Page 126 of One Wrong Move

It’s late by the time we get to our hotel. My assistant booked the usual—a luxurious historic hotel located by Place Vendôme, only a stone’s throw from the Tuileries Garden. A valet takes care of my Jeep.

That alone makes this hotel leaps and bounds more appealing than any other place in the city. I won’t be taking any risks with street parking, which is always a concern, regardless of leaving my Aston Martin behind.

The heat wave that’s holding London in its grip hasn’t reached Paris yet, or maybe it came from here, I don’t know. At any rate, the evening air is warm but comfortable, nowhere near the sweltering conditions we left across the Channel.

Harper marvels at everything as we walk to dinner. Even at this hour, the restaurant is packed. When she can’t decide between a few dishes, I tell the waiter to bring them all.

“I can’t believe,” she says, dipping a piece of fluffy white bread into the sauce that surrounds a single large lamb shank, “that we’re really here.”

“I can. This place is decidedly French,” I comment. “As it should be.”

She looks at our neighbors—a group who’s fashionably dressed and laughing loudly. They’re on their fifth shared bottle of wine. “It is. I love it. I love all of this. Nate…”

“Don’t thank me,” I say and hold up my hand. “This is as much your trip as it is mine.”

“We both know that’s not true,” she says, and a faint shadow crosses her features. It makes me frown.

She’s still struggling. Dean and his fucking domineering.

And although I’m paying for this trip… it doesn’t mean that she isn’t in control. That she doesn’t have a say in it.

“It is. I’ve been here a few times and have never gone to the art museums, which is a travesty, I know. Don’t say it too loud so the others can hear. Which ones are we visiting tomorrow?”

Her face lights up with a brilliant smile. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, we have to go to the Louvre, of course. That might take quite a bit of the day.”

“I’m game.”

“And then, I really, really want to see the Musée d’Orsay. It’s close, right nearby. So is the Musée de l’Orangerie. The most incredible Monet is there.”

“I can’t wait,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “Ha-ha, I know, but if you need to step out or take a phone call, please do. Don’t feel like you have to follow me around.”

“I’m serious. I want to go.”

A small smile spreads across her face. “You do? You’re interested?”

“Yes. What’s more, I’m very interested in seeing you happy, and I have a feeling you’ll explain things that I don’t know. It’s like, I’ll be getting a private tour of some of the grandest museums in the world.”

She giggles, and the sound feels like victory. “I don’t know these places. I’ve never been before.”

“No, but you have a degree in art history, and I don’t know Michelangelo from Machiavelli.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Fine, I do,” I admit. She smiles and reaches for another spoonful of the garlic mashed potatoes. We’ve got too much food. I’d known that when I ordered and done it anyway, but it’s worth it just for the smile on her face.

I think I’ve become addicted to it.

Provoking it. Inspiring it. Being on the receiving end of it.

It’s midnight when we finally walk back to the hotel. The streets are quiet for a Friday, but then again, we’re not in the party district. A few taxis slow down for us, but I wave them off.

Our room is grand, decorated with ornate wallpaper, and with a beautiful view out of the Tuileries Gardens and, beyond, the effervescent glow of the Eiffel Tower. The focal point of the bedroom, though, is large and covered in fluffy white hotel linens. A lone bed. But this time… it’s on purpose.

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