“Alas,
ma’mselle
, but there are no
taxis.
Not on a rainy Paris night.
I promise you, Tessa is harmless.”
There was a note of amusement in his accented voice.
Italian, she thought.
Probably some faux count or
prince.
Assured of his charm,
knowing she would give in or appear hopelessly gauche.
And like Drake, she’d been brought up to be impeccably well-behaved,
even with dubious European royalty.
She didn’t rise to the bait, ask him how harmless he was.
She gave in, rather than argue, and
because she couldn’t imagine the harm in it.
She’d seen their pictures on tabloids, Paris Match, French
People.
They were hardly going to
turn into murderers preying on slightly gauche reporters.
“You’re very kind,
m’sieur
.”
“You may call me
D’Angelo
,”
he said, the name rolling off his
tongue as the amusement sparkled in his warm brown eyes.
“It’s a lovely name,”
she
said inadequately.
“But not, I am afraid, accurate.
I have little in common with the angels. And you are?”
She flushed.
Her manners
really had gone down the toilet.
“I’m Madison Banks.
I work
for the Tribune.”
“A reporter,”
he said,
delighted.
“I love reporters.
Tessa, not so much.
But that will be our little secret.
We will tell Tessa that you’re a
student, shall we?”
“I’m a little old to be a student.”
“A graduate student then.
At the Cordon Bleu.”
He
smiled down at her.
He put his
large, warm hand beneath her elbow and she jumped.
“Come along, Miss Banks.
We will see you safely home.”
CHAPTER THREE
Maddy settled back into the butter-soft leather of the limousine,
trying to relax.
Tessa Parker had
been all slightly dazed cordiality, and as she felt herself maneuvered through
the crowds she wondered if the woman had had too much champagne.
She would have felt a lot better
herself if she’d had a nice, single malt Scotch under her belt.
D’Angelo
had taken the seat facing them, his back
to the driver.
It was a full-sized
limo, and he was able to stretch out his long legs without touching them.
She’d been afraid he would sit next to her,
but there was plenty of room in the car, and she’d been handed in next to
Tessa, who was so small and frail a good gust of wind could blow her away.
“You’re very kind to do this,”
Maddy said, hiding her ridiculous nervousness, focusing on the woman
next to her and trying to shut out the amused brown eyes across from them.
“But of course, Miss Banks,”
Tessa Parker said smoothly.
“You looked so forlorn standing there that it seemed like the kindest
thing to do.
D’Angelo
agreed with me, of course.”
She relaxed slightly.
For
some reason she thought it had been the man’s idea, and the idea had unnerved
her.
Instead it was simply a kind
gesture on the part of a fellow American.
The afternoon with the man must have unsettled her even more than she
thought.
Here she was suspecting
dire motives from everyone she met.
These were the glitterati – they would have no interest in someone
like her apart from an act of random kindness. Though she wouldn’t have thought
acts of kindness were much in their repertoire.
Even if they’d known she was a reporter they were the kind
of people who avoided cameras and journalists, rather than seeking them
out.
And she was not much more
than a newbie, lucky enough to be working freelance in Paris thanks to her
family connections.
“Who was the man you were with?”
D’Angelo
murmured as they swept by the rain-wet
streets.
“He seemed very much in
love with you.”
“Ah,
D’Angelo
is such a romantic!”
Tessa said fondly, her voice slightly,
delicately slurred.
The man smiled
mockingly but didn’t demur.
As far
as Maddy was concerned his girlfriend was dead wrong.
This man was a cynic, through and through.
But she answered his polite question anyway.
“My boyfriend.
God, that sounds absurd at my age.
He’s presumably about to become my fiancé, but since I haven’t said yes
yet I’ll simply have to call him my boyfriend.”
“Like
D’Angelo
,”
Tessa said.
Maddy couldn’t help it – her eyes met the man’s eyes, and he
smiled wryly, the knowledge passing between them, whether she wanted it to or
not.
Her so-called boyfriend was
nothing at all like
D’Angelo
.
No one was.
“You’re tired, Tessa,”
he
said in a soothing voice.
“Go to
sleep.”
To
Maddy’s
uncomfortable surprise Tessa did
exactly that, immediately closing her eyes.
Maddy met his gaze again, and held it, refusing to look
away.
“Do you practice some kind
of mind-control on her?”
she said,
not bother to mask the asperity in her tone.
“Or is that simply a post-hypnotic suggestion?”
He didn’t bother to react, apart from a possible glint in his dark
eyes.
“She takes drugs,”
he said calmly.
“There’s nothing I can do about it, but
it’s better if she sleeps for a bit.
You could have probably put her to sleep the same way.
Shall I wake her up and we’ll try it?”
She looked at him with sharp dislike.
“It’s not a game, it’s a disease.”
“You have a very soft heart, Miss Banks.
Around here we tend to think of it as a moral failing, or at
the very least a weakness.
Tessa
has been given everything in this life – wealth, beauty, even a decent
amount of brains, though you’d never know it.
And she’s chosen to throw it all away.”
She stared at him.
“This
from a playboy?”
He laughed.
“Why do I
bother you so much,
cara
?
Haven’t you run into your share of playboys?
You’re part of the Banks family, aren’t
you?
The political dynasty that has
still managed to hold onto its money and power over the generations.
You must have had gigolos lined up at
your door.”
She took a deep intake of breath.
“You’re very well-informed for someone I’ve never seen
before.
Is that what you are?
A gigolo?
I’ve told you, I’m already well-taken care of in that
regard.”
“I wonder,”
he murmured,
and there was just the faintest taunt to it.
“In fact, I tend to have a very good memory, and I majored
in world politics at university.
The Banks family took up a fair amount of study time.”
He smiled at her, a guileless,
enchanting smile that she trusted not one whit.
And yet her skin warmed beneath it.
“And no, I’m not a gigolo.
Merely someone with too much money and
too much time on my hands.
And
Tessa is very beautiful, is she not?”
Maddy glanced over at her.
Even in sleep she was exquisite, like some fairy princess, frail and
delicate.
There was a time in her
life when she would have given anything to look like that.
She hadn’t felt that way in years.
Not until tonight.
“She is.”
“So why, then, am I so attracted to you?”
She froze, turning her gaze back to him, expecting mockery.
There was none.
There was heat, strong and direct, and
she could feel it between her legs, on her breasts, everywhere.
She let out a shaky laugh.
“Not that I’m not flattered, Mr.
D’Angelo
,”
she began.
“Just
D’Angelo
,”
he murmured.
“That’s affected.”
“Yes,”
he agreed
courteously.
“You were
saying?
You are flattered but …?”
Her annoyance should have put a stop to that treacherous thread of
arousal that was dancing through her body.
But then, it had been there all day, ever since being locked
in with a man who should have appalled her and instead seduced her.
“I’ve had a very strange day,”
she said.
“And while it’s lovely that you’re suddenly overcome with
lust for me, I think the smartest thing would be to decline whatever it is
you’re offering.
Even if I weren’t
practically engaged, I’m just too screwed up today to consider a one-night
stand, even with someone as pretty as you.”
Still that lovely smile.
“Merci.
I think you’re
pretty too.”
She didn’t snort derisively – that would have been fishing for
compliments.
She knew she was
reasonably attractive – just not when she was sitting next to one of the
most beautiful women in the world.
“So I don’t think it’s a good idea,”
she ended, pleased with herself.
He shrugged, the gesture effortless in the beautiful dinner
jacket.
“Feel free to change your
mind.”
“I’m hardly likely to.”
And if she did, how was she to tell him?
Send a bat signal out her fourth floor window?
She suddenly realized they had stopped moving, and she had the absurd
notion that now that she had rebuffed his unlikely advances he was going to
kick her to the curb.
But the door
opened, the driver standing there with a large umbrella, and she recognized the
familiar shape of the small apartment house in the Marais district.
“We’re here,”
she said, feeling somewhat foolish.
She turned to
D’Angelo
,
but he’d already slid out of the car and taken the umbrella from the
chauffeur.
“Watch over Miss
Parker,”
he said to the man, and
then held out his hand to her.
She looked at it.
She
would have expected rings of some sort, but he wore none, and his hands were
large, tanned, graceful-looking.
Pampered playboy, she thought, wishing there was a way to avoid touching
him without being gauche, but she had no choice, and she put her smaller hand
in his.
She controlled her instinctive jerk of surprise as he pulled her from
the limo.
His hands were
calloused, as if he were used to hard work, which of course was
impossible.
And the desire he
felt, the desire that she knew perfectly well flowed between them, was a live
thing between their hands, their skin.
She pulled free the moment she reached the wet pavement.
“The rain has stopped,”
she announced.
“And I can take it from here.
Thank you so much for your kindness
…”
He had already folded the umbrella, handing it back to the chauffeur
before taking her arm in an unbreakable hold that was even worse than his hand
on hers.
Even more erotic.
“I wouldn’t think of not escorting you
to your door, Miss Banks.”
“I live on the fourth floor, and there are no elevators.”
“I will try not to hyperventilate.”
There was nothing she could do.
He was too strong, too determined.
She wasn’t afraid of him, she told herself.
She’d told him no, and he would hardly descend to raping
her.
In truth, he could have just
about anyone.
On a different day,
he might have even had her.
But the memory of the man in the darkness still haunted her, and she
wasn’t going to let her odd, lingering arousal push her into making a terrible
mistake.
Besides, the man beside
her was probably lousy in bed.
He
was so good-looking he wouldn’t have to make much of an effort, and most women
would still be grateful.
They moved up the stairs in silence, though each time she tried to tug
free his hand tightened, and she wondered if she’d have bruises.
She had climbed these narrow flights of
stairs for months now, considering it her own form of cardio-vascular exercise,
but tonight she was rushing it, desperate to get away from him, and she was
growing winded from the effort.
“You don’t need to run,”
he said in a low voice.
“I’m not that bad.”
She didn’t respond, saving her breath.
By the time they reached the top floor she was suddenly
regretting her haste.
What did he
intend to do once they got there?
He released her then, holding out his hand.
“Your keys?”
She didn’t want to give them to him, but she had no choice.
She reached inside the Judith
Lieber
handbag and fished them out, handing them to
him.
He unlocked the door, pushed
it open, and gave the keys back to her.
She didn’t move.
He was
going to kiss her.
She’d allow him
that much, because she wanted so much more.
She wanted the implicit promise of his body, she wanted to
fuck the crazy, hot confusion out of her own.
She wanted this day, with these twin, insane attractions,
gone, but not without a deep, rich taste of him.
“Good night, Miss Banks.”
Without another word he was gone, and she heard him descending the
stairs.
She was so damned tempted to lean over the stairwell and call to
him.
To curse him, to call him
back, she wasn’t sure which.
Instead she went into her apartment, triple-locked her door, and
breathed a deep sigh of relief and regret.