Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(27)

‘Step this way, madam, for the best ice cream ever,’ he says when we reach a sweet little shop with a green and yellow signboard and cast iron metal tables and chairs outside. There is a bell at the door that chimes prettily when we enter the shop. It is obviously a mom and pop business. The ice cream counter curves around the entire shop in the shape of a U. A man with a walrus mustache is standing behind it. He knows Shane, and talks to him in French.

‘You can have as many flavors as you want in a cone,’ Shane tells me.

There are so many unusual flavors it is difficult to choose, but in the end I decide on four different types of chocolate: Ecuadorean dark chocolate, Mexican chocolate with cinnamon, Rocky Road, and white chocolate with ginger. Shane has salted Turkish pistachio, grape nut and black raspberry. Shane pays for our ice creams, the man gives us napkins, and we carry our treasures out into the sunshine to sit at one of the tables outside. I carefully lick the white chocolate ginger bit first. It is delicious.


‘Good?’ he asks.

‘Very,’ I say looking up at him through my lashes.

‘Are you flirting with me, little rabbit?’ he asks, his lips covered in ice cream.

I remember how they felt and tasted last night, and feel a rush of something through my body—what, I do not know, but it is exciting. I like that about him. The way he makes me feel so alive. ‘Maybe,’ I say boldly.

His grin is wolfish, his eyes full of light. ‘Works every time,’ he says.

‘What?’

He takes a lick of his ice cream. ‘Feed a girl ice cream and she gets an appetite for love.’

‘I said maybe,’ I remind pointedly.

He chuckles and looks at me with lazy eyes, his whole body relaxed. ‘Maybe, definitely, what’s the difference?’

The sun is warm on my skin, I am with the most dazzling man on earth, and suddenly I feel bold. I lean forward and lick his ice cream. ‘This is maybe,’ I say softly. Then I stretch forward and, going close to his face, lick his lips. ‘And this is definitely.’ I lean back and try to look nonchalant. ‘See the difference now?’

Something flashes in his eyes. Suddenly he doesn’t seem so tame and friendly anymore. It’s like waking a sleeping tiger; I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

He smiles slowly, invitingly. ‘I’m a bit of a slow learner. Would you mind if I run through that again?’ he asks.

My heart begins to race. I can’t believe I started this. What on earth was I thinking of? And yet, I can’t back off now. ‘No,’ I say huskily.

‘So this, then, is maybe,’ he says, and, bending down, kisses me, his lips gentle, but persuasive and insistent.

I try to keep my head, I really do, but, by God, the blood is drumming in my ears and all kinds of winged insects are fluttering in my stomach. The man can really kiss! He lifts his head. I gape at him stupidly. His eyes are heavy-lidded.

‘Now, let’s try definitely.’

He takes my lips again, but this time his mouth is more sensuous, more—far more seductive, urging mine to open. His tongue slips in. Waves of dangerous pleasure sweep through my body and stir my blood awake. I begin to respond to him. Oh God! I think dazedly, my whole body feeling like it is blazing with need. I want him inside me!

He ends the kiss, and I feel his face move away from me.

‘I think I got the difference now,’ he drawls, his eyes languorous.

His hand reaches out and straightens mine so my ice cream cone is no longer tilted at an almost horizontal angle. I look at my hand as if it is separate from me. There is a puddle of melted ice cream on the sidewalk. I turn back to face him. His face is deliberately neutral. He stretches like a sun-warmed cat.

‘We should be getting back,’ he says, and stands.

We walk down the hill in a kind of pregnant, expectant silence. Neither acknowledges it, but both of us know. This is just the beginning. There is no denying this thing burning between us.

Monsieur Chevalier is leaning against an old wall, smoking a cigarette and waiting for us. He drives us back to Saumur in good spirits. The men talk in their own way with hand gestures and half-understood French, and I hang my head out of the car and breathe in the scent of France.

Who knows if I will ever come back here again?





Fourteen


SNOW

We agree to meet in the great Salon at seven. I have an hour to soak in the bath and dress. I get into a two-piece dark grey cocktail dress. It has a high scoop neckline with cut-in shoulders. The crop top is encrusted with floral beading with a keyhole opening at the back and a scalloped trim along the midriff. The short flaring skirt is layered with organza fabric and stops just below the knee. I slip into beaded high heels and pull my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck. I line my eyes, brush the mascara wand a couple of times over my eyelashes and color my lips a deep red.

The effect is sophisticated and sleek.

Feeling nervous and excited I go down to the salon. Shane is already there. He must have heard my footsteps on the marble floors because he is standing by the window, a glass of some amber liquid in his hand, looking at the entrance. I stand at the doorway for a second. Both of us drink in the sight of the other. This is the first time I have seen him dress up and he is, well, there is no other way to describe it, breathtakingly, extraordinarily handsome.

‘Will you walk into my parlor, said the Spider to the Fly,’ he says.