Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Did he follow me here?
No, of course not, he looks like he was probably here before me.
I remember what the girls said about him. I remember my purpose. I draw in a deep breath and walk over to him.
It can only help my cause if I get closer to him.
“Nicolette?”
I plaster a smile on my face and turn toward him. “Monsieur!” I say with a terrible attempt at pretending I didn’t just see him. “I didn’t recognize you.” Unfortunately, I’ve grown used to numbing my conscience, and the lie slips off my tongue with unsettling ease.
“Come,” he says, his voice a low rumble. He gestures to the vacant chair across from him. “Sit.”
The note of command in his voice arrests me. My feet move toward him even as my mind screams in warning.
They told you he’d be obsessed.
They told you not to trust him.
They told you to run.
But no, I reason, it’s not possible that he followed me here. Obviously, he was here before me. He had no way of knowing I’d come here. It’s just a coincidence.
I sit in the chair across from him, on the edge of the seat in case I need to fly away.
It’s unnerving how he makes me feel shy. Sometimes, I have to nearly beat myself over the head with why I’m here, so I don’t lose my courage.
I’ve been with so many men by now, I’ve lost track. I thought the shy side of me was gone for good, that I’d adopted a more confident persona.
I thought wrong.
When Fabien Gerard leans toward me, his brow furrowed in concentration, I have to make a concerted effort not to swallow my tongue.
“How are you?” he asks in a low, resonant voice. Below my peripheral vision, he folds his fingers loosely, a man at rest, as if those very fingers didn’t inflict terrible violence and maybe even death just hours ago. This man couldn’t be the same that threw another man against a wall. This man in front of me’s refined and sophisticated, a gentleman with impeccable manners.
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice wobbles. Maybe I can let him think he can protect me. That I need him. “Just a little… shaken is all.” It’s not a complete lie at all.
A look of concern washes over his face. “I’ve already contacted my brother and Gwen. We’re putting heightened security measures in place immediately.”
I nod. “Thank you. It’s rarely necessary, but—”
“I won’t allow anything like that to happen again.”
Why is he treating me like this? Is this a show? But no, it doesn’t look as if he’s inauthentic.
“I’d appreciate that. We all would.”
“Consider it done. What can I get you to drink?” I like the way he speaks English, with only the slightest hint of a French accent.
“Oh.” I blink. I already know he’ll insist, and I do want a tea. Typically, the French drink coffee only in the morning, and I do my part to act the local. “Just a cup of tea with cream, please.”
“And to eat?”
Am I supposed to sit here in front of him and eat by myself? My stomach growls, as if to tell him I am, indeed, starving.
“I’ll have a croissant, please. And Monsieur, je parle français.” He doesn’t have to speak English around me.
“Je sais. I like to keep my English well-tuned. And please, call me Fabien. I appreciate that they all call me Monsieur, but it’s unnecessary.”
He places our order and leans back in his chair. I glance down to see a copy of Philosophie: une Anthologie.
I’m happy to change the subject. “Oooh. Do you like reading philosophy?”
“I do. I like reading many things. And you?”
My heart thumps. He can’t know I’m a reader, can he?
Well, duh. We’re in a bookstore.
But he wouldn’t know I enjoy reading philosophy… would he?
You’ll become his obsession.
I’m way overthinking things. There’s no way I’m honestly that special. I’m a call girl in his damn brothel, for goodness’ sake, not some woman he’s become fixated on for some bizarre reason. Not so special that he’d seek me out in a bookstore…
I realize he’s staring at me, waiting for an answer to his question. I feel a bit flustered. I can tell he’s someone who’s used to being respected and obeyed.
“I do. I like to read. Very much.” Uh, apparently, I like to read Dr. Suess? Who am I? I’m not someone who stammers in front of a man. But there’s something about him…
“What do you like to read?”
Our order arrives.
“Oh, Descartes and Machiavelli, though I read mostly bite-sized essays. I like to sort of dabble in philosophy. But I read other things, too.”
“Like what?”
“Fiction,” I say, suddenly fixated on my croissant. I can’t tell this sexy behemoth of a man I read romance. I’m not ashamed of it, but I can’t think of the swoon-worthy heroes on the covers and him in the same context. “All sorts.” Romantic suspense, historical romance, dark romance… all kinds. “And you?”