t want to see the look in her eyes once she knew. He typified everything charming bohemian types abhorred. Shallow, rich, lazy. Hollow.

To distract himself from that whole train of thought, he grabbed his phone from his bedside table. Sure enough, there were a handful of alerts. He scrolled through them with disinterest. A couple of things from his broker, and one from his father’s crony. McConnell. He deleted that one without even looking. The one from his sister he gave a cursory glance, but really, he shouldn’t have bothered. She had only one thing on her mind these days, and it was nothing he wanted any part in.

He wasn’t going home, no matter how many guilt-tripping emails and phone calls they all laid at his feet. Not now. Not after . . . everything.

Maybe never.

With a sigh, he turned off the screen and set his phone aside. He threw off the covers, rolling over to the edge of the bed and levering himself up to sit. He had until late afternoon to get his shit together, and he basically had nothing to do. Still, it wasn’t as if he was going to be able to get back to sleep. Resigned, he arched his spine and stretched his arms up overhead, then gave his bare chest a scratch. Flicked his thumb against the ring that hung from the chain around his neck. Finally, with a yawn, he rose and headed over to the wardrobe in the corner, where he plucked out a T-shirt and tugged it on. Between that and his boxers, he was decent enough.

It was somehow even quieter out in the main rooms of the apartment, and not the good kind of quiet. More the kind that had him out in cafés and museums and, well, anywhere else, most days. Ignoring it all the best he could, he made a beeline for the coffee machine and got some espresso going.

While the thing was grinding, he wandered over to the window and looked down at the world below. He liked the look of Paris in that post-dawn glow. The first commuters were already out, grabbing their croissants and heading to the Metro, but the tourists were still asleep, and the air smelled of bread instead of exhaust. It was peaceful.

This apartment was supposed to be peaceful. His mother had explicitly told the designer that. He turned around, though, and forced himself to really see it, and it made his teeth grate. It set his bones on edge.

Japanese screens and modern art and artisanal vases filled with single fake buds had nothing to do with peace. They had to do with showing off.

With creating a nice little space to drag the douchebags you were fucking back to, while your husband was home in the States robbing the company blind.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Rylan stormed his way back over to the espresso machine before he could put a hole through something useless and priceless. He poured the coffee into one of the dainty little china cups the place was outfitted with and slugged it down. It was bitter and it burned in his throat and he didn’t care.

He needed to get out of there, and not just for the afternoon. For a few days, at least. Maybe for good. He set the cup in the sink for someone else to deal with later and braced both hands on the counter, breathing in deep.

When it struck him—a solution so obvious, so perfect—he couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to him earlier.

Without bothering with anything else, he stalked back to his room for his clothes and his phone.

He had planning to do.

The glare from the sun was almost blinding as Kate spilled out of the cathedral, blinking hard against the sudden onslaught of light. She fumbled at her side for the new bag she’d picked up at a random stall that morning and kept tucked close against her body all day. Winding her way through the crowd milling around the exit, she managed to lay her hands on the cheap plastic sunglasses she’d bought from the same vendor and slid them up her nose. Vision thus shielded, she cast a glance up and back.

Notre Dame Cathedral, real and in the flesh. Well, stone. It was another sight to cross off her list of must-sees, and she was glad she’d made the time to check it out. The stained glass had been as beautiful as promised. The arching ceilings and tile.

It hadn’t been as much fun as the Louvre, though. None of the places she’d visited on her own had been.

Frowning to herself, she slipped her way between the clusters of people milling about the square, scanning until she spied an open bench. She made for it and plunked herself down, resting her purse in her lap and looking around. There were so many things to see, so many people to look at, languages to hear. Rylan would probably have had an interesting comment about them all.

Rylan. She’d see him in a couple of hours, provided he showed—and that she could follow his cryptic directions to their meeting spot. Part of her wished she’d gotten his number, that she could ask him to meet up with her sooner. But no. It was better this way. He was good company, sure, but nothing worth getting attached to. Even if he wasn’t just after a one-night stand, everything about him screamed casual.

It also screamed confident in bed. And didn’t that send a shiver of anticipation up her spine?

A lonely night in a room with a bunch of other people who’d shared none of her compunctions about having intimate relations around strangers had made her rethink her prudishness from the night before. No, she wasn’t usually the type to sleep with people she didn’t know, but she was on vacation, and he was gorgeous, and she just knew. He’d know his way around a woman’s body. He’d live up to the promises he’d whispered in her ear and pressed against her lips.

Later.

For now, she had come to Paris with a purpose, and this was it. Opening up the main compartment of her bag, she drew out the sketchbook and pencils she’d brought with her for the day. She was still pissed about having lost a brand-new book the day before, but she was grateful, too. Fresh pages could be replaced, if for a small fortune. Near-full books? They were priceless, for the story that they told.

She flipped through the one in front of her for a moment, watching as faces and scenes and still-life illustrations flew by. She’d been slowly filling it over the last couple of years, and she’d been proud of it—proud of all the things she’d made in her final semesters of school.

And yet, looking at it now, all she could hear were the words her mentor, Professor Lin, had said in their last critique session.

“Mastery of every style, Kate. It’s an impressive thing.” Lin had tapped her fingertip against the frames of her glasses. “But unless you make a style your own . . . it’s all just imitation.”

A sour pit opened in the bottom of Kate’s stomach. She’d played with so many different styles in this book. There were faithful renderings, near-perfect photorealism. Fauvist color studies and gestures intended to capture movement. Impressionistic smudges decorated a few, and she’d even ventured into abstraction. By and large, they were good, she’d concede. But they could have been done by anyone. They could have been done by fifteen different someones.

You had to have a voice in art. A vision.

And that was the quiet secret of this trip, the one she hadn’t dared reveal to anybody before she’d gone.

It was her last-ditch hope that she could find a vision of her own. One she could take to graduate school with her.

She had to stop herself from crumpling the page in her grasp. If she couldn’t find it, she’d have to settle down. Take the corporate job she’d been so, so lucky to land, and go sit in a cubicle for the rest of her goddamn life, surrounded by gray, fabric-covered walls. She shuddered. Soullessness and stagnation and the only thing her father had ever let her believe she’d be good enough for.

She’d spent her whole life trying to prove him wrong. But deep down inside, sometimes, she believed him.

Not today, though. Not here.

Squaring her shoulders, she skipped past the rest of her completed sketches, turning to one of a handful of bare white pages and lifting her gaze to the city around her. Paris had something so vital to it, an energy and a romance. The city felt like she wanted her paintings to look, and if she could only capture that . . .

Maybe she’d have something worth fighting for.