Romance And Danger
1092 Words
This morning, squeezed between phone calls, coffee, and errands, Elizabeth had gotten acquainted with Lyon from afar. She’d scrolled through articles describing the city’s heart at the confluence of two major rivers and its reputation as the birthplace of cinema. It was a place of traditional bouchons and Renaissance-era streets, a city defined by a dramatic silk-weaving history and massive wall paintings that earned it the title of the capital of murals.
Gagnon Autos wasn’t a bed of roses, she supposed, but she had never expected Henri to willingly attempt to destroy it.
"You look as if I’d confessed to something worse," he noted, sounding not too pleased with himself.
"No. It’s only that—" She checked herself before continuing. "That’s not like you. To give up on something. You’ve never given up on Antoine, no matter what he does."
His intense expression lightened considerably. "My brother is a person. Gagnon is not."
Mightily aware of how out of character this decision was, Elizabeth ached to remind him that he’d dedicated his life to helping companies in crisis. He had taken businesses and people under his wing when no one else had faith in them—just as he’d swooped in to save her parents’ company from bankruptcy and offered her a job.
Instead, she rose to her feet. Unfolding like a long, sleek feline just awakened to the hunt, Henri followed her up. And up.
"Elizabeth, this isn't Montreal." He loomed over her by at least a head. His face remained impassive, but his eyes probed hers. "If you want to sightsee, you’ll be accompanied. It is too dangerous to be alone here."
Dangerous. The word gave her goosebumps. She remembered her research; the articles had painted a picture of a beautiful, peaceful city. What did he mean by dangerous? Or was he simply being overprotective? Nearby, the copilot unlatched the door and descended to meet them.
She couldn't see much of the city in the late hours, but her research had mesmerized her. She’d thought the city romantic, not deadly, despite the occasional mention of petty crime in the travel forums. Yet, she understood Henri’s caution; after all, she had seen the statistics ranking Lyon among the more dangerous French cities.
"It looks so calm," she thought.
"Mrs. Warren said you grew up here," she remarked, eyeing the fruit assortment on a table near the front of the plane.
"From when I was eight to twenty," he answered. He watched, mildly puzzled, as she grabbed two apples and slipped them into her purse.
"In case we get hungry," she explained sheepishly.
His eyes flickered with humor. "If you get hungry, you tell me, and I’ll make certain you’re fed."
"What made you leave?" she asked. How could he leave a place this beautiful? A place that had built a man like Henri Gagnon, with his impenetrable core.
He braced one hand on the overhead wood compartment, waiting for the pilots to give the signal to descend. "Nothing here for me. Nothing in la France either."
She loved the way he pronounced it. The way his arm stretched upward, long and sinewy, the muscles rippling under his black shirt before he let it drop. He gazed into her eyes, and the somber concern she saw there made her heart flutter.
"Are you tired?"
"I’m fine." You’re here, she thought.
The look that came into his eyes changed. He appraised her, his focus narrowing.
"Elizabeth." He closed the space between them. One step. It was the difference between breathing and not. The difference between being in control of her senses or losing them entirely.
He leaned over and pried her purse from her cramped hands. His fingers brushed the backs of hers, and a sizzle shot up her arm.
"Why are you nervous?" The low, husky whisper in her ear made her stomach flip. She felt seared by his closeness, branded, as though he were purposely making her aware that his limits extended to breaching hers. She felt utterly… claimed. "You’ve fidgeted all day."
So he had been aware of her. Like a predator watching from afar—planning, plotting, savoring.
Why was this exciting?
His breath misted across the tender skin behind her ear. "Because of me?"
Her muscles turned to jelly. Because I want you.
She took a shaky step back, singed to the marrow of her bones, but she managed a smile. "I always get a charge after being rescued."
"Ahh," he drew out the sound, infusing it with a wealth of meaning. "So do I. After… rescuing." He swung his arm back so her purse dangled from one hooked finger behind his shoulder.
When the pilot announced they were clear, Henri signaled with an outstretched arm toward the plane steps. "Ladies first."
She warily stepped around his broad, muscled figure. "I’m still not used to your silences."
His gaze never strayed from hers. "So talk next time," he said. "To me."
Next time. As if he were the kind of man who inspired intimate revelations. As if he’d have another company to take over with the help of a "lover."
As the pilots conversed with the customs officials, Elizabeth stopped a few feet from the doorway. Warmth from the French night stole into the air-conditioned cabin, hitting her cool skin. She found she couldn't descend just yet.
She would do anything to get her brother out of his mess, yet suddenly she felt woefully unprepared to play anyone’s lover—especially Henri’s. No matter how much she ached for the part.
She pivoted on her heels to find him standing shockingly close. She craned her neck to meet his gaze. "Henri, I’m going to need you to… tell me. What to do."
An odd expression crossed his face, part confusion and part amusement. The smile he slowly delivered made her skin prickle.
"You may step out of the plane, Miss Stone."
Laughing, she gave an emphatic shake of her head. "I mean regarding my role. I’ll need to know what you suggest I do. I’m determined, of course, but I’m hoping for some pointers. From you."
His lids dropped halfway. He lifted a loose fist and brushed his knuckles gently down her neck. The touch reached into the very depths of her soul.
"Pretend you want me."
- Writer
