Strong Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #1)(18)

I slide a sidelong glance in his direction. He’s watching the woman work, his face a blank mask. His expression is neither rude nor open. It’s simply blank. Politely blank, I guess. I think again of the chameleon. Dressed in a plain black tee that looks to be of higher quality, his short, jet-black hair in neat disarray (if that’s even a thing), Jasper could be a stock broker in casual attire or the bouncer for a high-end night club. He has a dangerous, primal look about him that could be attributed to his lethal actions in a boardroom or to the fact that he carries a gun somewhere in his belongings. The one thing he remains to be at all times, in all situations, and in any attire is attractive. Compelling. Elusive. Fascinating.

And I’m damn sure fascinated.

“The only vacancy we have is a single smoking with two double beds. Will that be a problem?” the attendant asks in her exotic voice.

I don’t glance at Jasper. I don’t want him to see my blush, don’t want him to pick up on my reaction. It’s not like it’s a big deal, really. It just feels like a big deal in some vague, disturbing way. I mean, it’s not like Jasper wouldn’t just come right on into my room if he had the urge to anyway, just like he did last night. It’s just that this seems . . . intimate somehow, sharing the same space. A tiny room where he could have unrestricted access to me all through the night.

My reaction to the idea is immediate and visceral, my core bubbling with sensual awareness.

God, you’re pathetic! I think before collecting myself enough to answer, “That’ll be fine.”

From my right, Jasper leans in and utters a smooth, “Parlez-vous fran?ais?”

The woman’s eyes snap up to lock on Jasper

“Oui!” It’s clear that she’s very pleasantly surprised. “How did you know?”

Jasper spouts off some long answer that sounds like a love letter and makes the woman laugh. Suddenly he’s neither a stockbroker nor a bouncer. He’s a classy world traveler with the face of a Greek god and the smile of a fashion model. I stare at him, open-mouthed, as he converses fluidly and effortlessly with the older woman.

Finally, in words that I can understand, Jasper thanks her. “I appreciate you moving things around this way. My sister . . . well, she has special needs.”

I have to work hard to keep my mouth from dropping open in aggravated astonishment.

The woman glances at me for a split second and then her eyes are once again glued to Jasper. “I completely understand. I’m only happy to accommodate your needs, sir.”

Oh, I just bet you are! I think waspishly.

Jasper’s answering smile is downright heart-stopping. I can’t help staring at him like he’s grown a second head, all the while feeling cheated that I never get that smile.

Less than ten minutes (of the clerk fawning over Jasper) later, we are dragging our bags out of the elevator. I stop and hold out my hand for a key. Jasper obliges by setting a black plastic card onto my palm.

“Room number?”

“Suite 631,” he provides.

I glance at the plaque that tells me in which direction suite 631 lies and I start off in that direction, not intending to say anything else to Jasper. When I stop in front of the double doors, Jasper stops, too. I peer up at him in question.

“I got us a suite.”

“Us?”

“Yes.”

“To share?”

“Yes.” When I continue to stare, he continues. “If that’s not okay, I’m sure that smoking single next to the vending machines downstairs is still available. I thought I was doing you a favor.”

I sniff, trying not to be angry and not understanding why I am. “I guess I’d have known that if I spoke French.”

Jasper shrugs and takes the key from my fingers, letting us into the spacious suite. The colors are soothing blues, browns and beiges. A combo living-dining area is straight ahead and, beyond, a stunning night view of the city is visible through the part in the heavy ecru curtains. There are doorways to either side. I can only assume each is a bedroom.

“You can have your pick. I’ll take the one you don’t want.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll take right, you take left.”

Jasper shrugs, walking into the living room to toss his key and his bag on the coffee table. I ponder the mysteries of this man as I start toward the bedroom that will be mine. I pause in my exit. “So . . . how many languages do you know?” I ask.

“Six, but I’m only fluent in four,” he admits without even looking in my direction.

I grit my teeth. The man infuriates me. He’s so guarded, yet so casual about knowing six, six different languages. Who the hell is he?

I don’t have the answers, and I don’t expect I’ll be getting them either. I guess I’ll just have to add them to my list of curiosities about the enigma I’ll be rooming with.

“Interesting,” I say minimally. I get no response, though. Jasper is already paying me no mind as he digs a thin laptop from his bag and sets it up on the table.

I resist the urge to flounce off as I roll my suitcase into the bedroom to the right, leaving Jasper to do . . . whatever it is that he does.

I unpack my toiletries and a few nightly things like my sleep shorts and tank. My belly rumbles for food, so less than an hour later, I’m prowling through a book on the dining table, looking for a room service menu. I hear Jasper in his room, talking to someone on the phone in his low, steady rumble. My eyes fall on a slim MacBook resting on the shiny, wooden coffee table. Casually, the book in my hands laid open to the room service menu, I back up until I can see what’s on the screen. I feel bad for snooping, but it’s not like I opened up his computer and rifled through it. I’m just glancing at what’s in plain sight.