Julia James - Summer Sins - Bedded, or Wedded? / Willingly Bedded, Forcibly Wedded / The Mediterranean Billionaire's Blackmail Bargain

Emotions were churning through her.

‘Dinner.’ Her voice was flat.

‘Just dinner.’ His voice was flatter.

She stared up at him. Rain washing down her face.

‘Why?’ she asked bluntly.

Again, something changed in his eyes, but she didn’t know what—not in this uncertain light, with the rain streaming down on both of them. A smile crooked at his mouth. Not much of a smile, but a smile all the same. A touch sardonic. A touch wry. A touch humorous. A touch indulgent.

‘Don’t you ever look in the mirror, Lissa? Not in the casino, but at home. When you haven’t got all that mess on your face. If you did, you’d have your answer. The reason I want to see you again. The reason I’m inviting you for dinner.’

‘Dinner,’ she said again. The mouth quirked more.

‘I’m a Frenchman,’ he elaborated, with that same wry, sardonic touch. ‘Dinner is important to me. Tonight I’d like you to share it with me. Just dinner,’ he added. ‘Does that reassure you?’ An eyebrow lifted, as if indulging her.

Reassure her? It stunned her. There wasn’t another word for it. No word, either, for the hollowing in her stomach as she stood there, frozen, motionless, staring up at Xavier Lauran who had not , after all, thought she was a—

‘So, will you accept my invitation? Now that you know what it is. And what—’ his voice bit suddenly ‘—it is not.’

‘You really mean just dinner?’ She could not hide the doubt, the suspicion.

He nodded gravely. ‘And, although I do not wish in any way to harass or hurry you, it would, peut-être , be considerably appreciated if you would give an imminent answer. On account, you understand—’ his eyes glinted ‘—of the inclement English weather we are currently experiencing.’

She stared at him still. His sable hair was completely wet. So were the shoulders of his cashmere coat. Rain glistened on his eyelashes. They were ridiculously long, she thought abstractedly. Far too long for a man. They ought to make him look feminine, but … Her stomach gave one of the flips it did whenever she stopped blocking out all thoughts of this man who had nothing to do with her life. But feminine was the very last thing they made him look. They simply made him look …

Sexy.

That awful, cheap word. Overused, trashy, tabloid.

And true.

Completely, undeniably true.

She felt her stomach dissolve, gazing up at him, at the way the rain made his hair glisten like a raven’s wing, the way it perfected the incredible planes of his face. she just wanted to go on gazing, and gazing and gazing.

He was guiding her towards the car. She hardly registered it. Then the chauffeur was there, opening the passenger door, and she was being ushered inside. She sank back, boneless, into the deep leather seat.

What am I doing?

The question sounded in her mind, but she didn’t pay it any attention. She couldn’t. She just sat there, capable only of feeling that suddenly she was out of the rain, still soaking wet, but at least not with rain shafting down into her face. A moment later Xavier Lauran had climbed in on his side of the car, and the chauffeur was reclaiming his driving seat.

‘Seat belt,’ he reminded her, as the car moved off, and his voice, in the confines of the car, suddenly sounded very French.

Very sexy.

No, she mustn’t think that word. Not now—not with this man who had walked back into her life when she had thought he never would, never could. And whom up till two minutes ago she had had every reason to think a total jerk, a creep, a slimeball, a—

Punter.

Numbly her eyes flew to him as she fumblingly did up her seat belt. He was currently pulling down his own seat belt with an assured, fluid movement. She wanted to watch him. Wanted to watch him doing anything, everything. Because.

Because she couldn’t take her eyes off him. Because he made her stomach go hollow. Because he stopped the breath in her lungs. Because—

He’s a punter .

The thought pulled her up short. One of those men who thought spending an evening in a two-bit casino being fawned over by women, drinking third-rate champagne and throwing money around pointlessly on stupid gambling was a good time.

She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t be here. It was wrong—all wrong.

‘What is it?’ He’d paused in the act of fastening the seat belt. His eyes focussed on her intently. Questioningly.

‘Why did you come to the casino last night?’

Her question was stark.

For a moment he stilled. Then he answered.

‘Why do you ask?’

She brushed some raindrops from her hair.

‘It’s hardly your kind of place, is it?’

He didn’t bother to disagree.

‘I was bored. I was passing. I’d been to a play in Shaftesbury Avenue I hadn’t liked, so I walked out. I didn’t feel like going back to my hotel. The casino was an impulse, nothing more, just to pass some time.’ His voice was offhand. Then it changed. So did the expression in his eyes.

‘But I’m glad I did go in. Because otherwise I wouldn’t have met you. And I will tell you, in complete honesty—’ he levelled his gaze at her ‘—that until I saw you at the bus stop last night your appeal to me was precisely zero. But then …’ He paused. ‘It was unexpected,’ he said.

His eyes swept down over her, washing away her guard. She shouldn’t let it be washed away, but it was gone all the same.

‘It made me want to see you again.’

Simple words.

Doing very unsimple things to her.

He was still looking at her, with that same disarming expression. ‘Would it be so very hard to have dinner with me?’ he said. There was a quizzical, amused cast to his eye.

Her eyes were uncertain, confused.

She shouldn’t do this. She should make him stop the car, get out, go home. Back to her real world. She shouldn’t let herself be taken away like this, by a man who did things to her insides that made it impossible to think straight, to think logically, rationally, coolly, sensibly, sanely.

The litany trotted through her head, every word a compelling, urgent argument to tell him to stop the car and let her out. Then into the litany another thought arose, inserting itself into her mind.

If she didn’t get out it would mean she’d keep her job at the casino. They wouldn’t know she’d just gone for dinner.

But did he really mean just dinner? Was she an idiot to believe him?

‘Dinner? That’s all?’ Her voice was sharp.

‘Exactement . In the public dining room of my hotel. It will be very comme il faut, je vous assure.’ There were undertones to his voice, but she could not identify them. She was focussing on the words.

He had used ‘vous’ to her. The formal mode of address, implying not familiarity or superiority—but courtesy.

A knot inside her that she hadn’t even been aware of untied itself.

But another one still remained. One that was much harder to untie. Impossible.

She should go home. She should not do this. If she wasn’t working, she should be at home.

Because there was no point, no point at all, in having dinner with this man.

But it would be worth it if only for the memory.

She took a breath—and made her decision. Looking straight at him.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Il me fait un grand plaisir de vous accepter, m’sieu,’ she enunciated carefully. Then she looked at him uncertainly. ‘Was that correct?’ she asked.

His mouth quirked. Tension seemed to have gone out of his face.

‘It will do perfectly,’ he said.

He relaxed back into his seat, his shoulders easing.

‘Where did you learn French?’