Maureen Child - Propositioned Into a Foreign Affair - Propositioned Into a Foreign Affair

“You’re the one who asked for reassurance.”

She was mad at herself even more than at him. She resented the pull of attraction even as she seemed unable to back away. “I didn’t ask for anything except a change of clothes to get back to my room. You don’t seem to understand.” She struggled for the right words. “I am hurting, really hurting. Despite how it seemed last night, I’m not the casual-sex sort. What we did was…an anomaly.”

“Stupid me.” He grinned. “I thought we ate strawberries off each others’ bodies.”

She slapped her napkin on the table. “Quit trying to make me laugh.”

“Why? You just said again how much you’re hurting. Is it so wrong of me to want to make you smile?”

“As long as I still have my clothes on.” Was that possible around him? Even with her defenses on full-scale alert, she couldn’t help but notice the ripple of muscle under his shirt as he’d carried her packages.

Or how the appealing scruff of his five-o’clock shadow along his jaw gave him an edgier, sexy appeal. She itched to test the texture beneath her fingertips.

Against her better judgment, her fingers began crawling across the table. The very small table. Another couple of inches and she would throw caution to the wind— Snap, snap.

The unmistakable click of cameras sounded behind her. Damn it. Her stomach clenched in frustration—and disappointment.

Sam’s face hardened. “Head down.”

So far the photographer had yet to get in front of her. Sam pitched cash on the table and looped his arm around Bella’s shoulders. She ducked into the strength of his protective embrace. Luckily, they’d already stored all their shopping bags in the car, so they were unencumbered to make a break for it.

He raced straight toward the restaurant’s kitchen door, hurrying her alongside while shielding her face. They pushed through the double swinging doors, steam blasting through carrying the scent of frying meats. Pots clanged loudly as voices shouted instructions back and forth. A humidity-limp plaid Christmas bow hung over the clock marking six o’clock.

Sam pointed across the crowded kitchen, past the cooking island down the middle. “The back exit is that way.”

“Our coats?” The winter temperatures felt all the colder to her after a lifetime in sunny California.

“Already taken care of.” He rushed her past a chef in a tall white hat, the industrial stove sizzling with sliced vegetables.

An attendant stood by the back door, their coats draped over his arms. Sam had obviously made contingency plans for evading the press. She had to admire his thoroughness.

“ Merci .” Sam shrugged into his black coat while their accomplice helped Bella with her longer one of white wool.

He shuttled her out into the empty back lot, the crisp air echoing with cathedral bells chiming “Silent Night.” The lot was very empty other than their waiting transportation, thank goodness.

Sam’s arm around her shoulders, he sprinted toward the Mercedes parked nearby, exhaust chugging into the early evening. “Hurry up, Cinderella, before this sucker changes into a pumpkin.”

The chauffer swept open the door. Bella slid in as Sam launched into the other side. Her heart pounded from the exertion as much as the threat. She knew too well how quickly a frenzy of reporters could cause an accident by jumping all over a car. Once their car pulled out onto the main road, two motorcycles roared away from the curb.

The press had found them.

Their driver raced through the streets of Paris at a breakneck speed, motorcycles speeding closer behind. Her pulse thudding in her ears, Bella double-checked her seat belt. Sam pulled out his cell phone, issuing instructions for the crew on his plane to be ready for takeoff. Otherwise, silence hovered heavily in the vehicle as she checked anxiously over her shoulder.

Mere minutes later, they pulled into the small private airport, through a security gate. Sam’s silver private jet waited, the crew prepped and ready outside.

She leaped from the vehicle. A few yards away, the paparazzi on motorcycles screeched to a halt behind the fence. They wouldn’t get any farther, but their cameras had mighty powerful lenses.

“Hurry!” He ushered her up the airplane steps. “That security guard isn’t going to hold up much longer.”

Two men wearing vests with reflective tape unloaded her packages from the trunk at lightning speed while she raced up the metal stairs.

Inside, she unlooped her scarf and sunk into the leather seat. Gasping for air, she couldn’t recall feeling this breathless in a long time. She should have been frustrated, angry even.

Yet for some reason it had felt more like an adventure with Sam at her side.

Because she’d never doubted he would take care of the situation? “I can’t believe you managed to elude them all day.”

Sam sidestepped the media center dominating most of the space. He secured his seat belt near the wine refrigerator at an old-fashioned bar. Sparkling cut-crystal glasses hung upside down above a black, granite prep area. “It helps that you speak fluent French when shopping or ordering meals.”

“As do you.”

His fluency in the language shouldn’t have surprised her since he worked here, but it did make her wonder what other surprises he had in store.

“People see what they expect to see. We appeared to be two locals finishing up last-minute Christmas shopping.”

Still, Sam had a knack for ditching the press beyond anything she’d seen before. And given the high-profile Hollywood sorts who made up her regular circle, she’d seen some mighty adept press dodgers.

The airplane engines roared louder, the craft easing forward, faster, until the nose lifted off. With a smooth swoop they were airborne. The neat pile of her shopping bags barely moved from where they rested in a corner.

And it was quite a hefty pile.

She’d checked off everyone on her growing list of family members. Buying for her grandmother had been particularly difficult—and sad. What did you get for a person who wasn’t expected to live much longer?

She hoped she’d chosen well.

God, what was she even thinking wasting her grandmother’s final precious days apart? Or worse yet, what if her grandmother died before Bella could say goodbye?

The holiday cheer she’d found with Sam seeped away. Even the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower were fading in the distance. Her escape was truly over. Time to face reality—and Beverly Hills—again.

She needed to tell Sam that while their day shopping together had been special, come morning, she would be leaving for California.

Sam could see Bella mentally pulling away from him as clearly as if she’d risen from her seat and hopped out of the plane.

He wasn’t sure what had changed, but most certainly he’d lost some ground. He needed to get her talking again so he could find the right opening. No great hardship, actually. Spending time with her today—even out of bed—had been surprisingly entertaining.

She hadn’t shopped like a diva with the world at her feet. There hadn’t been any special requests for private showings or traipsing up the aisles with complimentary champagne in hand. Bella spent most of her time admiring the different style crèches, delighting in everything from delicate crystal figurines to rustic wood carvings. She’d slid a huge donation into a charitable collection plate when she thought he wasn’t looking, then turned around and purchased a miniature père Noël bell on a ribbon to drape around her neck—his own personal Christmas elf.

The tinkling of that small bell had charmed and seduced him all day long.

She was a total turn-on even totally clothed.