“This is my wife, Nana.” Pepe pointed to the tall natural blonde by his side. “She’s Danish, but she can speak French.”

Nana smiled at her considerably shorter husband and extended her hand.

Amanda shook it. “Here in France we tend to do the cheek kiss—except in a business setting. Actually, we do it even in a business setting.”

“I’ll have to get used to it.” Nana held her hand out to Kes, who shook it.

“You should if you want to blend in.” Amanda furrowed her brow, thinking. “Forget what I said. The way you look, I doubt you’ll ever blend in anywhere south of the Belgian border.”

“Oh.” Nana’s face fell.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment, watching the photographer direct the newlyweds between two magnificent rosebushes for yet another series of mandatory pics.

This one was with the parents.

“Say ouistiti, everyone,” he ordered, and everyone smiled for the camera.

After he clicked his camera a dozen times, he asked his models to move a couple of meters to the left so the rosebush could serve as a backdrop for the next series of shots.

Amanda searched Jeanne’s and Mat’s faces for signs of irritation or fatigue, but found none. Knowing how bad Jeanne was at hiding her feelings, the only logical explanation was that she actually wasn’t irritated. Or fatigued. Her smile seemed genuinely happy, and even Mat looked as though he didn’t mind the interminable photo shoot among the rosebushes and various other shrubs that populated the municipal park of Balleville.

Weird. Was the wedding day so special it put the newlyweds in a beatific mood that nothing could ruin?

“Hasn’t he already photographed them with both sets of parents?” Pepe asked, frowning.

“He has,” Kes confirmed. “But I think I figured out what his plan is.”

Amanda smiled. “Please enlighten us.”

“He’s sampling the different tree species of this park. If we’re lucky, he’ll stop after the magnolias.”

“I hope he does,” Pepe said. “I’m parched.”

“Pe-pe and Na-na.” Amanda looked from one to the other. “Did you guys meet through a website that matches people based on their names?”

Pepe widened his eyes in mock surprise. “How did you know?”

“These days,” Nana said with a tight smile, “Pepe prefers to be called by his full name—Jose-Antonio.”

“I bet it has something to do with him being a manager,” Amanda said, “in charge of managing an agency.”

“What do you think of Paris, Nana?” Kes asked, looking unusually earnest. “How does it compare to Copenhagen?”

“I like Paris.” Nana’s smile was genuine this time. “It’s not as cozy as Copenhagen, and there are too many places where you can’t enter with a stroller. But it’s beautiful and fun. I’m taking courses to improve my French so I can start applying for jobs when Freja is a bit older.”

Pepe turned to Kes. “And what about you? What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a stockbroker,” Kes said, thankfully sticking to the script.

He stuck to it for the rest of the day, never goofing up and playing his role with confidence and aplomb. He chatted with everyone and charmed everyone. But he always stayed near Amanda and danced only with her.

And, boy, he did it well.

Salsa, rock, zouk—you name it, they danced it. When Maximilien Philippe launched into his spellbinding cover of “C’est si bon,” Kes pulled her into his arms. Amanda shivered and thought that this was very, very bon. But when the song ended, she changed her mind. Rocking in Kes’s embrace to Philippe’s sensual crooning hadn’t been just bon. It had been glorious.

What was more, she didn’t give a hoot about how blissfully in love Rob and Lena were. The purpose of bringing Kes to Jeanne’s wedding had been to protect her ego. He’d done her one better and shielded her heart. Whether it was his hungry gaze or simply his presence, it soothed the pain she usually experienced around her ex and his wife.

She hardly even glanced at them. No unhealthy fascination, no envy, no poisonous regret. Tonight, Amanda stayed in the here and now, wholeheartedly celebrating Jeanne and Mat’s union.

And having an exceptionally good time.

When Kes led Amanda to their room—dragged would have been a better term had he acknowledged the degree of Amanda’s tipsiness—he knew one thing was certain. If he kissed her now, she’d let him do more.

Much more.

All of it.

During the last few dances, she’d clung to him, murmuring something about him being smoking hot and her being soaking wet. She gave him heavy-lidded gazes and bit her lower lip repeatedly.

Meaningfully.

Once in the room, she climbed on the bed without bothering to remove her pumps and beckoned him over.

He kicked off his shoes and socks and lay down next to her.

“Oh look,” Amanda said, pointing to the ceiling, “the room is spinning!”

“You’ve had too much to drink, ma belle.”

“So what?” She tore her gaze from the light fixture on the ceiling and gave him a seductive smile. “Hold me.”

He set his hand on her slim waist and began to caress her through the silky fabric of her gown.

Should he move higher and cup her breast? Why was he even asking himself this question? Perhaps because it felt wrong, that was why.

“Mmm.” Amanda closed her eyes and nuzzled his neck.

She sounded dopey.

He kept his hand on her waist, slowing his movements and then just holding her until she fell asleep.

As he listened to her drunken yet endearing snoring, he wondered how much longer he could play this game.

Not much.

Something had to give.

The question was what was going to give first—her resistance or his resolve.