The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(28)

“Arrived safely.” The driver smiles over at me.

I take my purse from my bag.

“No, no, it’s all taken care of,” he says as he gets out of the car. He retrieves my suitcase from the trunk and wheels it up to the doorman. He introduces me. “Mrs. Anderson.”

The man in a white doorman uniform smiles and nods. “This way, Mrs. Anderson,” he says.

“Merci,” I say to my driver as he returns to his car.

“Au revoir,” he calls.

The man leads me to the reception desk, and I look around. Everything is beige marble, and big exotic artwork lines the walls.

Huge vases of pink fresh flowers are everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It looks like an over-the-top wedding venue.

“May I help you?” the lady at reception asks.

“Yes. I’m here to see Tristan Miles.” I clutch my bag.

She types into her computer. “Your name, please?”

“Claire Anderson.”

“Yes,” she replies. “He’s expecting you. Do you have identification, please?”

I pass over my license, and she studies it and types my license number into the computer. She passes me a key. “You are in the Eiffel Tower Suite on level seven,” she says. “We can take you up if you would like?”

“No, that’s okay.” I smile. “I can go myself.” I take the elevator to level seven. Frigging hell, this hotel is next level. Even the damn elevator is fancy.

I let out a low, deep breath. I’m suddenly nervous. I fix my hair in the mirror, and the doors slide open.

Holy hell.

Lush carpet, chandeliers, and insane luxury . . . and this is just the corridor. I walk down until I get to the room number on the key. Do I knock?

No. Just go in.

I swipe my key and am hit in the face with a visual sensation. I feel the blood drain from my face.

It’s huge—not a room at all. A whole apartment of over-the-top wealth. A perfectly decorated beautiful space of creams and whites, with french doors going out onto a terrace that overlooks the Eiffel Tower. It’s like a movie, only better.

Holy . . . hell.

Huge silver-gilded mirrors hang on the walls, and there are white lounges . . . white? How the heck do they keep white lounges clean? I look around nervously. “Hello?” I call.

I can hear talking out on the terrace, so I put my handbag down and walk to the door. White overlong drapes hang on the french doors.

“Nous devons obtenir une réponse à ce sujet puis-je advancer a ce sujet cette semaine,” I hear. I peer out.

Tristan is on the phone out on the balcony . . . speaking French. What the heck? Well, I guess French is among the five languages he supposedly speaks. He glances up and catches sight of me and gives me a breathtaking smile. He holds one finger up to signify he will be just a minute.

I get a flashback of the first day I met him, looking perfect in his expensive suit and pacing with his hand in his trouser pocket as he speaks on the phone.

Déjà vu.

I drop my head as I remember that I don’t like who he is and what he does for a living.

God, Claire . . . what are you doing? Couldn’t you have found somebody else to get back in the game with?

“Je dois conclure,” he says to whomever he’s speaking to. He smiles as he watches me and gives me a sexy wink. “One moment,” he mouths.

I roll my eyes as I act impatient, but I’m not really. I could listen to him speak French all day. “Come on,” I mouth back.

“Malade, je vais vous envoyer un message dans la matinée. Je vais avoir besoin du rapport d’ici lundi s’il vous plait,” he says in his deep sexy voice.

“Hurry,” I mouth to tease him.

He bites his bottom lip to stop his smile and holds up his hand to signify that he’s going to smack me.

“Promises, promises,” I mouth back.

He walks past me into the apartment. “Oui, s’il vous plait,” he says.

He reappears with an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne with two champagne flutes. He holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he pops the cork and fills the two glasses.

He leans in and kisses me softly and then hands me a glass of champagne.

“Thank you,” I mouth.

He kisses me again, as if unable to stop, and I can hear the other person, a woman, speaking a million miles a minute to him in French.

“Who is it?” I frown.

“My PA,” he mouths. He moves his head from side to side, as if she is taking too long to say what she’s saying. “Oui, oui, nous en parlerons lundi. Je dois y aller. Au revoir,” he replies.

He listens as she keeps speaking, and he rolls his eyes impatiently.

I smile as I sip my champagne. The cool, crisp taste dances on my tongue. Oh yeah. I eye the glass of bubbles—this is the good stuff.

“Okay, je dois y aller. Passer un bon weekend, au revoir,” he says. He hangs up and then turns his phone off and turns toward me.

“About time.” I smirk.

He takes me into his arms. “Anderson.” He smiles down at me as he pumps my hips into his. “Fancy seeing you here.”

I smile goofily up at him. He towers above me. He must be six foot three at least. His dark hair is messed to perfection, and his lips are a perfect shade of come fuck me.