This was not how her life was supposed to go.
Thirty-three years old. Single. Sharing a flat with four roommates. Having a basically useless degree, since no paying art historian jobs ever opened. Going back to college for a chemistry degree. At least that one paid. She had a roof over her head and food in the icebox. She supported herself, even if the job was night work and mind-numbing...
No wonder she’d dreamt of a job playing her beloved cello! Paying twenty thousand Euros. At a fairytale palace. With a drop-dead gorgeous guy possessing an old-world foreign name and title. The earth-shattering lovemaking session was a huge bonus, too. That had been amazing. And so realistic! She could swear she still experienced the afterglow. How was that even possible? Simone couldn’t remember the last time she’d dreamt of sex.
Heck.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had it.
As for the man behind it all? How in the world had he been included by her psyche? She had a good imagination, but nothing that good. Count Reynaldo had been beyond belief. Wouldn’t she have had to actually see him somewhere in order to envision him?
Maybe she’d unknowingly inhaled some of the inventory at the lab.
Simone cut off a chortle. Ended up snorting. It was still pretty loud. And she mustn’t do that again. Her roommate in the other bunk might awaken. That woman was a real termagant if that happened.
Termagant?
She used an out-of-date, rarely-used term again. She’d done that in the dream. Perhaps she was experiencing dream fallout.
If there was such a thing.
Simone stretched. She felt wonderful. A weekend at a spa couldn’t do better. Her bed even felt less like a thin pad atop boards and more like a real mattress. It was warm, too...and so comfortable.
Simone slowly opened her eyes. Looked up at what should be a tiled ceiling. The room was really dim, but, for some reason, it didn’t hamper her vision. She studied a woven surface above her, so focused she could be looking through her microscope. Narrowing her eyes didn’t change it. Blinking didn’t work, either. The view didn’t change. She had a span of reddish-black material above her. Had her roommate done that? While she slept?
That was discomfiting, but not enough to rouse completely. This roommate worked nights, too. Perhaps the daylight bothered her today. What did it matter, anyway? The drape made it dark, and Simone wasn’t claustrophobic. Even if she was, she didn’t really want to ponder it further. She actually longed to get back to dreamland.
And him.
Simone closed her eyes. Concentrated. Gathered data to bring Mister Drop-dead Gorgeous back. He’d been tall. Had long, tawny-colored hair. Blue-eyes. The slightest scruff of facial hair colored his jaw and upper lip. That was just a preview of the rest of him, though. The guy was all male. And really ripped. Body hair would have just interfered with the view.
And what a view...
A thunk disrupted her thought process. His image vanished. Simone sighed heavily. She didn’t mind this section of Paris, but traffic could be a real issue some days, making it hard to get to sleep, and even harder to stay that way. She’d have to start anew, but something was wrong. No matter how she concentrated, the dream along with Mister Drop-dead Gorgeous eluded her.
Damn it.
She’d try basic physiology. Simone started with modulated breathing. In. Out. Slowly. Regularly. She added in her heartbeat. Listened to it for long moments. Each beat was measured. Steady. There was the weirdest echo attached, but she remembered that from the dream.
Oh, good.
Maybe she’d be able to get back into it again, after all.
“Simone? Can you hear me?”
Her eyes shot open at the words, spoken with the incredibly deep voice from her dream, but from mere inches away. She turned her head. Looked into blue eyes...
And gasped.
The surface beneath her shimmied, but sitting was a mistake. Her head met a drape-thing above her, while the coverlet atop them dropped to her lap. Simone grabbed at the coverlet, yanked it to her bosom, and held it there with one hand. The other one shoved the drapery off her head, pulling her hair with it until it was a mass at her back. And all the while she grappled with surprise. Awe.
Shock.
Despite the proof before her eyes, it just wasn’t possible. She was back in that romantic bedchamber. With him. Mister Drop-dead Gorgeous was no figment of her imagination. He couldn’t be. He looked too real. And he was right beside her! Simone closed her eyes. Shook her head. Reopened her eyes.
And he was still there!
“I wish you would cease that,” he remarked.
“What?”
He inhaled a theatrical gasp. Simone instantly and involuntarily mimicked it. Her eyes went wide. She stared. He shoved his hair back with a move that shifted a lot of drool-worthy male. Then he winked at her. And then he grinned.
Oh. Shit.
Shit.
He was truly gorgeous. She hadn’t imagined that part. His smile could halt world trade. It sent her into instant-alert status. Her heartbeat went to near arrhythmic stage. Each breath was short and swiftly gained. Just as quickly lost. And the swallow she made was loud in her ears.
There was more.
He had perfectly aligned white teeth. The man obviously wasn’t a tea or coffee or wine drinker. There wasn’t a pointed tooth anywhere in his mouth, either.
She checked.
Simone glanced back to meet his gaze. Damn. The man could melt asphalt with those eyes. He’d sobered in the interim. As she watched, the blue of his irises darkened, changing to the moonlight sky color she’d already waxed poetic over.
“Could I get you to slow down your breathing?” he asked.
“What?”
“Just a little?”
“What?” she repeated.
“You are breathing too rapidly. It’s making me...light-headed.”
Simone blinked several times. And that’s when she noticed. Once she got past observing hard pecs, washboard abs, and legs that belonged to an Olympian - and since she’d yanked the coverlet up she’d pretty much displayed most of that - it occurred to her that he was breathing right along with her, almost exactly matching her.
No.
Wait.
They were exactly matching.
Simone swallowed again. Her ears popped with this one. Maybe she was in danger of faintness. She took a deep breath. Spoke.
“All right. This is too much. Who are you, really? Where am I? And what is going on?”
She’d been told she had an authoritarian tone and manner at times. Right now, it came to good use.
He sucked in his cheeks, sticking his lips in a kissable pout, and damn her for noting that! Then he looked past her as if there was something to see other than a headboard. Eye contact avoidance was a clear non-verbal indicator of an upcoming lie. Simone set her jaw, lowered her chin, and waited. He finally looked back at her, but he was focused on her chin. Or thereabouts.
“Before you start, Count Moroseni or whoever you are, let me inform you that I want the truth,” she told him.
“I am ever truthful. And, please. It is Reynaldo.”
His reply was in a conversational tone that sent shivers racing all over her skin. Damn. Damn. Damn. The guy was already blessed beyond measure. Verbal gifts were just over-the-top outrageous. Simone cleared her throat, and managed to still the reaction enough that her voice didn’t tremble.
“Then why won’t you meet my eyes?” she asked.
He blew a sigh. She instantly matched it. And then he lifted onto a bent arm. That position not only brought him closer, but his head was level with her bosom. Her breasts were fully aware of it, too. Nipples went erect. Contact with the material itched and irritated. It also tantalized. Part of the coverlet was atop his hips, but it didn’t conceal much. The man’s body would daunt even a master sculptor. He hadn’t been cheated in the size department, either. She hadn’t dreamed that part. And since he was clearly aroused it was impossible to miss.
“I do it...for some infernal thing called self-control.”
He stressed the last word, then tensed, putting a lot of definition to a lot of male. And he followed that up by moving his gaze back to hers again.
Holy shit.
She’d actually required direct eye contact?
Simone’s belly dropped. Her breath halted. Her heart decided to step in, too, sending solid thumps through her chest. The room grew markedly warmer. She needed to get her hair put up, too. It was an unnecessary layer. And she already had a large drapery against her back.
And man! If any of this experience was due to chemical inhalation, she really needed to get to work tonight, figure it out, package it, and get this level of sexual interest on the market. She’d be a kazillionaire in no time.
He smiled slightly as if he’d followed her line of thought with her.
“As for your other queries, I am trying to decipher the best manner with which to answer. And which one it would behoove me to address first.”
“Behoove?” she repeated.
“Be to my advantage.”
“I know what it means. I just don’t know why you’d use it.”
He lifted a brow as if she’d asked something outrageous, then said something that made it official.
“I am at a loss on how to answer your comment.”
“Where in the heck do you come from?”
“Venice, originally,” he replied in the same deep easy tone.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Would you like an address?” he asked.
“No. I want to know why you talk so—uh. I don’t even know how to describe it. It’s beyond proper. It’s archaic. Like old world nobility or something.”
“Ah. That is easy. I talk like this because I am old world nobility.”
“People with titles actually talk like you?”
“I did not say that,” he replied.
“Then what did you say? You know what? Never mind. It’s unimportant in the scheme of things. Let’s just move on here. How about you tell me where I am. Like...exactly.”
“Exactly?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“You are in bed.” He paused, tipped his head to one side as if considering, then added two words as if she needed the clarification. “With me.”
Simone gasped again. He matched it, then put his head back upright and regarded her with what might be a stern expression. But he looked way too pleased.
“I...didn’t mean that, either. I want to know location. Like...where am I in relation to Paris?”
Simone was trying to sound remonstrative. Instead, she sounded young, intrigued, and slightly breathless. He had the same breathing issues if the pauses in his answer were any indicator.
“You are so endearing. Do you realize that?”
Simone started and then stared.
He cleared his throat, and continued. “At present, you are in...a bedchamber. In what is known as...the countess wing. This particular suite is located...in one of my homes. This one is in...the Loire Valley. It’s off the tourist path. Well-hidden. Precisely as...I require.”
Simone blinked several times. Assimilated some of his answer. Struggled with the bulk of it.
“Would you like an address? Or perhaps...coordinates?” he offered when she just stared at him.
She waved with her free hand. “Wait. Wait. Just...wait.”
“Very well. I am waiting,” he answered.
“Did you just say...one of your homes?”
“I did.”
“One?”
“Yes.”
“How many do you have?”
He lifted a brow and pursed his lips again as if considering a number. Then he shrugged. The bedcover slid, showing her a lot more thigh than before. Simone forced herself not to see it, but that proved unavoidable. It might as well be branded on her eyeballs.
“May I beg leave of that question for the moment?” he finally asked.
“Why, please?”
“I can give you a close approximation, but you want the truth from me. I will need some time. I have executors for my estates. I will need to contact them before I answer.”
“Are you for real?”
He reached up, pushed strands of hair behind his ear and then scratched it. He looked like a youth who had been caught in some transgression, and she couldn’t shake the impression.
“That is a tough question, my darling. I suppose it would depend on your definition of the word real.”
Whoa. Just...whoa.
Had he really just called her...?
No.
She’d misheard. It was the only explanation.