Page 22 of Betrayed

“I’ve missed you at the club these past few weeks,chérie. I’m taking you to dinner tonight, and we can become reacquainted.”

Not a request. It was an arrogant demand, as if she belonged to him.

“I can’t have dinner. I have plans.” She was relieved that she had a valid excuse. After closing the shop, she was meeting her mother for a late dinner.

“Then we’ll dine before going to the club this weekend.”

She started shaking her head before he had even finished his invitation. “I don’t get away very often, and my manager is out for an indeterminate time. I’ve got to keep an eye on the shop.”

“So many excuses. I’m getting the feeling you don’t want to see me again.”

Her brow arched, and she bit back a smart remark, saying instead, “It’s a long drive.”

“Less than three hours. Make the trip for me, Mari. I’d like to spend more time with you.” His voice dropped to a husky murmur, his warm breath tickling her ear as he spoke. “Once wasn’t enough,minou. Je veux encore baiser ta douce chatte.”

Nearby, a customer gasped as his hushed voice still carried. Arturo’s head came up, as did her own, and they both turned to see a well-dressed older woman in her early sixties with her hand covering her mouth in shock. It was Emily Thorpe.

Crap!The old biddy was one of the worst gossips in Houston. Mari barely bit back a groan.

“Pardonnez-moi, madame,”Arturo apologized, his hand pressed against his chest as if truly appalled he’d offended her with his foul language. He then surged headlong into a barrage of rapid French while flashing his wickedly charming grin.

She eyed him suspiciously when he switched back to English, laying it on thick. “You understand, of course,” he appealed to her, as he glided his hand familiarly up and down Mari’s back, “being a beautiful woman yourself.”

The woman, who had stood frozen in horror at first, now blushed and tittered like a schoolgirl. She then aimed a knowing smile Mari’s way and winked.

“What did he say?” She couldn’t keep from asking, but Emily was too busy flapping her hand in front of her overheated face as she scurried away, grabbing the hand of her unsuspecting friend and chattering under her breath as she pulled her out of the shop in a flurry.

Mari whirled on him and repeated, “What did you say to her?”

With a Gallic shrug, he grinned slyly. “I appealed to the romantic inside her. That is all.”

“Yes, but in what shocking way did you say it?I’d lay down big bucks that stuffy old Emily Thorne hasn’t giggled in a half century, and I doubt she’s ever winked before meeting you.” The ridiculously handsome and infuriating Frenchman didn’t say a word, only stood there grinning down at her. “Arturo!”

“Ah, a pity you don’t speak French,minou. At the same time, I’m shocked your customers do, especially colorful, risqué French.” He dipped his head, his mouth close to her ear. She held her breath, expecting him to translate. Instead, he murmured, “Have dinner with me at Amato’s at seven on Friday night and I’ll tell you.”

She pulled back, her eyes narrowing in frustration. “I can’t. The shop doesn’t close until seven, besides—”

“Saturday at eight, then,” he countered, speaking over her decisively. “And don’t tell me you have to stay late. The sign on your door says you close at five on Saturday and don’t open until afternoon on Sunday, which means you won’t have to run home afterward like the last time.” His lips once again brushed the knuckles of the hand he’d never released. “I’ve had weeks to think up some of the most delightful tortures. The question remains, are you the adventurous sort,ma colombe? I’m hoping so. If nothing else, I’m counting on you being curious.” He squeezed her hand, and then turned, stirring the air with a hint of his seductive masculine scent, and sauntered out the front door.

His panther-like stride, with its raw strength and masculine grace left her mesmerized. She didn’t blink or breathe until the glass doors swished shut behind him, only taking in air when Katy rushed up, her voice coming out as breathless as she felt.

“Who was that?”

Mari attempted to appear unfazed, but failed when she squeaked rather than said, “An acquaintance.”

Katy hooted with laughter. “Acquaintance my aunt Fannie! I’m going to have to call BS on that one, boss.Minoumeans kitty, or something very similar.” The savvy thirty-year-old blonde looked at her with a sly wink and a grin.

“You speak French? Can you tell me what he said that shocked old Emily down to her prudish toes?”

“Sorry. I only know enough to be dangerous. I remember colors, numbers—particularly naughty ones likesoixante-neuf—how to conjugate the verbs have and to be. Other than that, I know animals.” Katy gave her a nudge with her elbow. “But I don’t need to speak French to know that men, especially of European descent, don’t usually call mere acquaintanceskittyin a panty-incinerating voice.”

Mari’s lips twisted. The man was in her shop for only a few minutes but had affronted then charmed a customer then tittivated one of her staff with a would-be romance that didn’t exist.

“Spill,” Katy urged, “because that was one red-hot Frenchman.” To emphasize Arturo’s hotness quotient, she fanned herself with her hand while batting her eyelashes.

“He’s no one, really,” Mari insisted. “Let’s get back to work.”

She reached for the steamer and resumed what she was doing, ignoring the rapid beat of her heart and the nagging wetness of her lace panties.

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