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  After ordering a Manhattan, I leaned back on the stool, feeling the events of the last months bearing down hard on me: the divorce, selling the house my ex-husband James and I had owned, moving in with my parents because I was a complete mess, therapy sessions, and eventually this trip to Paris.

  Shaking my head, I pushed back those thoughts, choosing to focus on the coming weeks. It might take a while to ease into modeling again after having been absent for a long time. The last couple of months spent working to get back in shape had been the best I'd had in a long time. I had three months before I returned to New York. I wasn't going to spend them questioning everything. It was time I had some “me” time.

  “A call for you, Madame Michaels.”

  I turned around to face the bartender who’d served me a few moments ago. He handed me a phone while his eyes wandered down my body in appraisal, boosting my self-confidence. Not that I needed any kind of validation, but it felt great to have a stranger look at me as if I mattered. Living in the shadow of someone who demeans you eventually takes a toll on you, leading you to believe you are worthless.

  James was the master of demeaning insults, albeit veiled in words that anyone listening would think of as flattery. He had never raised a hand to me, but his words were just as effective as a well-aimed blow.

  “Any luck, Andrew?” I asked, pushing my Manhattan to the middle of the counter and leaning on my elbows.

  “The city is flooded with trade shows and conventions at the moment. I haven't been able to locate one decent hotel for you.”

  I pressed two fingers on my eyes, feeling the weariness return again. “Hey, what about your place?”

  “No one’s home. Wife and kids are visiting her mother in Calais. I have a place for you, though.” He paused as if waiting to hear my response.

  “If I didn’t love you so much, I’d be demanding you bring your ass back to Paris to sort this out,” I said jokingly. He chuckled. “Tell me.”

  “I spoke to a friend of mine. He won't be staying in his townhouse in Montmartre tonight. You could stay there for the night if you're comfortable with it. I’ll sort out your accommodations as soon as I get back to Paris tomorrow. Whatcha think, hon?”

  Feeling panic coil inside my chest, I took deep breaths. The idea of spending the night in another man’s personal space felt somewhat intimidating. I had avoided any romantic relationships since the divorce. I couldn't seem to get past the fact the man who had been my best friend since high school, the man I’d loved and exchanged vows with, had easily left me for my former best friend. That in itself was a very bitter pill to swallow.

  Bastard.

  Come on, Selene. The guy isn’t spending the night in his house. I'd just have to pull myself together. I was a twenty-six-year-old independent woman for crying out loud. On top of that, I needed to be well rested for tomorrow. From my experience, the first day of work was very demanding.

  “Selene?” he called my name, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  "Sorry. Yes, that will do."

  “Remington's driver will pick you up in a few minutes. You have my phone number. Call me if you need anything at all. I’ll bring you a mobile tomorrow.”

  “Remington. That's your friend's name? Sounds posh."

  He laughed. "Stay out of trouble. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "You know me," I said, smiling. "Thanks for organizing this."

  “See you soon, beautiful girl,” Andrew said before disconnecting the call.

  I handed the phone back to the bartender and went back to nursing my drink. Five minutes into my drink, I heard someone clear her throat behind me.

  “Madame Michaels?”

  I shifted around to face a tall woman, dressed in a mid-thigh, black suit skirt, a white shirt, and knee-length boots. Her blond hair coiled at the nape of her long, elegant neck, her blue eyes framed by long lashes.

  “Yes?”

  She stuck a hand toward me. “My name is Adele Dufort. I am to drive you to St. Germain’s house, yes?” She spoke in clear, unaccented English.

  My heart skipped several beats, remembering Mr. Tall, Hot, and Brooding earlier at the reception counter. "St. Germain? Is Remington his first name by any chance?"

  She paused, studying me curiously and nodded. "Have you two met before?"

  I shook my head, hopping down from the stool. "Not officially. He's proving to be quite popular tonight.” I gave her hand a quick shake before pulling away.

  She smiled briefly, and looked around the lobby area. "Your luggage, madame?"

  After retrieving my luggage from the storeroom, courtesy of the nervous receptionist, I pulled a sweater from my carry-on bag, putting it on. I followed Adele out of the hotel and into the nippy autumn evening.

  THE PEUGEOT pulled up in front of Remington's townhouse. I climbed out of the car before Adele could come around to open the door for me. I straightened and my mouth fell open as I stared ahead.

  Holy wow!

  Before me stood an impressive, stark white, brick and glass residence with tall windows, reflecting the light from the nearby houses. The only light burning was the porch light. Tiny lamps illuminated the path leading to the door from the parking area, which was designed to accommodate about five cars.

  Slowly, as I turned around, my breath caught in my throat as memories came rushing back. On my far right, Sacré Coeur Basilica stood in all its pristine, imposing majesty, bathed in floodlights from the ground. I’d been in this part of town only once, years ago, while attending an after party hosted by The Curves Fashion House. That was before I took a break when I got married.

  Grace Dresner was the head designer and owner of the fashion house, one of my closest friends. She had jokingly told me she didn't want me, her “Face of Curves Fashion line,” looking like a zombie on the lingerie shoot the following day. What can I say? It was a party and wine flowed aplenty. It was the beginning of my career and I was a young woman who thought she could take on the world, intoxicated or not, and believed that alone would protect me from a hangover. The next day, all I wanted to do was dig a hole and live in it so I wouldn’t have to interact with anyone until my hangover had worn off. I had winced at any sound, no matter how small, and squinted at the strobe lights and camera flashes. Surprisingly, I'd pulled it off quite well. It was a nightmare, and a lesson well learned.

  I inhaled deeply, soaking in the sight of Paris spread below a moonless sky.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Adele asked, her hoarse voice surprisingly close.

  “It’s breathtaking.”

  “Monsieur St. Germain has good taste.” Her voice was almost… reverent.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Her face shone with adoration. She quickly schooled her features when she caught me staring.

  Wow. Someone seemed to be in love with her boss.

  “That he does,” I said, heading toward the car to remove my suitcases from the trunk. "When will Mr. St. Germain return from Provence?"

  "In a week." She motioned at the luggage as I began to pull them out. “Leave them. I will bring everything in.”

  “There’s no need—”

  “It’ll displease him.” The words were spoken in the same tone of voice as before. Whoever this guy was, he sure was lucky to have such devotion.

  “Fine.” I took a step back, hitched the strap of my carry-on bag higher on my shoulder, and waited for her to lead the way.

  Inside the house, I halted just beyond the doorway, yawning and waiting for Adele to drag the second piece of luggage from the car. She offered to make me a snack if I was hungry, but food was the last thing on my mind. After she pointed me to the guest bedrooms upstairs and explained to me the different amenities the rooms afforded, I thanked her for everything. She nodded once and said that she would pick me up in the morning and drive me to Sara Arden's offices. As soon as she departed, I headed upstairs, leaving the luggage downstairs as I'd be leaving the next day. During my modeling years, I’d quickly learned the be
nefits of packing extra clothing in my carry-on bag, especially if the luggage got delayed or lost somewhere in transit.

  When I flipped the light switch on, the room came into focus. The interior decor was simple and stylish, just as the glimpses of decor in the hallway. White walls with a black dresser standing right across from the bed. A square mirror above the dresser. The bed was decked in a black bedspread with hints of white sheets beneath it, and two huge white pillowcases. Nothing was out of place. Did every room resemble this one?

  After dropping my bag on the bed, I headed to the bathroom, which was a masterpiece. The spacious retreat had white marble-tiled floors with a huge bathtub located near the floor-to-ceiling windows. The shower had four showerheads, two fixed on the ceiling and two on the wall. St. Germain seemed to value luxury with a passion.

  I stepped out of the shower and grabbed the plush, terrycloth towel from the mahogany rack to dry myself. After drying my hair, I wrapped the towel around my body and tucked it under my arms, I returned to the room, combing my fingers through my wet hair. I dropped the towel on an armchair on my right close to the window before heading to bed in the middle of the room. My step faltered as a pair of feet came into focus at the door. I squealed, stumbling back in an attempt to grab the towel from the chair, but I caught air instead. I lunged forward, snatched the heavy, satin bedspread, and tugged. Nothing happened. I repeated the move again. Nada. I gave up and turned around, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.

  My gaze lifted from the bare feet to blue jeans-clad legs, lingering on the muscular thighs before proceeding. Toned arms were folded across an equally impressive chest with one shoulder braced on the doorframe. I shifted my eyes up and froze. Unreadable, green eyes were fixed on mine.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurted out, my mind too messed up to think clearly.

  One dark eyebrow shot up. “I never thought I would be questioned about being in my own house, inside my own bedroom,” he drawled in a deep voice laced with a trace of a British accent mingled with his French.

  Crap, crap, crap! Wasn't he supposed to be on his way to Provence? And his room? I glanced around, and for the first time, noticed it was clean and simple, and masculine.

  I prided myself on being a strong woman, proud of my body, but whom was I kidding? The scorching look on his face made me want to hide under the bed. I'd made up my mind that pleasure was part of this three-month work and play trip. A flirt here and there, maybe a quick romp between the sheets to rejuvenate the nerves. My girly bits hadn't had any action for a while now and I was ready to go back to the playing field, as scary as it was. By the look on his face and the way he was staring at me, playing and flirting were definitely not on his mind right now.

  I swallowed. Here goes nothing. Or something. I stepped forward, my breasts jiggling a bit, and did the only thing a confident woman would do in a situation like this. Keep my head up and face an oncoming disaster. His gaze dropped to my chest for just a split second before moving back to my face, unimpressed. Heat crept up my face. Had I read him wrong? Oh, my God, this was so embarrassing.

  What kind of man didn’t like to stare at breasts? I probably sounded like a self-involved cow, but the longer I stood in this man’s presence, the faster my confidence cracked around the edges.

  I mentally smacked myself on the head. After James, I’d sworn no one would ever make me feel as though I were inferior.

  I stuck out a hand to him in greeting. “Sorry for being rude. You caught me by surprise. I was under the impression I was alone for the night since Andrew and Adele told me you'd be in Provence."

  His eyes widened for just a second before going neutral. Good. He had probably expected me to cower under his gaze.

  "I postponed my trip." He unhitched his shoulder from the doorframe and strode forward, then wrapped those strong fingers around my hand. His handshake was strong, manly, his palm rough against my skin. He leaned down so we were eye to eye, and immediately, the scent of earthiness slammed into me. “Remington St. Germain.” He seemed to struggle to keep his eyes on my face though. I saw him sneak a peek down my body before quickly bringing them back to my face. Perhaps he isn't as immune to breasts as I first thought. "Do you do that often? Walk around naked when you’re alone?"

  I couldn't tell if he was teasing me or being genuinely curious. Gah! This man was the epitome of frustrating.

  "It's a free country." I shrugged, feigning nonchalance when all I wanted was to reach out for the towel and cover myself. I didn't want to show him that his scrutiny, the way his eyes kept lingering on my breasts with such unconcealed lust, was affecting me. "You already know my name so…" I trailed off, and then cleared my throat, trying not to wilt into a pile of mush in front of him. “Let me dress and I’ll give you back your room.”

  He dropped my hand unceremoniously. “No need for that.” He turned and strode out of the room. Moments later, the sound of a door slamming echoed down the hall and through the house.

  Whoa! His reactions were quite confusing. He seemed as though he wanted to grab me and pin me to the wall one minute and the next, he dashed from the room as if it were on fire.

  I grabbed my bag and quickly threw on my clean underwear, and slipped between the sheets, my heart still pounding in my chest. I pulled the comforter to my chin, replaying what had just happened. A giggle suddenly burst from my mouth, overshadowing the embarrassment I felt at being caught naked. Another giggle erupted as I remembered the way he couldn't take his eyes off my boobs, then when I caught him gawking, he pretended disinterest.

  Arrogant ass.

  Well… if this were a sign of how my time here in Paris would be, I'd say I was off to a good start.

  I snuggled deeper into the covers. But as sleep overtook me, so did my insecurities. And just as they had every night since my divorce, they jostled me awake.

  What if I couldn't be as good at this job as I had once been? Could I flirt and be involved with a man without my heart becoming involved? It certainly wouldn't be with the owner of this gorgeous house, but perhaps I might find someone willing?

  As I pressed a hand to the scar on my belly, I felt confidence and certainty rush back. I had lost a lot, but I wasn't going to let it rule me or my life. I was ready to move on.

  I BRACED my back on the door, taking deep breaths. When I walked through the front door of my house, I knew Selene was already here, but what I hadn't expected was to find her in my room, naked.

  Earlier this evening when I left her at the reception counter in the hotel, I had stopped to greet a few people and that’s when I heard her talking to the receptionist about a room in the hotel. I had lingered long enough to learn she didn't have a place to stay for the night. What surprised me the most was when I heard her talk to my good friend Andrew. I couldn't believe my luck. What were the chances the same woman I had met and had spoken to was acquainted with a friend?

  After she'd finished speaking with him, I had quickly dialed his mobile and asked him pointblank about Selene, then offered my house for the night. I don't believe in beating around the bush, and if I want something, I go for it. Besides, I was being a good Samaritan, no? I postponed my flight to Provence. I drove to the private hangar where my mother and my son had been waiting for me so we could travel together.

  Earlier this morning, my mother had arrived from London and picked up Adrien from kindergarten. Adele had driven them to the hangar late in the afternoon to wait for me.

  After getting Adrien, I told my mother I had some business to take care of, and I would be seeing her the following day. I drove back to the townhouse. After all, what kind of host would I be if I offered a guest a place to stay and not be there to keep her company?

  Satisfied with my reasoning, I walked away from the door while dragging my fingers through my hair.

  Selene intrigued me. At first, when I saw her as I neared the receptionist, all I saw was a confident woman, both beautiful and sensual. She was comfortable in her skin. Yes, she had com
pletely knocked me on my arse the moment I saw those curves.

  I shut my eyes, the image of Colette, Adrien's mother, flashing in my head. The anger had burned inside me after her death had slowly faded, replaced by acceptance. But it occasionally reared its head.

  But there, beneath all that, was something in Selene's eyes. Sadness, I think. It called to me. Fed on mine. I'm certain she didn't even know she had given off that reaction. I knew pain, hurt, and sadness, and that was what I sensed in her. Like attracts like, and that's probably the reason I was drawn to her so strongly.

  And her breasts. Mon Dieu, she was perfect. I had come this close to pushing her against the wall and kissing her, touching her. I'd faked disinterest when she caught me staring at her breasts, but in truth, my cock had been unbelievably hard.

  I forced my mind back to the issue at hand, knowing I'd need a very cold shower before the night was over. From the look on her face, both at the reception desk and in my room, I must have given her mixed signals. She'd caught me off guard and I was in a state of havoc, caught between lust and attraction for her, and my past.

  Other than her physical attributes, was I intrigued by Selene because she bore some minute resemblance to Colette?

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled through my phonebook to the letter G, and then pressed dial.

  "I need you to run a check on someone for me," I said, after a few words into our greeting.

  I knew this was a bastard thing to do, but if I was going to pursue Selene, and I intended to, I wasn't going to walk into this without some background information. Right now, I had to cover all my bases. My friend, Gilles, owned a security firm. He was my go-to man; after knowing him for years, he was practically family. Two years ago, I'd started receiving unusual text messages on random days of the week, sent from an anonymous number. They were mostly flirty and sometimes disturbingly intimate, but never threatening. Gilles had worked on tracing them, which proved to be difficult. He believed whoever sent them probably used disposable phones. Despite not being able to track down the sender, I trusted him implicitly.