Page 33 of Sinful Escape

I’d been living on my own for years.

When I’d left Australia for London, my only strategy had been to get away from William and my mother’s constant begging. When I’d landed that cruise ship job and met Azalia, she’d provided a friendship that I hadn’t realized I’d needed. We messaged each other almost every day.

My job at Vacation Dreamz provided me with a driver on every tour. So, I always had company.

I didn’t think I was lonely.

But maybe I was.

An ache I’d never noticed before sat heavily around my heart.

Damn you, Pierre.

I was not lonely for love.

Damn you, Roman.

I am not a fucking old woman. I’m not even thirty!

I sat, wiped my eyes, and stared down Avenue de Saint-Gwendolyn. Pierre’s Vespa was parked against the streetlamp. That meant I wouldn’t be fetching my book this evening.

It was almost worthy of more tears.

Instead, I grabbed my phone and filled in the time texting Zali, learning ‘the pitfalls of breastfeeding, according to Azalia.’ The poor thing had also had a disastrous shopping trip, in which she’d lost her mother in the department store and had to call security to help find her. Despite her never-ending woes, Zali always managed to find a way to laugh it off.

After a quick shower, I met my tour group in the lobby and led them down the narrow lane toward where Roman should’ve been waiting with the bus. We were as noisy as a backpacker bar at midnight. It didn’t help that our voices echoed off both the cobblestones below our feet and the stone buildings lining the alley.

Roman must have heard us coming because he jumped from the bus as we arrived. The slight shadow on his cheeks highlighted the start of a new beard. It made his teeth seem whiter when he grinned. “Hey, Red, did you have a good day?”

I studied his smile, searching for any reference to our encounter last night. Deciding I was safe, I grinned back. “Yes, all good. How about you?”

“Si, it was fun.”

While I’d been doing/not doing the cultural tour of the Louvre, Roman had driven the remainder of our group to one fashion outlet after another. I’d rather do the paintings and statues any day, except when my horny bits reigned supreme over the rest of me.

The passengers were freakin’ rowdy. It was only their second night on tour and fatigue hadn’t set in yet. It would. It always did. Usually on about day five, when the long days traveling, the long nights partying and the subsequent hangovers drained them.

Once they were all settled, grabbing the microphone, ready to explain the Moulin Rouge show we were about to see, I knelt on my chair to face them. “Okay, who wants to see tits?”

Faaark. My heart shot to my throat.

“I’d like to see your tits.” Despite being in the back row, I heard Mike’s comment.

The passengers roared with laughter, and many guys and even some women nodded, agreeing to my offer.

I can’t believe I said that.

I clutched the chair; fearful I’d pass out.

Roman shot me a glance. His eyes were wide. His jaw was ajar. Maybe he thought I’d gone mad.

Maybe I have.

Faking a laugh, I made a show of pretending I’d said it on purpose, and urging confidence into my voice, I trudged on. “Well, you’re on the right tour then.”

The hunger in Mike’s eyes took me right back to Pierre’s kitchen. My restless girly bits did a little jig that had an inferno coursing through my body. I was about to hit self-combustion mode.

I needed a fan. Hell, I needed to stand, legs apart, over an industrial air-conditioner at full blast.

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