Page 51 of Fierce

“Hmm. Maybe I am. I can do something about that, too. Eventually.” He gave me another of those looks he specialized in, dark and intense, like he had a secret he wasn’t sharing, and the tingle of awareness went straight down my body. “And meanwhile,” he went on, forcing me to come back to myself with a jerk, “what would you think about the Musee d’Orsay? The Impressionist museum.” He must have seen my eyes light up. “Yeh. Thought that might work for you. We could do the Louvre, of course, but…”

“No!” I burst out, and he smiled a little. “Please,” I added more quietly, even though I had to laugh. “I’d love that.”

“We’ll walk through the Tuileries, shall we?” he asked.

“Oh, let’s.”

After that, I almost forgot to look at Hemi, because there was so much else to look at. The statues and fountains of the garden of the Tuileries, and, all too soon, the soaring majesty that was the former train station turned museum. And everything in it. Wandering from room to room, drunk on color and light and brushstrokes, and, when I began to flag, Hemi taking me out for a salad and another coffee to restore myself, then going back to look at paintings with me again, seeming to understand my need to gorge myself on the experience, to drink everything in.

Finally, I sighed, and he said, “Tired, eh. We’ll walk back, shall we, and I’ll get a bit of work done, and you can use that spa tub of yours, maybe have a wee nap as well before we go to dinner.”

“Oh,” I said, “you’re playing my song. It’s been a long week. We’re going to dinner?”

“We are. I’m going to take you someplace beautiful, watch you eat delicious things, watch the way you drink wine, and think about how much I enjoy watching you have new experiences. That’s my plan.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing today?” I asked as he retrieved my jacket from the coat check and helped me put it on.

“Reckon it is,” he said. “And it hasn’t been bad at all.”

My heart began to beat a little harder when he stepped into the elevator with me back at the hotel and pushed the button for the third floor. And it began to pound when he got off the elevator with me and walked silently beside me to my door.

I pulled the keycard from my purse and swiped it, and he put a hand out and held the door open above me. I hesitated, half in and half out, looking back at him where he—well, loomed over me.

“Eight-thirty,” he said. “I’ll meet you in the lobby. And we’ll get to work on that sauciness of yours.” And then, before I knew it, he hauled back and slapped me on the butt.

He did. He spanked me, after he’d refused to even kiss me. I gasped and jumped, and he just looked at me, said, “Can’t wait,” let go of the door, and walked away.

Way to set a girl up.

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