Trust Me (Paris Nights #3)(24)

Her breath felt shallow in her chest. It wasn’t that she was afraid to hit on a man—she’d never really met a man who wasn’t at least flattered when she flirted—but she’d never been this brazen, either. “So you wouldn’t get in trouble?”

His gaze was direct, a little narrowed, very assessing. “Are you planning to claim later to the media that you were assaulted by a U.S. special forces operator?”

“I thought you were a civilian.”

He made a sharp little motion of his hand.

“No,” she said. “Merde. Of course not. Who would do something like that?”

He shrugged minutely. “When you have sex with a near stranger in a complicated situation, you put a lot on the line.”

Well, yeah. She guessed so.

Damn.

All she’d wanted was…something simple. To forget. To be alive. And looking across at him reading, she’d thought that nothing in this world right that second would make her feel more alive than him.

“Never mind.” She made her own dismissive motion of her hand and turned away. The last thing in the world she wanted right now was complications. Maybe she’d be better off going to a bar and picking someone up. “I’ll find someone else.”

Behind her, a sharp intake of breath.

Or maybe one of the police officers, she thought. They rotated regularly, and she bet she could find one that was kind of hot. Hell, they were putting their lives on the line to keep her safe. That was inherently hot.

She returned to the counter and pressed her forearms to the marble again, her back to him.

Imbécile. It was all very well refusing to be embarrassed because tomorrow you might die. But also, tomorrow you might live. And have to deal with the memory of having made an idiot of yourself.

Merde, the way things were going between Chase and Vi, she would probably one day find herself having to dance with Jake at their wedding because she was Vi’s demoiselle d’honneur and he was Chase’s best man. She needed to think about those things. Just because they were in the future didn’t mean they wouldn’t happen.

The chair creaked slightly. Then she couldn’t hear him.

But she could feel him. The shift in the air. The heat of his body. The way he made her nape prickle.

A battered beige book was set on the black marble near her arm. His hand settled beside it. Callused. Sinewy. Gold and brown flecks blurring into tan.

A little wistful breath escaped through her parted lips, as she gazed at that hand.

He said nothing. Behind her, the heat of his body was only a forearm’s length from her back. From that distance, she could imagine she felt his breath against the nape of her neck but never be quite sure. The hairs there prickled in longing for him to bend closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath for certain.

“What do you want?” His voice was ridiculously neutral. No one should be able to speak so neutrally about such a subject. “You want to be able not to think, is that it?”

She gave a tiny little nod, not looking back at him. “And feel alive.”

Again he said nothing for a long moment.

“Look, don’t worry about it,” she said roughly. “It was just a…whim. Are you married or something?”

Only the space of the book lay between their two hands on the counter. Camus. Life was absurd but you kept trying. “I’m not married,” he said. “No girlfriend.”

Oh, and yet he still didn’t…? Well, fine, then. So he’d just been bullshitting her when he said she was pretty. She jerked at the strings of her apron, suddenly frustrated with them beyond belief. Obviously she wasn’t at her sexiest when she was in a chef’s coat and apron. Although he was the one who had started flirting.

Jerk. She had never in her life offered mindless, instant sex to a man before, and she’d kind of assumed that the man would leap at the opportunity, no questions asked.

Idiot. Him and her both. She—

His hand left the counter and pressed over her frustrated ones. Just that one big hand, holding both of hers to her belly, where the roll of the apron rode. Calming them.

She stilled.

Gently, a pressure easy to slide away from if she wanted, he eased her back against his body.

A wall of heat the length of her. Purée, that felt so good.

Human warmth. Life. She closed her eyes, shutting out the kitchens, shutting out what had happened in them, shutting out the sight of one of her best friends on a hospital bed hooked up to tubes, shutting out everything.

Just that heat. Just that hand on her belly.

“We doing this right here?” he said.

Her breath drew in. She held it a long moment. And then she nodded tightly, closing her eyes. Here. Right where someone had tried to kill her, her best friend, and all their team. Exactly here.

His other hand touched the nape of her neck. Then stroked it, petting her.

Oh. The most perfect touch, shivering all through her. It promised not to hurt her, that caress. It touched her most vulnerable spot and touched it gently.

Maybe too gently?

“You—you can be bossy,” she said. “I just—don’t want to think.”

“Bossy.” His thumb traced down below the nape of her neck, pushing at the collar of her chef’s jacket. She shivered. “Any other instructions?”