Page 25 of Sinful Escape

Pierre took me to a whole new world. A world where my body was alive. A world where my age and impending visa expiry weren’t important. A world where a sexy French man wanted me.

A strangle cackling echoed about the kitchen. I glanced over his shoulder. My heart exploded. “Shit!”

A middle-aged couple was watching us with goofy smiles and bulging eyes.

With a squeal, I pushed Pierre back, jumped off the barstool, tripped over my feet, and landed on my hands and knees with my melons plopping onto the cold tiles.

I ogled the couple standing in the kitchen doorway, my eyes wide, my mouth gaping.

In my lust-fueled fog, I’d completely forgotten where I was.

I jumped up and ran to the back of the kitchen. I spied my shirt on the pot rack, and when I snatched at it, buttons went flying, pinging off the chopping block.

I ran out the door.

“Daisy, come back.”

I raced through a second door, heading for cover amongst the antiques.

Faarrrkkk.

“Daisy. Daisy. Do not worry, they didn’t see anything.”

“Like hell they didn’t.” I wove around vintage desks, a regency chaise, a grandfather clock, and a stone sculpture of two naked men, one of which was missing his penis. I passed fine China, a shiny brass candelabra, and dozens of other precious items. I tried not to calculate their worth, and I refused to slow down.

“Daisy.”

I’d stormed straight into a corner and was hemmed in by a giant 18th-century fox-hunt oil painting and a glass-shelved cabinet filled with antique sterling silver cutlery.

“Daisy, stop.” His voice was way too calm considering the virtual grenade that’d just been lobbed into my lap.

I cowered in the corner and without a second thought about my bra, I tugged my shirt on, desperate to cover myself. I went for the buttons. Shit! Three were missing. Of course, the missing buttons were the ones responsible for concealing my bust.

The blaze of heat tearing through my body would be coloring my skin, matching my flesh with my fiery red hair. Embarrassment churned my stomach.

“Daisy, it’s okay.”

“No, it's not. I don't do things like that.”

“But you didn't do anything wrong.”

“You don't understand. I just don't . . .”

His hands touched my shoulders, and I pulled away, squishing my breasts to the cold glass cabinet.

“Come back to your table. I will prepare your delicious meal for you.”

My throat constricted. “No. Thanks, Pierre, but I’m going home.”

“But, ma belle, you love my cooking.” Sadness loomed in his tone.

Clutching my shirt closed, I turned to him. “I do, but I’ve lost my appetite. I’ll pay you?—”

He placed his palm on my cheek. “S'il vous plaît, Daisy. Do not be embarrassed by what we did. It was special.”

It was special all right—lock me up and throw away the key, kind of special.

I inched out of the corner and strode to the restaurant.

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