All for You (Paris Nights #1)(42)

Careless slip of the tongue, that “mostly.” He should have known better, after watching his tongue so long in the Legion. “Nothing.” He made his voice surprised. “What’s not to enjoy?”

“You tell me,” Célie said, exasperated.

He looked down at her. She was getting frustrated with him again, and he probably should never tell her how much he enjoyed that. At least half of him, whenever she started simmering, got all excited that she might actually put her hands on him and try to work her frustrations out.


But another part of him worried about it quite a bit. She’d asked him what was wrong. He’d said nothing. Why was she frustrated about that?

She never used to get so annoyed with him. She’d … hero-worshiped him too much, maybe.

Which was all backward, because now she was supposed to be able to properly hero-worship him. He should be able to relax into it. Feel as if he finally deserved it.

And instead he didn’t seem to be getting much of that hero-worship at all.

“I’m enjoying everything,” he repeated. “Except maybe that you’re frustrated with me, but, to tell the truth, I’m even half enjoying that.”

There. He’d been honest with her.

She gave him a look that was apparently supposed to make him quiver in fear. He’d probably better not tell her the parts it really made quiver. She might be able to feel them herself, with this damn merengue. “Joss Castel.”

He smiled, on a kick of pleasure at his name in that minatory tone.

“Joss.” She sighed in exasperation. “I can tell something’s wrong.”

Seriously? How the hell had he let it slip?

“Will you just tell me!” she snapped.

He sighed, looking down at her as their hips rocked together.

He’d gone through the Foreign Legion so he’d never have to disappoint that hero-worship in her eyes. But he missed talking to her. Missed the way she bounced her laughing and teasing off him, but also missed just those quiet, easy conversations about anything and everything except, of course, the most dangerous anything and everything back then—that he didn’t have a platonic bone in his body, when it came to her.

“I can’t relax,” he admitted.

Her hand pressed over his chest, where his heart beat too rapidly, keeping him primed for anything. She searched his face.

“It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself that I don’t need to keep an eye on everyone in the crowd, I can’t turn off the instinct, and I keep doing it. Checking every movement, every person carrying a backpack or wearing loose enough clothes to conceal a gun or explosives. This is about ten times worse than any market I ever had to patrol. It’s okay, it’s not a big deal. It’s good practice for me to get used to being back in civilian life, and it’s a beautiful evening. It’s just … tense.”

She was silent for a moment, and he braced, feeling bad. See, this was what he hadn’t wanted to do—ruin her evening. Her forehead stayed crinkled, but the exasperation faded. He missed the exasperation. And he definitely didn’t want that crinkle to be in concern or pity instead.

“I have an idea,” Célie said. “Why don’t we say good night to my friends and take a walk on the Seine? Just you and me.”

He gazed down the dark river toward Notre-Dame. Somewhere past the crowds in that direction, quiet and peace lay. A beautiful evening where he could walk hand in hand with her and maybe find a spot to kiss her again.

But he was copping out if he did that, wasn’t he? Giving in to a weakness and robbing her of her fun evening with her friends? It was something else she could later blame him for, right?

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Célie said wistfully. “Walk on the Seine at night with someone I wanted to hold hands with.”

And she never had? A hot, painful joy surged through him to know that. She’d been lonely … but she’d stayed all his.

“Then let’s do that.” And for good measure, since she seemed to have a taste for romance, he lifted her hand off his chest and kissed the palm.

Wow, the look in her eyes at that. You’d have thought he had slain a dragon for her.

Interesting, since he had slain metaphorical dragons for her, over and over, and the thing that had made her eyes go starry was one easy kiss of her hand.

Women made no sense sometimes, especially not Célie, but he kissed the tips of her fingers next since she liked it so much, and held her hand snug and warm as they took leave of her friends and headed off for a walk.

***

The farther they got from her friends and that bright center of happiness and dancing on the quay, the tenser Célie got.

The security and confidence drawn from the friend-filled evening drained away from her as they kept walking, leaving her support network behind. All the bright, vivid life she had made sure to build for herself, in defiance of anyone who might have left her with nothing. Each step took her further outside her comfort zone, to this isolated place where her happiness depended on one person.

On the way he held her hand.

On that neutral, quiet expression of his as he gazed at the luminous bridges and old palaces and glanced regularly down at her. On the size of his body, an impenetrable barrier against the world. Not a single group of guys called out for her attention as they walked past. She would have shot them a bird and kept on walking if they did, and it felt weird and weak not to do that, not to be depending on herself or the strength of a group of friends.