Perfect Strangers

29

He says, “Me neither.”

There’s a little heartbeat between my legs, pulsing in time with every hot surge of blood through my veins. I’ve never been this strongly attracted to a man before. The frightening thing is that it’s not only a physical attraction. I’m drawn to everything about him, from the way his eyes change with his mood and the light to the obvious depth of his intelligence and sensitivity.

“Tell me,” he commands, because of course he can read me like an open book.

I whisper, “You scare me.”

He leans forward, his voice urgent. “You’re afraid of me?”

I know he’s asking if I think I’m in physical danger from him, which stops me for a moment. The assumption is so off base it seems uncharacteristic. He can usually gauge me so well. “No, not like that. Like…”

I take a breath for courage, glancing down at the tablecloth in search of a safe place to hide from his piercing eyes. “Like if I’m not careful, I could fall into you and drown.”

After what feels like an eternity, James reaches across the table and grasps my wrist. Wary of his reaction and if I’ve admitted too much, I glance up at him from under my lashes.

The savage hunger on his face takes my breath away.

“Don’t tempt me, Olivia. Don’t make this a hypothetical. Because if I thought you were actually going to give me an inch of rope with this thing going on between us, I’d take it to the last goddamn mile. And believe me, that’s not something you want.”

My lips part, but no sound comes out. I’m too stunned by the combination of his expression and his words, spoken in a dangerous, terse monotone in stark contrast with all the heat and desire on his face.

“Bonsoir, monsieur et madame! Bienvenue chez Jules Verne.”

I jump, startled by the sudden arrival of the waiter at our tableside.

His eyes shuttering and his expression wiped clean, James releases my wrist and leans back into his chair, crossing his legs. He casually adjusts a cufflink, then offers the waiter a disinterested smile.

He went from a boiling vat of molten lava to cool as a cucumber in one second flat.

It’s incredibly unnerving. Not only because it seemed so effortless, but also because it seemed…practiced. Professional.

As if he learned it in school.

The waiter rambles on in French through what I have to assume is an introduction to the menu or the restaurant itself, which is named after the famous French novelist, poet, and playwright Jules Verne. Then he directs a question to James, who orders two bourbons and sends the waiter on his way.

With a shaking hand, I reach for my water glass. I gulp the cool liquid, trying to buy some time to calm down. When I set the glass back onto the table, James says, “I should’ve asked if you have any spots in particular that you’d like to visit in Paris. I know the city well.”

His tone is polite. Distant, even. I don’t know if this is part of his breakneck mood change or if he’s taking pity on me and letting me off the hook. I think if he tried to force me to respond directly to that mind-blowing speech he just gave, I’d bolt right out of the room in a panic.

I clear my throat and moisten my lips. Despite all that water I drank, my mouth is desert dry. “I didn’t…I haven’t really thought about it, to tell you the truth. I expected I’d be focused mainly on trying to write, not…” I trail off, picturing our passionate tryst in the book store. Heat creeps back into my cheeks. “Sightseeing.”

“Sightseeing,” he repeats, his voice husky.

Don’t look at him. You’ll burst into flames. “But I suppose now that I’ve got someone with experience to show me around, I should take advantage of it.”

“Yes, I’m very experienced. And I’d very much enjoy showing you around.”

That’s a double entendre if I’ve ever heard one. Spoken in the same husky tone from moments before, his words carry a hidden meaning, a dark undercurrent of sensuality that tightens my stomach and makes me swallow hard around the sudden lump in my throat.

Or is my imagination playing tricks on me? Is he merely making conversation and I’m reading too much into innocent words?

Dammit, I hate having a brain that manufactures magical portals out of everyday cracks in a wall! Life would be so much easier if I were an accountant.

“That would be great,” I say carefully, looking everywhere but at him.

I hear his low chuckle and know that I’m amusing him.

Then from somewhere inside his suit jacket comes a muted electronic ding. I glance over. Frowning, he reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a cell phone, small and black, the size of a credit card. It’s the thinnest one I’ve ever seen. Must be a European model not available in the States.

He takes one look at the screen and his entire body stiffens.

“Everything okay?”

His gaze flashes up to meet mine. He stares at me for a fraction of a moment, a strange new hardness in his eyes, then he says curtly, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

“Go? Where?” I look around the restaurant, as if searching for a plausible explanation for this sudden turn of events, but James is already standing.

When he doesn’t answer, I know we’re in Touchy Subject area again.

Feeling dismayed, I allow him to help me out of my chair. Then he ushers me through the restaurant with his hand flattened protectively on the small of my back, moving his gaze swiftly left and right as if visually sweeping the area for land mines as we head to the door.

When we’re in the elevator heading down and he’s standing stiff and silent beside me, I lose my patience with the cloak and dagger routine. “Are you going to tell me why you’re so angry all of a sudden, or am I going to have to make up some story in my head that will probably be a thousand times worse than reality?”

“I’m not angry,” he snaps, sounding angry.

I sigh and close my eyes. “Okie dokie, then.”

A few seconds later, the elevator jolts to a stop.

I yelp in surprise, throwing a hand against the wall for balance. My eyes fly open. James turns away from the panel of buttons and looms over me, fire burning in his gaze as he backs me up against the elevator wall.

“It’s work. I don’t want to leave, but I have to.”

I stare up at him with narrowed eyes and a crinkled nose. “Work? An emergency portrait session, is that it? Somebody decided on a whim on a Friday night that they desperately needed you to get their mug on paper before they went to bed?”

“No, smartass. That’s not it.”