Perfect Strangers

33

His blue eyes grow warm. “Delaying gratification is something I do well.”

Another mysterious statement that I know will go unexplained.

The man is a sphinx.

“Let me show you around the rest of the shop,” he says, offering his arm and smiling his sphinxlike smile.

I curl my fingers around the rock of his biceps and let him lead me out of the alcove and down another winding passageway toward the back of the store.

“So a famous book store, a famous library, and the former residence of one of the most famous writers in the world. You’re giving me the grand tour.”

“The grand writer’s tour,” corrects James, smiling at me. “Paris isn’t known as the literary capital of the world for nothing.”

I study him. Sitting across from me at a table in a restaurant on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower, he’s elegance personified. He’s powerfully magnetic, too, his raw masculinity straining the edges of his graceful manners and exquisite suit. The woman at the table next to us can’t stop ogling him, despite her male companion’s obvious irritation.

She’s not the only one. I’m aware of several women and their heated stares turned James’s way.

I suppose it’s disrespectful to me how indiscreet they’re being, but I can’t blame them. His mere presence is commanding of attention. He could be passed out on the floor and it would still be impossible to look away.

“Thank you for doing all this.” I toy with my fork, flattered by how much effort it must’ve taken him to plan and arrange this date. “If it weren’t for you, I’d have stayed holed up in Estelle’s apartment for the summer.”

He doesn’t reply. He simply watches me play with the cutlery, his gaze penetrating, until I get too self-conscious and fold my hands in my lap.

Finally, he says, “I’m bothering you again.”

“You’re bothering half the women in this restaurant.”

“I don’t care about them,” comes the instant response. “I care about you.”

The intensity in his eyes flusters me. I have to look away so I don’t make a fool of myself and start reciting odes to his beauty. Very quietly, I say, “Same.”

I hear his low inhalation. From the corner of my eye, I see his hand—resting on the arm of his chair—curl to a fist, then flex open.

Why that should make my pulse double, I don’t know.

His voice low and controlled, he says, “You have no idea how beautiful you are, and how much I love knowing that color in your cheeks is because of me.”

I reach up and touch my face. Sure enough, my cheeks are burning. “You’re tough on my equilibrium,” I admit sheepishly. “I’m not normally this affected by anything.” My laugh is small and nervous. “Or anyone.”

“Look at me.”

When I do, I find him staring at me with blistering focus, his blue eyes clear and fierce.

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.”