Jean-Baptiste Mercier worked hard to repress his smile—at least some of it, if not all—but his cheeks refused to cooperate. Spending time with the woman in the passenger seat of his rental car did that to him. Suddenly he was part golden retriever, happy with the world and excited to experience the evening’s adventures.

“Are you going to keep grinning like that?” Samira Palmer, the beautiful source of all his enthusiasm, raised a brow. She kept her answering smile severely repressed, but her laughing eyes gave her away. For this evening’s Halloween bonfire in her hometown, Journey’s End in the Hudson River Valley, she wore a black maxi sundress beneath her jean jacket. One that allowed a breathtaking view of her shapely mahogany legs down below and her cleavage up top. Controlling his hands proved as challenging as reining in his smile, so he gave in to the impulse to trail his fingers up her thigh. “Everyone in the park is going to know we’ve been—stop that!”

She smacked his hand away, squirming out of his reach as best she could.

“What? I’m not allowed to touch you now? I feel like we should consummate our new relationship. Strictly to make it legal.”

“First of all, consummation is for marriage,” she said, rearranging her dress so that her bare flesh was no longer visible to his avid gaze.

Without missing a beat, he leaned across the console to nuzzle the silky and fragrant side of her neck, capturing a whiff of sandalwood in the process. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her as close as he could.

“Marriage. Got it. My mistake.”

“Second,” she continued, a distinct and breathless coo in her voice now as she tipped her head to the side to give him better access, “we’re going to put sex on the shelf while we get to know each other.”

“Indeed,” he murmured against her neck, where he could feel her pulse thud its way to the thousand-beats-per-minute range. She melted into dark chocolate pudding when he scraped his teeth along the sensitive tendons, which gave him the idea to slide his hand up her side, beneath her jacket, and flick her nipples with his thumbs for the pure pleasure of feeling her gasp and arch against him. Ah. There it was. “Well, if you think celibacy is for the best, then who am I to argue with you?”

“And finally,” she said, her voice dissolving into little more than a whimper as he continued to stroke her breasts, “we’ve just agreed to see each other, right? No need for all this talk about legalities.”

He didn’t like the word just.

Raising his head, he pulled back enough to look into her brown eyes, glazed now with lust. But beneath that? Trepidation. Which was only fair, he supposed, when you were a small-town career woman who’d recently been engaged to another man and now found yourself unexpectedly embroiled in a passionate new affair with a French billionaire—Baptiste.

In fact, what had she called him yesterday?

Ah, yes. An international player.

More words he didn’t like.

“You’re mistaken, ma reine.” My queen. He took great care to maintain his hold on her breasts, which were deliciously soft and full, both to maintain the renewed connection between them and to remind her that he now had full access to her body with no intention of relinquishing it. “You have finally seen it my way, which is that a one-night stand could never be enough between us. We’ve agreed both that we’re forming a relationship and that it will be exclusive. Two things that I, for one, have never done before. So, you see, we’ve passed many relationship milestones already in our short time together, and there is a need for legalities.”

“I see,” she said. “And what do you suggest?”

What his seething hormones and rock-hard queue urged him to suggest was that they skip the bonfire, go back to his hotel suite and spend tonight as they’d spent their first night together—with him buried to the hilt inside her and their limbs twined together.

But…this was his opportunity to spend some time getting to know her and her delightful town better, and he wanted to meet her parents, who would also be at the bonfire.

That being the case, right now all they could do was the next best thing.

So he flashed her a dark look of intent and reached under the hem of her dress.

“Baptiste!” She shut her thighs to him, clamping down on his left wrist. “We are in a public—”

He put his lips to her ear. “Shhh. The windows are darkened. We’re parked far away, under a tree. No one can see us.”

She made a sound, half shaky laugh and half shuddering sigh. Cast a furtive look around with her too-bright eyes, and saw what he saw—namely that the car faced a park full of people, none of whom were within a hundred meters of them. Looked back at him, her face flushed and her lips dewy.

He stared at her through his heavy-lidded eyes, trying to smile despite the growing tightness in his chest and throat and the blue balls that would keep aching until he got inside her tight pussy again.

“I’ve never done anything like this,” she said helplessly.

There was only one response to that.

“Because you were waiting for me, chérie,” he said tenderly.

She hesitated.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Anything we do to give each other pleasure is okay.”

Shaky laugh from Samira, tinged with despair. “Why can’t I ever tell you no?”

That wasn’t the question at all.

“Why do you keep trying?” he asked, curling his fingers against her satiny thigh.

She mewled. Let her eyes roll closed and her head fall back.

Opened her legs for him.

He didn’t waste any time. With a final glance all around to make sure no one was coming, he leaned across the console—the damn thing was too wide—to kiss her.

She opened her mouth for him, as eager for the thrust of his tongue as she was for the glide of his fingers against her petal-soft hidden folds. She was… mon Dieu, she was hot and exquisitely slick, and the clean scent of her woman’s musk threatened to make something snap inside his brain.

He was at a disadvantage, using his left hand with the console between them, and there’d be no happy ending in this encounter. At least not for him. Yet he’d never been more fully alive. More determined to hear his name on a woman’s lips or to see her face twist with ecstasy.

He shook with it as he withdrew his hand.

“Take off your panties.”

Panting now, she opened her eyes to give him a baleful look. “I need them, Baptiste. I’m not going to the bonfire with my ass hanging out.”

He had to grin.

“Fair enough. I’ll give them back.” He smothered a smirk. “This time.”

Another glare.

And then, taking care to maintain eye contact, she reached up under her dress, wiggled her way out of her panties and handed them to him.

Pink lace this time. Excellent.

He pressed them to his face. Breathed deeply. Put them in his pocket.

And reached under her hem again.

She was already deliciously creamy, and it didn’t take long. Just the easy swirling pressure of his fingers tracing her clit. Over and over again.

She shifted restlessly, her hips pumping against him. “Baptiste…”

“You’re so beautiful.” His voice sounded husky now. Almost broken. Only this one woman had ever been able to undo him like this. “Come for me, Samira.”

He leaned in again. Gave the sweet tendon on the side of her neck a sharp little nip just as he increased the pressure between her legs.

And she came with a shocked cry of his name.

As for him? An incoherent shout of triumph.

“Oh, my God.” She leaned back against her seat, pressed a hand to her forehead and laughed softly as she tried to catch her breath. “Oh, my God.”

Watching her…seeing the astonished delight on her face…feeling the responsive swelling in his chest…

He thought back to the life he’d had up until now. His late and unlamented jet-set parents and their mutual indifference to their only son. The parade of nannies who’d raised him. All the partying and womanizing he’d done.

The pervasive loneliness he’d felt during every stage of his life and the stark contrast to the joyous excitement he felt when Samira walked in the room and brought her bright smile with her.

Looking back on all of it, he felt incredulous.

How was it possible that he’d survived thirty-five years without this woman in his life? What the hell had he been doing this whole time?

“Well,” she said finally, “I hope that’s legal enough for you.”

He burst into laughter. Kissed her again. Felt the lingering shadows leave his heart as he fell a bit more under her spell.

“That wasn’t very good for you, though, was it?” she asked, looking worried. “Very selfish of me.”

“Sadly true. What kind of monster goes around giving me my heart’s desire like that?”

She sobered, her expression turning very thoughtful. Cupped his face between her soft hands, running her thumbs over his lips. Leaned in to kiss him this time.

And he would have happily died inside that quiet moment.

But…

He still wanted to meet her parents.

“Let’s go,” he said, producing her panties again. “Kindly dress yourself. Honestly, you Americans are so brazen.”

Laughing, she snatched the panties and whacked him across the arm with them.

They freshened up. He used her hand sanitizer to wash his hands and wiped her lipstick off his mouth. She touched up the remaining little bit on hers. He smoothed his hair and replaced his baseball cap and sunglasses. She inspected his crotch.

“Thank God you’re decent again,” she said. “You need to control that thing.”

He laughed, his ears burning the way they had back when he was a child and his favorite nanny, Mrs. Smith, had caught him ogling some marble statue of a naked woman in the garden of their Bordeaux estate.

“You control this thing now. You quite like when it’s out of control. Or did I misread the signs?”

Samira’s turn to blush, which she did quite prettily. “No comment. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” he called, reaching for his door, but she was already up and out, reaching into the backseat for her desserts.

“What?” she asked over the top of the car when he’d also climbed out.

“I was going to get the door for you.”

Her brow crinkled with bewilderment. “Why?”

“Basic politeness.”

She made a dismissive noise. “I don’t have time to wait for you to open my door. I’ve got places to go.”

As he’d done nonstop since he met Samira, he recalled several of the women he’d been with over the years, none of whom would have dreamed of either opening her own door or climbing out of any of his sports cars without her dress and long legs artfully arranged in case any paparazzi cared to snap her picture. Another little bit of his mind exploded with surprise, as it inevitably did with Samira. At this rate, he’d be working with only a primitive brain stem by bedtime, and God knew that most of that was now devoted to keeping him hard in her presence.

He chuckled.

“What?”

“Nothing at all. I was just enjoying your, ah, uniqueness.”

She squinted at him. “Are you making fun of me over there?”

“Not at all. You barely tolerate my presence. Why would I endanger that by teasing you?”

“True.”

“I quite like how low-maintenance you are. You don’t demand my money. You don’t require me to hang on your every word or to wait on you hand and foot. What is there for me to do for you?”

“You usually think of something,” she said with an appreciative once-over.

“I have managed to think of something else,” he said silkily. “Would you like to return to the car so I can give it to you?”

“I would not. Try to focus.” She held up her Rice Krispie treats for him to see. “I’ve got my potluck item. Where’s yours? No food for you unless you bring one. You were warned.”

“I have it,” he said, popping the trunk. “I have several. I wasn’t sure how much I’d need.”

She met him at the trunk, looked in and gasped.

“Baptiste. What the hell is this?”

“Caramel apples. Children love them, I’m told.”

“Yes, but there’s like…” She did a quick count. “There’s like four dozen in here.”

His heart sank. “Not enough?”

“Baptiste! Each of these apples will feed at least two kids.”

“Okay…?”

“And aren’t these the ones from Saks? How did they even get here from the city this quickly? I just invited you to the bonfire yesterday.”

“Delivery. Why all the consternation? How else does one get things?”

“Aren’t those apples, like, twenty-five dollars a pop?”

As if he knew. He shrugged. “Something like that. Why?”

“Baptiste! You have over a thousand dollars’ worth of potluck items here! Why not just go to the bakery and get some cookies?”

“I did that, too.” He pointed to a pink box in the back of the trunk. “I wasn’t sure if all the children would like the apples, so I got a few macarons.”

“A few?” she cried, eyeballing the box. “How many?”

“I don’t know. I just bought all they had.”

She smacked her forehead and burst into bright laughter at his expense. If the sight hadn’t been so enthralling, he might have taken a moment to have his feelings hurt.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

He grinned, beginning to feel sheepish. “Too much?”

“Ah, yeah, you could say that. By a factor of about a thousand.”

“Your criticisms don’t bother me in the slightest. I’m very glad to be included, and I want to make a good impression on all these kind people.”

“Honey, you’re going to make an impression, all right. I predict that several people will be asking you for loans before the day is over. You need to work on blending in with the humble folk a bit more.”

“Noted,” he said. “Now if you’re finished taking me to the garage—”

“Woodshed.”

“—perhaps you could find me a wagon or something so we can carry the apples.”

They laughed together. He was just leaning closer to steal another kiss under cover of the open trunk when footsteps crunched on the gravel to their left and they started, looking around.

It was her former fiancé, whom he’d met yesterday, Baptiste saw. His chest tightened with his new friend Jealousy, ridiculous as it was to be jealous of a gay man who’d already broken his engagement to Samira. Terrance Shields was the man’s name. He had another man with him—boyfriend, perhaps? —and both carried giant bottles of soda.

Baptiste hastily backed up a step from Samira, mindful of her desire to keep their relationship quiet. She was the PR manager at Harper Rose Winery, the local outfit that was merging with his winery back in Bordeaux to form Château Harper Rose, so they’d have to work closely together for the near future, and she didn’t want to jeopardize her career with office gossip. Left to his own devices, though, he’d have put his arm around her waist.

“Hey!” Samira’s smile seemed a bit forced, although whether it was from awkwardness at being discovered with Baptiste or lingering possessiveness over the man she’d almost married, Baptiste couldn’t tell. “Terrance. How are you?”

“I’m great, beautiful.” Terrance gave her a kiss on the cheek that triggered a twinge in Baptiste’s gut. “Good to see you. And thank you for not running in the other direction.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We mended all our fences yesterday,” she said airily, leaning past Terrance so she could shake the other guy’s hand. “Hi, Jeremy. Great to see you again. Did you bring an appetite?”

Baptiste watched her closely. Seeing only warmth in her expression as she talked to the man who had, quite possibly, replaced her as the romantic interest in Terrance’s life, he began to feel some of his tension ease away. Began to breathe again.

Unless she was the world’s best actress (and the more time he spent with her, the more he appreciated how genuine she was, if nothing else), then she was over her feelings for Terrance, as she’d said.

Baptiste felt a tremendous surge of satisfaction.

“I brought enough appetite for two to three people,” Jeremy said, turning to Baptiste as they all laughed. “Jeremy Phelps. How are you?”

Baptiste smiled and shook his hand. “Jean-Baptiste Mercier. Pleasure.”

There was an awkward pause while Baptiste and Terrance considered each other. Terrance had a speculative glint in his eye that didn’t bother Baptiste (best for the man to understand that there was someone new in Samira’s life, lest there be any misunderstandings), but, judging from the way Samira fidgeted with her hair, she wasn’t quite ready for the old man in her life to confront the new one.

“Terrance, you remember Baptiste,” she finally said.

“I do,” Terrance said, his lips thinning out. “Did you say you were coworkers now?”

“I did.” Samira did an admirable job holding on to her smile of angelic innocence, although her word rate increased by a good fifty percent. “I said Baptiste is now a co-owner of Harper Rose Winery, yes. It’s going to be renamed Château Harper Rose. We’re all very excited about the merger. Lots of changes in the air—”

“Oh, so that explains it.” Terrance stared at Baptiste, his expression indecipherable. “Coworkers often ride together to social events.”

“Baptiste passed me when I was on the riverwalk and offered a ride.” Samira kept her smile glued firmly in place. “He was just showing me the caramel apples he brought.”

“Ah,” Terrance said. “How are you liking Journey’s End so far, Baptiste?”

Baptiste looked over at the crowded park, which was alive with excited families and delicious savory smells that made his belly rumble. He noted the huge white gazebo and river view beyond. He thought about the bike trails, kayak landing and dog park. The lovely main street with its quirky little shops. The exquisite and endlessly fascinating woman beside him, whose face he didn’t dare look at now.

“Journey’s End is a hidden treasure,” he told Terrance, acutely aware of Samira’s sudden stillness. “Every day I find more and more to recommend it.”

Terrance’s interest sharpened. “So you’ll be staying for a while?”

Baptiste thought about his apartment in Paris, which was full of the finest furniture money could buy and empty of any heart or soul. Then he thought about the family estate in Bordeaux, which was full of memories—90 percent of them bad.

“My situation is fluid,” he said. “Many factors are out of my control, but if I had my way? I’d want to learn much more about what Journey’s End has to offer.”

He risked a glance at Samira to discover her watching him. Much as he wanted a closer look, he forced himself to turn away before he lost any further control of what he said or did tonight. On his current trajectory? He’d wrench the microphone away from the DJ currently playing pop tunes and declare his eternal love for her in front of everyone in town.

“Interesting.” Terrance’s jaw tightened. “Well, can we help you with your caramel apples? Looks like you need a hand.”

“Yes, thanks,” Baptiste said.

Everyone grabbed something. They dodged chattering children as they walked across the lawn, passing a petting zoo and jack o’lantern decorating table. At the gazebo, they added their items to the overloaded food tables.

“Should we check out the volleyball?” Terrance asked Jeremy.

“Sure.”

“Great to see you both.” Terrance kissed Samira again, lobbed a final hard glance at Baptiste and set off.

“Take care,” Jeremy said, following him.

“Bye,” Samira said just as a black and white ball bounced across the floor and came to a stop when it hit Baptiste in the shin.

“Hey!” He stooped to catch it, then straightened and glowered as two boys of about eight raced up. The twins from the local coffeehouse, Java Nectar, this morning, he saw. “Who is attacking me with this football?”

The boys looked at each other. Giggled.

“We didn’t attack you,” said the first one, who had a giant spiderweb and black widow painted across his face beneath his glasses. He wore a Starship Federation uniform with a gold tunic along with a sandy brown wig that sat crookedly on his head. “It was an accident.”

“Is it because I’m a foreigner?” Baptiste continued loudly, holding the ball up, well out of their reach. “You don’t like my accent? I’m not welcome here?”

More giggles, including one from Samira, who came to stand beside him.

“You do kind of talk funny,” said the second twin.

“I knew it!” cried Baptiste.

“But we wouldn’t attack you because you’re foreign,” continued the second twin. This one’s Starship Federation tunic was blue, and he wore a severe black wig with bangs and had pointy tips glued to his ears. His face, meanwhile, was painted like a tiger’s. “We like foreigners! Everyone’s welcome here.”

“Don’t you remember us?” The first twin edged forward. “I’m Noah. He’s Jonah. We brought you napkins and silverware at Java Nectar.”

“Wait one minute.” Baptiste lowered the ball and leaned down to study them more closely. Then he snapped his fingers. “I know you two! You’re the children who brought me napkins and silverware at Java Nectar!”

“Yeah,” Noah said, beaming. “And you left us five dollars each for a tip!”

“Well, why didn’t you say it was you?” Baptiste shook each of their hands. “Jean-Baptiste Mercier. Pleasure. How am I to recognize you when you’re so cleverly disguised as a spider and a tiger?”

The boys exchanged a look.

“We’re Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock,” Jonah said delicately. “See our uniforms?”

“Now you lie to me? Straight to my face? Is it because I’m French and you don’t like French fries or French toast?”

More giggling from the boys.

“I thought you sounded Russian,” said Jonah.

Noah scowled around at him and thumped him in the belly with the back of his hand. “How would you know what Russian sounds like, dummy?”

Baptiste smothered a laugh and worked on looking severe.

“We’re Spock and Kirk,” Noah said with infinite patience. “We just happened to get our faces painted.”

Baptiste frowned thoughtfully. “Would Spock do that, though? Or would he consider it illogical?”

“Dude,” Jonah said. “We’re just kids trying to enjoy Halloween.”

“Fair enough,” Baptiste said, grinning. “But I don’t think I talk funny. My English is perfectly good. ’appy ’alloween. There. You see?”

The kids doubled up with laughter.

“Dude!” Noah cried. “You aren’t even saying the aitches!”

“The who?” Baptiste deadpanned.

“Say HAH-pee HAL-oween,” Jonah said.

“’Appy ’Alloween,” Baptiste said.

The boys howled.

“Now let’s hear your French. Say croissant,” Baptiste said, rolling the hell out of his R.

“Croissant,” said the boys.

“Croissant,” Baptiste said.

“Croissant.”

This continued for several rounds, until the laughter finally died out.

“Would you like your football back?” Baptiste asked.

Yet more giggling.

“Why do you keep calling it a football?” Noah asked. “It’s a soccer ball.”

“No, no, no,” said Baptiste.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said both of the twins. “Don’t you know anything about soccer in France?”

In response, Baptiste juggled the ball several times with his feet, then caught it between his knees.

“No freaking way! How did you do that?”

The twins laughed and whooped, giving him high fives.

“Wish you were our soccer coach,” Noah said glumly. “Our coach sucks. He’s some kid’s dad, and we think he only knows about soccer from watching online videos. Maybe you can play a game with us sometime?”

“I would love to,” Baptiste said, unaccountably touched.

“Oh, but you probably can’t with those shoes,” Jonah said, pointing to the offending footwear. “Do those hurt your feet?”

Baptiste had to laugh. “You sound like my friend Daniel Harper. He doesn’t like any of my shoes.”

“Daniel? He’s our uncle now that our mom married his brother!” said Noah.

“I’m sure he’s very pleased to have such cool nephews,” Baptiste said, feeling an odd pang in his chest.

“Hang on.” Jonah pointed to the dessert table, all but levitating with excitement. “Are those Rice Krispie Treats? With M&Ms in them?”

“They are.” Samira smiled indulgently. “I made those. Do you like them?”

“Like them? Are you crazy? Can we have one?” Jonah asked.

“I’m not sure, guys,” Samira said. “Are you allergic to anything?”

“No!”

“They haven’t served dinner yet. I don’t want to get in trouble with your mom,” Samira said.

“Our mom will never know! She’s on her honeymoon! We’re not gonna tell her!” said Noah.

“I don’t know,” Samira said. “Baptiste?”

Baptiste tipped his head thoughtfully. “I think it should be okay. This one time. As long as you don’t go bragging to your friends about it.”

“Okay,” said Jonah a little glumly, his expression falling. “Thanks.”

“And you can have one of the caramel apples after dinner, if you like,” Baptiste said, pointing.

The boys recoiled.

“Are those nuts?” Noah asked.

“I’ll pass,” Jonah said. “Most kids hate nuts.”

“The ones that aren’t allergic,” Noah added.

Baptiste stared down at the boys, aghast.

“Wow.” Samira exchanged a look with Baptiste across the top of the twins’ heads. “Awkward.”

Baptiste sadly shook his head, which was all he could do at that dark moment.

Rice Krispie treats were passed around. The boys gleefully bounded off, taking their ball with them. Samira turned to Baptiste, trying not to smile.

“Yeah, I can see why a guy like you wouldn’t want kids. What a nightmare that would be. Hoo-boy. I get chills just thinking about it.”

Baptiste grinned. “It’s easy with those children. They are already trained. My children would probably be a nightmare. Like me.”

“If you say so.”

“Don’t try to sidetrack me. Are your parents here?”

“Yes,” she said, heaving a dramatic sigh. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Positive.”

“Let’s go.”