Consciousness slowly returned to Baptiste, aided by the loss of a warm and curvy body as it slid away from his. He reflexively tightened his hold around her waist, but it was already too late.

“Samira,” he grumbled, rolling onto his belly and burrowing deeper into the downy comfort of the pillow and fine linens. “Come back to bed.”

“Can’t.” She pressed a lingering kiss to his eager lips. “It’s almost morning. I have to go. I’m going to use the extra toothbrush in the bathroom, okay?”

“Of course.”

He cracked open an eye and saw his dim suite, lit only by the bathroom light as she clicked it on. They’d made love three spectacular times last night, but that was no reason to waste his morning erection.

“’Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day,’” he said.

She stuck her head out of the bathroom door, her delicious mouth popped open with surprise. “Are you quoting Romeo and Juliet?”

He grinned. Of course she knew it. From all appearances thus far, there was no end to this woman’s talents.

“Depends. Do you like Shakespeare?”

One delicate brow went up. “Are the French good lovers?”

He laughed. If he spent much more time with this woman, he’d sprain the muscles in his cheeks, which were already starting to feel overused.

“Only good?”

She scrunched up her face and pretended to think hard. “Really good?”

He glowered.

“Exquisite. Satisfied?”

“Not until you come back to bed, no.”

She laughed.

Renewed desire became a sweet ache in the pit of his belly and lower.

“If I quote more Shakespeare for you, will you stay? I can order breakfast. No need to leave on an empty stomach.”

Unmistakable regret shadowed her eyes. “I can’t. I have a meeting.”

So did he, but it now seemed comically insignificant. Heaving a harsh sigh, he watched her disappear into the bathroom, flopped onto his back and rested his arm over his eyes as the water began to run.

Well, this was complicated, wasn’t it?

Complicated...and unprecedented.

First thing? He’d have to cancel tonight’s date in Manhattan. Now that Daphne was in his rearview mirror, he’d planned to meet Elisabetta for dinner at Delmonico’s. They had a longstanding arrangement that worked beautifully: he took her for an expensive dinner when he was between lovers (and sometimes when he was not, to be honest), perhaps a bit of shopping, and she used him to hone her pornographic skills in bed.

But after last night? Elisabetta’s face also belonged in his rearview mirror. She’d be unhappy, but he’d send a nice bouquet of flowers, and all would be well.

Maybe Samira would enjoy Delmonico’s. Maybe they’d go to the city for the weekend. That might make the most sense. For tonight and tomorrow, they could eat somewhere here in town. The little bit of Journey’s End he’d seen thus far seemed lovely, and he wouldn’t mind exploring it with her.

Or they could stay here again. For room service.

The thought made him grin until his lips threatened to touch his ears.

Obviously, he’d need to extend his business here for as long as, say, ten days, but after that he’d have to get back. Maybe Samira could meet him there. He’d show her all the sights if she hadn’t seen them, or stay in bed if she had.

Samira.

Everything about her was unexpected. The way they’d met. The way they laughed together. Her beauty and keen intelligence.

They way she’d completely unraveled him in bed last night.

Him! A man who’d slept with beautiful women all over the world and had enough mileage on his queue to qualify for platinum status and an endorsement deal for a condom company.

So, yes, Samira had left him feeling like the green and untried teenager he’d been millennia ago. That was unexpected. As for his bloodlust last night when he’d thought that drunken Julius Caesar was hurting her? Or the fierce wave of protectiveness he’d felt, as though he would happily throw himself between her and any whiff of danger? Or his realization that last night hadn’t quenched any of his fire for Samira, but had instead poured gasoline on the flames?

Unexpected…and vaguely troubling.

She emerged from the bathroom just then, with her strapless blue Nefertiti dress back on, sans collar. He stood. Yawned and stretched. Reached for her, but she shrieked and batted him away.

“What?”

“Have you brushed your teeth?”

“You just kissed me!” Playing up his outrage, he flapped a hand at the bed. “You woke me with a kiss!”

“That was a peck. You look like you mean business. And that brings me to the other issue.” She pointed at his engorged private parts. “You need to get that situation under control.”

He held his arms wide to give her a better view of all his glory. “This situation is your fault. What do you want me to do?”

“For now? Robe.” She tossed him a fluffy white one from the closet. “When I leave? Cold shower.”

“There are many more exciting techniques to handle a morning erection,” he said silkily. “I can think of two—no, three—right away.”

“I’m sure you can,” she said darkly, shooing him away. “Go.”

“But—”

“Go!”

Chuckling, he went into the bathroom. By the time he returned, with the robe firmly belted around his waist, she had her sandals back on and her purse, collar and crown lined up on the table beside his watch and cuff links.

She looked very crisp now.

Very cool.

A vague feeling of unease skittered up his spine.

Time for a stern reminder of the words by which he lived his life:

Don’t count on anyone. Don’t get attached.

Did he like her? Of course?

Would he lose his head over her or any other woman? Absolutely not.

“You shouldn’t leave your gold watch lying around.” She looked incredulous. “And are those diamond cuff links? How did you know I wouldn’t run off with them in the middle of the night?”

“The idea never crossed my mind,” he said, shrugging. “You’re not a thief.”

“No, but you don’t know that.”

“I do know that.”

“Baptiste, this watch is a Cartier. It’s like a bar of gold bullion. And the cuff links are a couple carats each. You should be more careful.”

He nodded, deciding that now was not the time to mention either that the cuff links were five carats each or that he had two or three other gold watches at home. And ten thousand in cash in the safe. “You’re right.”

She seemed mollified as she opened the drapes and let in the morning sun. “It’s going to be a pretty day.”

He nodded.

There was an awkward pause.

“So I should—” she began.

“Do you want me to call a car for you?” he said at the same time.

“No, it’s okay,” she said quickly. “I walked. I just live a couple blocks from here. Journey’s End isn’t that big.”

“You don’t want to walk in those heels, do you? I’ll call you a car.”

“But—”

“I insist.”

He picked up the phone and spoke to the front desk, telling them to charge the car to his room.

“Thanks,” she said, gathering up her things. “You’re very sweet. I should probably go down and wait in the lobby.”

“I want to talk to you first.” He hesitated, watching her tuck the dome-shaped crown under her arm. “Actually, you need a bag. And something to cover your shoulders before you catch your death.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “I checked my jacket in the cloakroom last night. But could I take your plastic dry cleaning bag from the closet? I think the crown would probably fit in that.”

But he’d had a better idea and was already dumping the contents from his duffel on the bed.

“Allow me,” he said, taking the crown and collar, putting them inside and zipping it up. “Here.”

She took the duffel with a frown. “Baptiste. This is a Louis Vuitton.”

“So?” He dove across the bed, retrieved last night’s starched shirt from the floor and came back, shaking it out. Relieving her of the duffel, he put it on the table and held the shirt out so she could put it on. “Have it.”

“I can’t have it,” she said, crossing her arms. “And I can’t take your shirt. This is monogrammed. You need it.”

The vague images of several of the women he’d dated abruptly scrolled through his mind, one after the other, ending with Daphne. He’d nicknamed them Greedy, Grabby and Hungry as a collective. Always with their hands out, always singing Janet Jackson in his ear, wondering what he’d done for them lately.

Had any one of them been present last night, she’d have ordered an additional bottle of champagne, caviar, surf and turf and chocolate soufflé for dessert. She would have raided the minibar, insisted on the car to drive her home, and made several pointed comments about how much she’d always wanted a Cartier watch like his and diamond ear studs to match his cuff links. She’d snatch the monogrammed shirt off his back and happily skip off with his duffel bag, then delay and/or feign ignorance if and when he asked for it back.

Sometimes, if the woman intrigued or charmed him, and if he wanted to see her again, he’d buy her a little something. Sometimes this progressed until they formed an arrangement like he’d discussed with Daniel last night. And while said arrangements had worked beautifully for him for years, in the last several months or so, they’d left him feeling…dissatisfied and disgruntled.

Possibly even…empty.

That was why it was so startling to encounter a woman who not only didn’t seem to expect anything from him, but also didn’t seem to want it. Of course, Samira hadn’t had a chance to look him up online yet, so she had no idea about his net worth. Still, he was surprised to discover that her determination not to take anything from him made him perversely more determined to give her things.

He wanted her to keep something of his.

God knew she’d burrowed her way deep into his brain and memory.

He gestured to his open closet door, where two other monogrammed white shirts hung. “I’ll manage without it. Besides. You ruined this shirt for me last night, didn’t you? When you forced me to rip it off. All the buttons fell off.”

“What the—? I didn’t force you!”

He did his best to look innocent. “You were so eager to get me naked, but your shaky little hands couldn’t undo the buttons. What was I to do?”

They laughed together for a wonderful moment. It dawned on him that she’d washed off her heavy Nefertiti eye makeup. Now she remained as beautiful, but it was a fresh-faced, early morning beauty every bit as fascinating as her sophistication last night.

He wanted to spend the day happily staring at her face.

Unfortunately, she sobered and locked that smile in some closet he couldn’t reach. He felt her walls coming up, pushing him away. It was a nasty feeling, being on the outside after the intimacy and wonders of last night.

He didn’t like it.

“Thanks, but I can’t take them,” she said firmly. “When would I give them back?”

“Tonight when we have dinner.” He felt an unsettling flurry of nerves in his belly, the kind he hadn’t experienced since age twelve, when he first kissed a girl. “If you forget to bring them tonight, you could bring them tomorrow when we have dinner. Or over the weekend. I’ll be in Journey’s End for a while yet. So, you see? Problem solved.”

She stared at him, a wide-eyed and elegant deer trapped in his headlights.

At this point in any other conversation he’d had with a woman, she would have shrieked with delight, leapt into his arms and showered his face with kisses.

His unease grew.

Don’t get attached. Never get attached, he told himself, but no part of him was listening.

“I want to see you again,” he said softly. “Say something.”

She opened her mouth, but her voice was on a time delay.

“I’m not sure what to say.”

“Say yes. Simple.”

She floundered and turned away, nervously smoothing her hair.

His heart sank, leveling out with the dread deep in his gut as a new thought hit him.

“You’re married,” he said dully.

Why this possibility bothered him so much was anyone’s guess. As a French man and a longtime witness to his mother’s ongoing parade of future ex-husbands, his views on the institution were a great deal more circumspect than the average American’s. And if he ran the numbers, he’d no doubt discover that a healthy percentage of his sexual exploits were with married women.

Yet the idea that Samira—

“I’m not married,” she said, facing him again and releasing the sudden pressure on his lungs, allowing him to breathe. “I…was engaged.”

“But it’s over now?” he demanded.

She nodded. “But this isn’t the time for me to…I don’t know…”

“Have fun with a sexy and wonderful man while he’s in town?”

Her eyes crinkled. “Muddy the waters with another man who’s ultimately unavailable to me.”

Ultimately unavailable.

As the king of ultimate unavailability, this explanation should have made perfect sense to him. Instead, it made his jaw clench.

“Samira—”

“I don’t need the aggravation, Baptiste. Please understand that.”

Aggravation? Was he aggravating?

His disappointment and bewilderment were such that he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“I don’t want to understand,” he said, well aware that he sounded like the spoiled brat he’d been as a kid. “I want to see you again.”

One of her brows rose, punishing him with a million times more reproach than his mother or nannies had ever managed. “And this is only about what you want?”

“Of course not. But we like each other. Why not enjoy each other while it lasts?”

She thought that over for a minute, her gaze drifting out of focus for a beat or two. But then her attention snapped back to his face.

“I’m not up for another round of being hurt and disappointed.” Maybe it was his imagination, but he detected a hint of sadness in her eyes. Of regret. “And I’d rather remember one perfect night with you than start hating you one day because you didn’t, I don’t know, call me from France when you said you would. Or maybe we’d spend a little bit of time together, and get on each other’s nerves. I’d rather remember our night than discover that you’re a jerk.”

Fair points. Without breaking a sweat, he could probably march five or ten women in here, all willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that he was a jerk.

And yet he was willing to swear that his past behavior had nothing to do with his relationship to Samira.

With them, more often than not, one night was plenty, if not excessive.

With Samira? He hadn’t even scratched the surface.

She evidently didn’t feel the same way, but he couldn’t give up that easily.

“Samira…”

“You got a text, by the way. I wasn’t trying to see it, but your phone was sitting right on the table.”

What difference did a silly text make at this critical juncture? He shrugged impatiently. “Okay…?”

“It was from Daphne. Who evidently doesn’t believe in wearing clothes.”

With numb disbelief—whose timing and luck were this bad? —he picked up the phone and checked the display: a close-up of Daphne’s pale breasts, including nipple ring. The only good thing? The message was in French. Hopefully Samira’s French wasn’t good enough to translate it:

Come see me soon, my love, so we can work things out.

Shit.

His throat, heart and brain seized up, leaving him paralyzed with indecision. Anything he said would make him look like a heartless bastard. Which would be worse? Telling Samira that Daphne meant nothing to him and never had? Telling her that he planned to stop paying Daphne’s Manhattan rent at the end of the year, leaving her “homeless?” Admitting that he’d been with Daphne as recently as last week, when she’d been in Paris for a photo shoot?

What explanation could he possibly give that wouldn’t blow up his fledgling relations with Samira? Christ. Best to hope that Daphne and Samira never crossed paths. Daphne would love to whisper as much poison as possible into Samira’s ear.

He opened his mouth. Closed his mouth. Bit back a growl of frustration.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Samira said coolly. “You don’t owe me any explanations.”

No, he didn’t, but he still wished he could think of one. Anything that might stop her from leaving like this.

“Daphne and me… It’s over and it was never anything serious,” he said quietly.

“It was a good reminder.” Blithe smile. “You wouldn’t want me getting too attached to you, would you?”

Yes! He would!

“And it’s none one of my business what you do with other women,” she said, but her smile was off. As false as an elephant pretending to be a giraffe.

“I feel as though it is your business after last night, Samira.”

She blinked. Hesitated.

“I’m a big girl. I don’t need reassurance. And I’m not in the market for anything more, anyway.”

Stunned and miserable, he watched her reach for the duffel.

“So that’s it?”

She kept her gaze lowered, refusing to look him in the eye.

“I have to go.”

With that, she picked up the duffel, knocking her purse and his watch off the table and to the floor in her haste. Several of her belongings tumbled out. Cell phone. Lipstick. Compact case.

“Sorry,” she muttered, ducking her head as she squatted to pick everything up. “Here’s your watch.”

He took the watch and automatically stooped to help, retrieving a package of tissues and a tiny bottle of lotion. He handed them back to her, more than a little shell-shocked by this sudden appearance of a brick wall in his face. She jammed the items into her purse, leaving nothing to tie the two of them together except for his borrowed duffel bag that she didn’t even want.

Hell, she hadn’t even given him her phone number, and he hesitated to ask for it now for fear of another rejection.

But he couldn’t just let her go. Not like this. Not after last night.

They both stood.

She started to say something. Struggled with words that didn’t come.

He started to say something, some final plea, but the sudden hard lump in his throat blocked the words.

“Thank you for an incredible night, Baptiste,” she finally said.

“You can’t even look at me?” he asked in a desperation-tinged voice.

Her gaze reluctantly flickered back to his.

A wild swoop of relief allowed him to breathe again. It was all still there. Banked and unwanted, but still there. Her passion for him. Her interest in him. The connection they’d felt. The laughter, the fun. All of it was right there in her guarded expression and searching look.

Close enough for him to touch, but impossible for him to reach.

“Your eyes,” she said helplessly.

“What, ma reine?”

“I’ve never seen anyone with green eyes like yours before. It was too dark for me to see them clearly last night, but…”

He shook his head, undone by some combination of affection and exasperation.

“You think you’re telling me good-bye, but then you look at me like that? What am I to do with you?”

He cupped her face, and she didn’t say no.

He dipped his head, and she didn’t back away.

He kissed her, and she melted for him the way she had last night, surging to get closer and go deeper.

Until she caught herself.

She broke away and pressed a hand to her mouth, her breath harsh and unsteady in the relative silence. Backing up a step, she looked to the floor, probably in the hopes that he wouldn’t see the glaze of passion in her bright eyes.

“I’ll return the bag to the front desk for you,” she said, hurrying for the door.

That bag was the very last thing on his mind right now. He shrugged.

“If you wish.”

“Good-bye, Baptiste.”

He hesitated, not about to say good-bye to this woman.

Good-bye had no part in whatever was developing between them.

“Au revoir, Samira.”

Until we meet again.