There was something she had to understand, right now, his warrior princess. Mark watched her in the intermittent light of the tall ornate streetlamps. She’d been through hell. It was a miracle they were alive. He could still see the marks of the gas mask on her delicate skin.
And yet she was more beautiful than ever, classy and smart and alive! They’d come through an ordeal few people would have survived. Harper had never been in battle before and she’d come through like…well, like Daenerys, the Mother of Dragons.
He bent his head toward her, drinking her in. Smelling her, feeling her, this woman who’d become his woman so quickly. And he knew there was no going back. She was the one for him. He’d thought that kind of thing was crap. Lots of attractive women in the world, he’d always thought. He’d bedded his fair share of them, but none had ever gotten under his skin like Harper.
He wanted a long, long time with her. The rest of his life, in fact. But they had to be alive to do that. If they had any shot at spending their lives together, she had to understand one thing, and she had to understand it deep in her bones, in every cell of her body, with both her head and her heart.
Mark gently took Harper’s chin with his thumb and forefinger and turned her head toward him. She’d been looking out the window at the glory of Paris along the Seine. Except for the dark shadow of the Louvre—unlit but still there—the buildings along the river were lit with a golden light, stunning, spectacular.
If not for the looming dark structure now behind them, there’d be no sign of the violence and terror of the past hours.
“Harper,” he said softly, “listen to me. This is very important.”
Her eyes sharpened and he could almost feel her focus. “Yes?”
“We just survived the biggest terror attack since 9/11. And we had a big hand in stopping it. Do you understand?”
She nodded, huge eyes fixed on his face. “Yes, of course.”
“It is—would be—the biggest media story of the year. Maybe the decade. We’d be famous. You’d write a book. It would definitely get made into a movie.”
Mark was relieved to see that the idea didn’t enthuse her. Most people would have started counting the money in their head, eyes going ka-ching! But her eyes remained cool, focused on him. On what he was saying. It felt like she was listening to him through her skin and eyes and bones, not just through her ears.
“You could write your own ticket, your magazine would have advertisers coming out of its ears, you’d be on TV.”
Mark himself would never be on TV. His work was in the shadows and he wanted it to stay that way. But he was different, he knew. Most people would kill to be on TV, become famous.
But…
“But you might not live long enough to enjoy your wealth and fame.”
Her eyes widened.
“You’d be painting a bullseye right on your back.” Mark took her hands in his. They were soft and cold and trembled slightly. He was frightening her but it was also the effects of adrenaline. “That attack was probably years in the planning. Embedding that many officers in the French police force would have taken time and immense effort. It was planned and timed, which meant they rehearsed it over and over. If it had succeeded, it would have been a world-changing event. But they were thwarted and if they discover they were thwarted by two people, they’ll come after us with all they’ve got. It’s the only way they can save face.”
He held her hands more tightly. “Robert went to a lot of trouble to keep us out of it. He’s going to wipe down the inside handle of the door and the butt of the gun you used to whack the lead terrorist.”
She made a distressed sound in the back of her throat, and he bent to kiss her quickly on the lips.
“I’m really glad you did, honey. You saved my life. And now I’m doing my damnedest to save yours. So, do you understand me? No one must ever know we were there and that we did what we did. Ever. Not your mother and father, not your best friend. No one must know. I can’t stress that enough. Are you with me on this?”
He could see the headlines. Shadowy Billionaire Assassinated in Terrorist Ambush. Young Woman Who Helped Stop the Louvre Attack Shot Down.
The car came to a stop in front of the Ritz, but Mark kept a tight hold on her hand and made no move to get out.
“Harper? Do you understand? Our lives depend on our silence.”
Her face tightened, pale eyes gleaming in the darkness of the limo.
“Yes,” she said finally. “I understand completely. No one can ever know what we did tonight.”
“No one,” Mark repeated. “No one at all. Not even a hint.” He was being annoying but goddamn, this was important. It was all too easy to see her dead body, shot in the head, the killer with the sniper rifle calmly putting the pieces of the rifle back in its case, feeling nothing and not caring that he’d just put an end to Mark’s world.
Harper freed a hand and stroked his face with her fingertips. A small gesture but it touched something deep inside him.
“Rest easy,” she said softly. “I’d hate a media circus even if it didn’t put us in danger. No one will ever know.”
Nail it down, he thought.
“Not your best friend since grade school, not your sister, not your brother, not your parents or grandparents.”
The fingers tracked down to his chin. She cupped it, in a gesture he was beginning to be familiar with.
“My best friend since grade school is a major gossip, I don’t have siblings, my grandparents are dead, and I wouldn’t dare tell my parents because they’d have heart attacks. They get upset when I fly, let alone take down terrorist attacks. I would never, ever tell them what happened. I wouldn’t dare.”
He searched her eyes and encountered only calm certainty.
“Okay, then.”
The driver had rounded the car and held open the back door. Mark got out and held out his hand for her.
She stepped out like a queen. Her clothes were dirty and dusty but she held herself like royalty. She dusted herself off and straightened her clothes and you’d have to look carefully to see anything out of the ordinary. He, on the other hand, looked like he’d just come in from the wars.
Of course, in a way, he had.
They held hands as they walked across the sumptuous lobby. Mark had the room cardkey in his pocket but decided to veer to the front desk, make contact with the concierge.
“I’d like you to send two steak frites up to my suite in an hour,” he said.
Even the super-polite and well-trained concierge’s eyes rounded at that. “But—but monsieur,” he sputtered. “It’s six o’clock in the morning.”
Then he pursed his lips. It was not his place to criticize clients. And everyone knew that Americans were barbarians.
“I know.” Mark smiled down into Harper’s eyes. “But we’ve been out of town and we’re hungry. I’d like my steak rare. You?”
“Bleu aussi,” she said to the concierge. Mark knew that bleu meant bloody.
“Oui, monsieur.” The concierge tapped on a screen on the desk. “Have you heard the news, M’sieur, madame?”
Mark and Harper stood smiling into each other’s eyes, seemingly lost to the world.
Harper was the first to answer. “Hmmm?” She turned her gaze from Mark with an almost audible wrench. “What news?”
“The hostages have been freed!” The concierge beamed.
Harper looked utterly blank as she stared at the concierge. “Hostages? What hostages?”
Under that cosmopolitan veneer, the concierge was shocked. “The hostage situation at the Louvre, madame. Terrorists attacked the Louvre!”
His outrage was clear.
Harper’s eyes rounded. “The Louvre? The Louvre was attacked?” She covered her mouth in shock. The very picture of consternation.
Clearly, Mark wasn’t needed here. He stood back a little and watched a master at work, falling a little more in love with every second. She lied like a pro. He really admired that.
“Yes.” The concierge’s thin lips pursed again. “Terrorists overran the Louvre, killed many tourists and took a hundred tourists hostage in the room with the Mona Lisa. They slashed the Mona Lisa. They threatened to blow up the Louvre, destroy it.” He stopped, breathing heavily.
“Oh my God,” Harper whispered. “And what happened?”
The concierge straightened. “And then the French police attacked them and freed all the hostages. They are all alive and all the terrorists have been captured.”
Interesting, Mark thought, that the police were getting the credit. Maybe it would be straightened out later. He didn’t care either way. And those in the know would be congratulating Robert.
The concierge narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t heard anything about this? It’s been all over the media.”
“Oh. Well.” Harper leaned against him. Mark didn’t know how she did it, but she brought up a pretty little blush from somewhere. “We’ve been away and…busy.”
She didn’t have to say it, it was implicit. They’d been fucking like bunnies somewhere isolated.
And bam!
The image of the two of them in bed, having sex, filled his brain. Filled his nostrils, filled his lungs, filled his dick with blood.
The entire night at the Louvre was almost forgotten, a dim memory, because right now all he could think about was Harper and getting her into his room and getting into her, as fast as he could.
If he could have pushed a button to send them straight to his bedroom, naked, him already inside her, he would have.
And right there, in the Ritz’s famous elegant lobby, with a snobby concierge in front of him, he was hard as a rock and nowhere to go with it.
And he was about ready to blow, with Harper right there by his side, touching him, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, smiling slightly. For the first time since he was fourteen, he was about ready to come in his pants.
Combat hard-on, surely. But also because he wanted Harper right now with a ferocity that surprised him.
They had to get away. Like, now.
Harper was listening with apparent fascination to the concierge’s account of the attack on the Louvre, making appropriate oh sounds with that delectable mouth of hers. He pulled at her elbow, startling her.
“We have to go. Now.” His voice was hard, as hard as his dick. She could see the state he was in, though luckily the concierge couldn’t see below his waist over the counter.
Mark pulled her toward the elevators. While walking, she half turned and waved at the concierge. Mark didn’t turn around to do the same, not with that tent in his pants.
Luckily, the elevator was waiting for them on the ground floor. Mark ushered Harper in with a hand to her back, then stabbed the button for his floor as if it were his own personal enemy.
They stood stiffly in the elevator, staring straight ahead, watching each other’s reflections in the burnished copper plates of the inside doors.
He had his arm around her waist, and couldn’t let go, not for anything. “Can’t kiss you,” he said, his voice guttural.
She’d picked up on it, on the fact that he was like a bag of C-4, just waiting to detonate.
She shook her head.
“Couldn’t stop.”
She nodded her head.
The fates were kind and delivered them quickly to his floor. He showed enormous self-control because he didn’t pick her up and carry her to his door. The security cameras were no doubt showing a normal couple, walking normally, though if the cameras had infrared capability, he would have shown up as incandescent red, like a star about to go nova.
The corridor, the door, the card key…his vision tunneled, the world reduced to the next barrier on the way to bed.
Finally, they were in the bedroom and then on the bed, because he was about ready to explode.
He ripped off his jacket, pulled off the shirt, undershirt, unzipped his pants, shucked his boots and socks off, pulled pants and briefs down. All the while kissing her wildly. He wanted to hold her head while he kissed but he only had two hands. He should have had six hands—two to hold her head, two to get naked, two to get her naked. Eight hands—two more to hold her hips.
But he only had two. And those two were now getting rid of her clothes, which was a little hard because she was lying on her back and he was on top of her.
He was a good mission planner, known for strategic thinking. But that had gone. At this moment he only knew the straight line between now and when he could enter her.
He pulled her up, got rid of everything up top, shifted to the side of her, and got rid of everything on the bottom and then, ah…there they were. Naked.
He shifted back on top of her and spread her legs with his thighs, poised at her entrance, feeling the warm wetness between her legs.
Mark lifted his head, looking at her light gray eyes and swollen mouth. “No time for foreplay,” he whispered regretfully.
Harper smiled, eyes nearly closed. “No need. Turns out thwarting terrorists is a massive turn-on. Who knew?”
And she wrapped her thighs around his, moving her hips forward, and he slid right into her. She was right—she was massively turned on.
God, so was he.
Holding her head, kissing her endlessly, he gave two hard thrusts and it was over. He exploded inside her, thrusting wildly…sharp, short, hard movements, totally out of his control. In the end, he held himself as deeply inside her as possible while being wrung dry.
It was mindless, exhilarating, white-hot pleasure—and embarrassing once it was over. He let go of her mouth, braced on his forearms, head hanging down between his shoulders, concentrating on his dick inside her. His entire body was drowning in pleasure, like all his skin was coming too.
He stayed inside her for a time out of time, could have been minutes, could have been hours, could have been days. He had no way of knowing, all he could pay attention to was the orgasm that had come screaming out of his dick by way of his head and his toes and everything in between.
He shook, trembled, sweated, hanging over her, panting. Coming and coming.
When he came back into himself, he was drowning in honeyed pleasure while ashamed. His toes were dug into the mattress to push himself as far as possible in her. He had really strong hands and they were clutching the sides of her head. Was he hurting her?
He softened his grip immediately. God, the thought of hurting her…
This was a woman he’d fallen in love with, a woman of grace and class, and he’d mounted her like a rutting warthog. He breathed in deeply. He smelled like a rutting warthog, too. Their groins smelled of sex and they were both wet.
He was going to have to apologize, though probably apologizing meant pulling out of her and he didn’t know if he could do that. Not right now, anyway. His dick didn’t want to go anywhere.
But he had to do something. Maybe just saying I’m sorry might be enough. Without actually pulling out.
On a sigh, Mark opened his eyes, perfectly prepared to find an angry face under him. What he found was a tense face, as if she were straining for something…
And her soft, wet sheath all of a sudden gripped him intensely, pulsing around him, and her head fell back against the mattress, exposing that long, slender, elegant neck, and she moaned and came, holding him tightly with her arms and legs.
It lasted a long time. She writhed around him, moaning his name, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he got goose bumps just watching her. She was so beautiful, basking in her pleasure that was a pure gift from the gods of sex. He’d had nothing to do with it—he’d pursued his own pleasure mindlessly. The fact that she got off was a miracle, and it was no thanks to him.
Mark simply held her as she contracted around him, rubbing against him like a cat, enjoying the hell out of it.
When she finally subsided on one last long sigh that ruffled his hair, he held her tightly. His own miracle.
“We need to do that more often,” he whispered in her ear.
Harper sighed again. “If we do, I won’t survive a year.”
They laughed, their bellies meeting. Mark sobered, looking down at her. This woman who in such a short span of time had become so precious to him.
He was suddenly seized with a burning desire to take care of her.
He kissed the tip of her nose, pulled out of her reluctantly, his dick complaining bitterly. It liked staying exactly where it was—deep inside her, where it was warm and soft.
He opened his mouth to offer to wash her back in the shower—and that image made his dick stir—when she gave his chest a sharp push.
He lifted himself off her, though it was hard renouncing all that soft warmth.
“I need to shower,” Harper announced. She looked him severely in the eyes. “Alone.”
Fuck. There went the fantasy of washing her back, washing her lower body…
“I’m beginning to recognize that look in your eyes, and I am not up for another round until I have a shower and I eat.” She nodded sharply, then smiled. “But once I’m clean and have eaten…”
She leaped out of bed laughing and ran to the bathroom.
Well. Mark had caught himself a live one. With a mind of her own and no hesitation in speaking it.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
The shower started up and Mark could just picture her slipping under the water, beautiful face turned up to the showerhead, the water running down her body in rivulets. He sighed. He’d given himself a hard-on, just thinking of it.
He wavered. She’d said no, but man he’d like to join her in the shower. Suds her up, his hands sliding over her sleek form, reaching down between her legs, where she’d be hot and wet—
The doorbell rang. Fuck, who on earth could it be?
“Service à l’étage,” a voice called out. Room service. Steak and French fries. Oh yeah. His stomach growled fiercely, annoyed at having been forgotten. It felt like he hadn’t eaten for months.
The waiter entered and with a minimum of fuss, set up a table for them. He left the serving cart there, two plates covered with silver domes, which did nothing to hide the amazing smells coming from under them. He’d even opened a bottle of Bordeaux early morning. Mark figured he and Harper probably fell under the heading of crazy Americans.
Fine.
The thick linen napkins came with a napkin holder decorated with crystal beads forming a flower. Hmmm.
Mark reached for his Leatherman, took out needle-nosed pliers and bent to the task.
Just as he finished, the bathroom door opened and Harper came out in a rush of billowing steam, like clouds. The hotel bathrobe engulfed her but Mark knew intimately what was beneath it. She’d washed her hair and it fell in damp shiny waves to her shoulders. She was somehow even more beautiful without makeup, with a slight flush under the ivory skin, the elegant planes of her face even more evident.
She stopped, eyes wide, and sniffed the air. “Good God, is that food I smell?” Her eyes fell on the cart and she rushed forward—until Mark snagged his arm around her waist and pulled her against him.
“I have something to say to you.”
She laughed and pushed at his shoulder. “Whatever it is, it can’t be as important as food. Gimme.”
He sighed heavily. “And here I was thinking you looked like a beautiful angel coming out of the bathroom.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “And all you’re thinking about is food.”
She wriggled in his grasp, but he wasn’t letting her go. “Damn right. Keeping me from that food is not a smart move, mister.”
He turned her around, kissed her nose, and fell to one knee.
Her face took on a comical look of astonishment, luscious mouth shaping an O. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? If you can take your mind off your stomach for just a second, I’m trying to propose here.”
She just blinked at him.
Mark wiped the grin off his face. This next part was serious stuff and he needed a serious answer.
“Harper Kendall. I haven’t known you long but I’ve seen you in the worst circumstances possible, and I like what I see. I love you, and you can believe it or not, but I’ve never said those words to any woman. We can have as long an engagement as you like but at the end of it, I hope you’ll do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
He took her hand, kissed it, and slipped the improvised engagement ring he’d made from the napkin ring onto her finger. They both stared down at the huge crystal flower wobbling on her finger.
He looked up into her eyes. Suddenly, his heart was pounding and he could feel sweat trickling down his back. He was known for his cool on the battlefield, but right now he was very close to panic. “Well?”
She looked at him, eyes flashing from side to side as she studied his face. Her fingers toyed with the ring.
He was holding his breath without realizing it, because when she said, “Yes,” he had to gulp in air.
“That was a yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“It was.” She nodded, smiling.
“Yes to everything. Marriage, kids, everything.”
“Yes,” she whispered, and leaned forward to kiss him gently on the mouth. “To everything.”
The world wobbled then straightened and he felt certainty settle in him. He looked down at the ridiculous ring.
“We’ll go shopping for a real ring this afternoon. I’m told there’s a good jewelry shop down the road. You might have heard of it. Shop called Cartier. Where I’ll buy you a diamond as big as the Ritz.”