All Mixed Up Page 7

  I wrapped my grip tighter around my knees. Felt the bones standing out, white against my skin, in my struggle to resist moving in on him too. “Says the hot, naked, genuflecting god who knows what he’s doing to my body right now?”

  He flashed the half-smirk again. “I negotiate business honorably, Miss Darienne…though ruthlessly.”

  As he rose, I gulped hard. Not quick enough. The bastard focused his dark stare on my action, telling me he knew exactly what it stood for. That he knew exactly how his offer intrigued me. That by monetizing everything between us, he’d made our “thing” so much safer to accept. So much easier to want. To crave.

  Just business.

  That was all it was now.

  Hadn’t I come to this city for that sole reason? And wasn’t he simply providing a new revenue stream for that? Feelings weren’t part of the package. Sex? Also not included, but my “extra” to claim if I wanted. And hell, how I wanted. But even thinking about that was easier, without worrying about what we both expected afterward.

  The answer? Nothing. We’d enjoy things with no fine print, no contract addendums. Symbiotic supply and demand. We’d both walk away from this as winners. Lucien got me, and I got to fully pay for my freedom from Pax’s betrayal. At last.

  I uncoiled my body but remained seated. Lifted my hands to the chair’s arms. Leveled my stare as solidly as possible at the sculpted bronze businessman before me.

  Just business.

  With the words steeling my resolve, I channeled as much of my inner Don Corleone as possible. Lucien met my regard with silence—and what looked like burgeoning respect. But I’d already been mistaken about assumptions this morning, so I refused to relax. Not by one inch.

  I hiked my chin by another inch. Locked my gaze with the onyx regard of my personal rival mobster-lover-lothario-hunk, and then lifted a hint of my own calculating smirk. “All right, Monsieur Paget. Let’s negotiate.”

  24 Days and Counting

  I gazed, a little stunned, at the contents of the two packages that had just been delivered to the apartment.

  Okay. Maybe more than a little.

  The first, a manila envelope actually sealed with an old-fashioned wax stamp bearing the initials LP, contained four sheets of paper and a gold fountain pen. Formatted on the pages was a contract, written in French and English. The pen, obviously, was the instrument with which I was to sign both copies.

  A contract.

  The man had written up a contract.

  It was all here, too: everything we’d agreed to in our bedroom boardroom yesterday morning, now in black and cream. Yes, the paper was cream. An expensive vellum, bearing an embossed gold version of the LP at the top, and Lucien’s signature at the bottom. I gazed at that more than anything, entranced by the bold loop of his L, the decisive slash on his ending t. Seeing that made me realize how serious he was about the rest…about how real my deal with the devil had just gotten.

  Was I really going to do this? Accept money from a man…to date him?

  Only dates.

  Only if that was all I really wanted.

  But I was adding another lie on top of this pie if I said I didn’t. And that led back to my wrestling match with the first deception.

  At any other time in my life, under circumstances that were vastly different than this, I’d be all but throwing myself at this man. This man, sexy and gorgeous and smart and passionate—who, unbelievably, felt the same pull toward me—and was willing to pay me ten thousand big ones every time we so much as went for a burger together. That was euros—which meant I’d reap even a little more in my own currency, depending on the exchange rate on the days of said burger binges. On top of that, there were the fringe bennies. His attention. His smile. His humor. His kisses.

  And yes…possibly his Adonis body.

  Okay, probably his body.

  So who did that turn me into now?

  What did that make me?

  “Practical.” Despite the affirmation I shoved into the mutter, it all sounded better in my head. I took a deep breath and tried harder. “It makes you practical, damn it. It means you’re dealing with your life, instead of hiding from it.”

  Like I’d hidden from all the signs that Pax had been lying to my face about that loan.

  Now, because I was grown-up and practical, I’d be ahead on the paying back that massive mistake. One step closer to nipping into Mom’s medical bills too.

  One step closer to living my life in reality instead of stupidity.

  Which was why things with Lucien were better this way.

  Did I have real feelings for him? I clutched at my chest as if that answer was threatening to burst from it. And that answer was absolutely yes. “Feelings” hardly qualified this pull we had, like two planets birthed by the cosmos to orbit each other. When we were together, everything inside me was shattered, only to be pieced back together the right way. My scales were balanced. My harmonies were aligned. Only one other element in my life produced the same feeling. Mixing music.

  Lucien. Lucien. Lucien.

  He could be music too…

  I dropped my hand. Shook my head, letting the reverie fall away, the blinders fall off. The feelings, stuffed back into their safe box.

  So, yeah. This contract was a damn good idea, after all.

  I read over the stipulations. They were all there as we’d laid them out yesterday morning—even the last one, to which I’d capitulated in a moment of weakness after Lucien pleaded his cause with a sultry look.

  Miss Darienne will accept and keep any gifts bestowed by Monsieur Paget.

  But even after that irresistible stare, I’d pushed back. Gift. It was too broad. It needed subheadings. Lots of subheadings. But the rogue had held firm. Had even gotten back on the bed and stretched out, using his naked magnificence as a damned effective distraction. To this minute I was certain my weakness would return to bite me in the ass, but I was a woman of my word.

  Nothing proved me more right than the item inside the second delivered box.

  A dress.

  A freaking pink dress.

  Okay, I wasn’t opposed to dresses. I wore them…upon occasion. I wasn’t even opposed to pink. It was streaked all over my head, after all. But the two, as one? In a garment that belonged at some old-school tea party?

  I couldn’t wear this thing in public.

  But dammit, that was exactly what the arrogant ass expected me to do. No room for muddled meanings there, when his confident handwriting was put to a note on top of the dress:

  You will look magnificent in this.

  See you at seven tonight.

  L.

  At least I could claim some small solace about this. One, we’d be eating early, at least in Parisian terms. Most high-end places didn’t start bustling until after nine but I had to be at Avanti by nine-thirty, then ready to spin by ten. Secondly, he’d only sent the dress. I had complete control about the accessories.

  And utilized my power well.

  By the time my look was complete, I was actually pretty happy with it. I ignored the tiny stresses that came with wondering if Lucien would agree. Why the hell was I caring about that? I’d wear the damn dress for the man, but I wasn’t about to become his dress-up doll. If he wanted Barbie, he could make a dating contract with her.

  So I tried to tell myself, while making my way toward the entryway in response to his firm knock.

  After centering myself with a long breath, I tugged the door open.

  And lost every molecule of the oxygen I’d just taken in.

  I didn’t know what made my heart throb harder: the stunned gaze he raked down, taking in the black and pink glitter stars in my hair, the goth cameo choker at my neck, and the high-heeled combat boots on my feet, or the look that defined him tonight.

  Rewind. Rephrase. The look that defined him.

  Holy. Crap.

  In the most superlative senses of both words.

  He was retro class crossed with modern swagger.
Clark Gable and Frank Sinatra crossed with David Gandy and Harry Styles. His navy suit was contrasted by a pink shirt that could only be pulled off with a face chiseled in such shameless maleness. His tie was a gorgeous blend of the two shades, and yanked out the hints of cobalt teasing at the back of his gaze. But overall, the best thing about the suit was its cut. His buff shoulders…his endless legs…his incredible ass…I didn’t know what part of him was hugged best by the custom fit, and was ecstatic I’d have a few hours in which to figure it out.

  But only if he wasn’t royally pissed about my “additions” to the dress.

  Which I began to believe, with increasing squirms, as his silence shifted from contemplative to unnerving.

  “Hi.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I—”

  Was stuck.

  Was I supposed to offer to change into “more appropriate” things? He’d sent the “gift” and I’d “accepted” it, damn it. Now, he’d either accept what I’d done with it, or—

  The thought was obliterated from my brain as my feet were swept out from under me—and my mouth was trapped in the same commanding manner. No…better. As if he’d heard every syllable of my self-doubt, he plunged his tongue in, determined to wipe it all away. If his kiss didn’t do the job, his grinning follow-up sure did. I had no idea a man like Lucien Paget could even do a smirk like that, cruel lips gone dopey with my pink lipstick all over them. Now I couldn’t imagine any man pulling it off with more breathtaking finesse.

  “Mon dieu, mon reve. Tu prends ma respiration.”

  I felt my lips quirking with matching goofball vibes, as my brain loosely translated his expression. Something about God and dreaming and breathing…or not. Did it really matter when a girl was the subject of a heated stare like his? When that same focused study made her bite her lip like a smitten teenager? When he added a gentle handclasp that made her blood zip like lightning and had her cheeks matching the blush of her dress?

  When the power of his simple step forward had her quickly ducking her head, for fear he’d scoop out the rest of her truth?

  That she was falling for him.

  Yeah. Hard.

  Without even one official date in.

  But there it was. My silly, awful truth.

  I just thanked God my dilemma had an easy out.

  Infatuation was easily cured by enlightenment.

  It was time to peel back the illusion, and start learning about Lucien Paget’s real warts.

  So in a sense, this outing couldn’t have been better timed.

  Not that I was going to let him know that.

  Okay, so there was one tiny hitch to my whole route-out-the-warts plan.

  I was having too much fun on this stupid date.

  I had no idea what to expect when Lucien’s driver had dropped us beside the Seine, close to the Eiffel Tower. I’d possessed no desire in the world to see the city’s towering icon, even after a week of being here—but before Lucien tugged me toward the water, I did halt and stare. The structure really was magnificent, rising over the city like a sleek and serene mistress, and I started to understand why so many from around the world journeyed to Paris just to see her.

  Her.

  Shit.

  I’d really just turned a mass of molded iron into a she.

  Worse, it wouldn’t be my first stab at the anthropomorphic duties tonight, giving personality to the city’s stunning buildings and monuments, but at least Lucien matched me turn for turn during our dinner cruise on the river. Best of all, he infused his effort with both pride and humor, a mix that captivated me with every new swell we crossed and every ornate bridge we glided under. From him, I learned about how the Musée D’Orsay began existence as a Beaux-Arts railroad station, the importance of Notre Dame as the social center of Paris for centuries, and how Le Louvre was originally built to be a troops garrison, with its strategic position on what was once the city’s outskirts.

  As the boat passed the sparkling glass domes of the Grand Palais, a small band started playing romantic standards clearly aimed at the tourist-heavy audience. Without hesitation, Lucien took my hand and tugged me to my feet. He guided me to the little wood dance floor and then pulled me in protectively. If I held a single aspiration about doing the leading, he doused it with his graceful, swaying steps. The man couldn’t settle with looking as great as Gene Kelly, could he?

  “What is it?”

  His prompt had me releasing a soft but incredulous laugh. “What isn’t it?” I gazed around, taking in the ornate dining room, the glittering river waters, and the grandeur of the uplighted buildings along the shore. Any second now, I was certain the blare of my New York alarm clock would blast in, and I’d know this last week had really been a dream. “This. All of this. Being here. In Paris.” I flashed him a self-conscious look. “And actually enjoying it.”

  Lucien’s smile was worth my embarrassment. “I am glad,” he husked, brushing his lips along my forehead. “Because I am enjoying it too.” His head rocked back, reacting to my next subtle giggle. “Do I dare ask what now?”

  “Sorry,” I murmured. “I believe you, I really do. I imagine it’s a cool little novelty for you, slumming it out here on the public cruise.”

  I braced for a disgruntled scowl at the least. If I was lucky—ha freaking ha—maybe a grunt and a sulk too. I did not expect just the elegant tick of his left eyebrow, making him look like a chess master considering his next move.

  Thankfully, I liked chess.

  No so fortunately, I couldn’t read anything about his next intent. I could only look on as he flagged down the waiter who’d just returned with our dessert: mousse au chocolat for me, a strawberry macaron plate for him.

  “Merci beaucoup, Marius,” he said.

  “De rien, Monsieur Paget.” The waiter smiled at us both. “Je suis heureux que vous ayez apprécié.”

  “Oui. C’est formidable.”

  “Et le demoiselle?”

  Lucien followed the server’s expectant gaze back to me. “He wants to know if you like the cruise.”

  I sent a warm smile. “I do. Very much. Merci.”

  “Ah.” Marius bowed deeply. “I am glad,” he added in a thick accent. “It is rare that Monsieur Paget joins us with a guest.”

  I felt my face tightening before I could help it. “Monsieur Paget has joined you before?”

  “Oh, oui, mademoiselle. How do you say beaucoup?—errr, yes—many times. But he is usually dining lonely.”

  I scowled deeper. Glanced between him and Lucien, who snickered before correcting, “Alone, Marius. Prononcer ‘alone.’”

  Marius joined me on the frown. “It is not the same?”

  “No.”

  No way did I miss the pointed punch beneath Lucien’s comeback—a punch that was more like a riposting sword stab. At once, there was a matching slice in my senses. My instincts certainly hadn’t scored any bulls-eyes where reading Lucien was concerned, but I would’ve bet my prized goth onyx earrings on this reading.

  That Lucien’s fresh tension was due to Marius’s direct hit at the truth.

  I was validated more by Marius’s pronounced pout. As soon as he’d walked away, I slid my free hand up to Lucien’s nape. “So…how is it not the same?”

  He maintained the neutral lines of his stare. Most of them. Though I tried to scale those walls with my own careful study, my concentration was no match for his. The man was a damn pro at this stuff and proved so. The glints in his gaze, matching the lights of his city for intensity, brought delicious and distracting pricks to my skin.

  “I come on this cruise to be alone, chere,” he explained. “When there are too many people in my ears, too many things to think about at once. This is how I escape sometimes. When I want to simply…be.”

  I tilted my head. “So like rich man’s yoga? Wine and macarons instead of headstands and chanting?”

  “In a way, yes.” He circled a gaze around too. “The water relaxes me. The staff are as close
as family, and they know how to leave me be. And the other diners…they invigorate me.”

  My curiosity piqued. “They do?”

  “Seeing the city through others’ eyes reminds me of how lucky I am to live here.” He angled his gaze back down to me, wrapping me in more layers of his dark, intense regard. “Gratitude can renew your life in an instant, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yeah.” I smiled. “It definitely can.”

  Oh, freaking hell. This was not routing out the man’s warts. This was simply me, falling deeper for him.

  Again.

  Get a grip, Juls. On your head, your crotch, and everything in between.

  He really had to be hiding something. Every man had a few warts. Every human had a few. I just had to stop swooning and start searching.

  “So how’d you get to be so Dalai Llama before hitting thirty?”

  His eyebrows jumped a little. “You have been doing a little sleuthing, have you?”

  “Not moi.” I batted innocent eyes but teased out a giggle. “Leese and Greer did the dirty work.”

  “And what did they tell you?” Once more, his tone was mild but his eyes…they traveled everywhere. Missed nothing.

  “The essential basics, according to the girl posse out to fix me up for a hot French fling.”

  “In which you are not interested.”

  I hummed in approval. “Oh, you learn fast, mister.”

  His gaze heated. “Indeed I do.” His fingers tightened around mine. “But I also like teaching.”

  Shots of hot awareness blasted my system. I shifted, needing to part my legs a little, giving everything down there some relief. But damn it, Lucien felt me go there. With a self-sure smile, his slid a thigh right into the gap. Another deft spin and I was gasping against new surges of arousal, toppling my balance…dampening my panties.

  Focus! Warts! He has warts somewhere. Remember?