Page 107 of Sinful Escape

“Oh.” I jabbed my fingernail to his chest, pretending to be all frivolous and cool with the plan. “So, you can get all the details?”

“No.” He pulled a face in a poor attempt at feigning shock. “To make sure you’re safe.”

“Yeah, right.” I rolled my eyes. Despite my brain doing flips over going to Pierre, the smile on Roman’s face made me glad I’d agreed. But my mind slammed to his enthusiasm when he’d willingly watched me wander off with Oscar in the Monte Carlo. Like sending a lamb to the slaughter.

A sliver of fear lodged itself deep in my brain.

What if Roman was wrong and Pierre hadn’t been thinking of me? I’d look like a complete fool.

Or worse, what if I had a repeat of my aftermath with Oscar where I’d come away feeling dirty and slutty?

I’d never be able to look at a man again.

And I’d never have sex again.

Just when I’d discovered how much I liked it.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The next morning was a blur of slight hangover blues and saying goodbye to all my guests. As promised, Roman drove me to the train station, and when he pulled the bus into the curb, he jumped down to get my suitcase from the back.

I grabbed the microphone and turned to the July group one last time. “Okay, everyone, this is where I bow out. Thank you for a wonderful tour; you’re the best group I’ve ever had.” I said that to all my groups, but they probably knew that.

They said a collective goodbye and waved. I hung up the microphone, and with my brain seesawing between what the hell I was doing, and what I should have been doing, I climbed down the steps.

Roman shut the luggage door panel and turned to me with my suitcase in his hand.

We watched each other in one of those dorky moments where neither party seemed to know what to say.

But Mr. Perfect fixed it when he wrapped me in a bear hug, and said, “I’m proud of you. It takes some guts to do what you are doing. Trust me, though, it will be worth it.”

The butterflies in my stomach took flight, soaring on an upwind powered by his faith in me. When I finally stood back, I was feeling all light-headed. “I hope so.”

He winked. “I know so. Now, go get some French bootie action.”

I snorted an unflattering guffaw. “You’ve spent way too much time with your sisters.”

He puffed out his lips. “Don’t I know it. And don’t forget to ring me; I want to hear all about it. I mean . . . to make sure you’re safe.”

I thumped him in his arm. “See? I knew it.”

He rolled my suitcase forward. “You are stalling. Go, quick, or you will miss your train. Arrivederci, Daisy.”

“Bye, Roman.”

Dragging my case behind me, I pictured him staring at my nonexistent bottom. But when I glanced over my shoulder, with my giddy smile all prepared to meet his, he was gone, and the bus door was closed. A flash of emotion whipped through me like a dose of salts, and for some inexplicable reason, I was hurt that he wasn’t there.

Jesus, Daisy. Get a grip.

By midday, I was traveling at 185 miles per hour on the Thalys high-speed train. The cabin was unnaturally silent. No incessant chatter. No hum of the bus’s engine. No probing questions from Roman. The only sound was my brain repeating the same question over and over.

What the hell am I doing?

I gazed out the window, watching the miles whiz by in a kaleidoscope of colors and analyzing my intentions with Pierre until I’d exhausted every possible brain cell.

My thoughts swung from being totally off my tree to being a normal single woman with a healthy sex drive. The issue, it seemed, was that for the first time in my life, I had a plan. I usually didn’t plan anything. Hell, I didn’t even plan what I’d have for dinner each night, which was why I kept a healthy supply of baked beans in my cupboard.

By the time the rolling plains out the window morphed into urban sprawl, I had reached the root of my turmoil.

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