Galen’s been chatting Adriana up, I can tell. Not in a lascivious way, of course; he wouldn’t do that to me. But I can tell that he’s said something to her that’s got her flushed all over again.

“Is he talking your ear off then?” I ask as I pull a chair up across from her.

“Not at all,” she says, giving me a very shy, very sexy look. “Just explaining a thing or two about what makes you tick.”

“I hope it’s helpful,” I reply. “For the book, I mean.”

Her features harden as I remind her that I too can focus my mind on business. “Yes, it will be helpful,” she says. “Though I need more information, of course.”

“Good, because that phone call was from a colleague cancelling a dinner meeting we were supposed to have tonight. Would you come out with me, Adriana? We could talk further.”

She hesitates for a moment before replying. “Actually, I can’t. I have a prior engagement.”

A pang of envy shoots through me, landing somewhere in my chest. She’s been in Paris for all of a day, and already she’s got a date of some sort. But of course she does. “Right, then,” I reply. “Tomorrow?”

She looks at Galen before speaking again. “Your brother is here—I wouldn’t want to keep you two from seeing one another.”

“No problem there,” Galen says. “I’m due back in London tomorrow morning. But if you’re not going to entertain this ass-muffin tonight, Adriana, maybe I could take him out instead. There’s something going on in town that I’d like to see.”

“Perfect, then,” I say. “No excuses, writer woman. Let me take you to a little restaurant I know tomorrow evening. Live music, candles, the whole Parisian experience.”

“I…” Unable to come up with another excuse, she nods. “Okay, that would be great. I’ll bring my notebook.”

“Splendid,” I say. “In the meantime, why don’t you give me your phone number so that I can text you the location?”

“Sure,” she says, extracting a piece of paper and a pen from her wallet. Some bloke’s business card, it seems. She crosses his name out and writes her own, followed by the number, handing it back to me. We rise to our feet and she extends a hand towards Galen again. He stands, leans across the table, whispers something in her ear then kisses her cheek. Adriana laughs. Bastard always was more charming than I am.

“I hope you’re not planning on taking off just yet. I’ve got a little more to show you before I’ll let you go,” I tell her, and she agrees to accompany me to a room down the hall. This one’s got no people in it; only computers, at least for the moment.

“Come, I want to show you how our tech works,” I say as we walk.

“Isn’t your technology top secret?” she asks.

“Not at all. The actual design and programming are widely known. But we’re the only company around that issues prosthetics for affordable prices, so we’re a little ahead of the game in terms of production.”

“Define affordable.”

“Free.”

“What?” Adriana looks like she might faint. “How is that possible?”

“It’s what comes of having my finger in many pies. I work in robotics, ergo I supply robots to major corporations to help in their manufacturing processes. I suppose I’d have to say that’s my bread and butter. The prosthetics are my favourite part of the business, but by no means the money-maker.”

“I see.”

I show her some computer-generated mockups of new limbs that we’ve designed but haven’t yet built, and immediately I sense how impressed she is. Pride floods through me to think that this beautiful woman holds me in any esteem whatsoever.

“Conlon, this is incredible,” she says, turning to me as she leans her palms on the desk. “Really, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Thank you.”

“I suppose pleasure robots aren’t too far off,” she adds, lightening a mood which has gone far too serious for my liking.

“Pleasure-bots are what keep me company when I’m at home alone,” I tell her. “Female hand-jobby units with special padded fingers.”

“Really?” she laughs, her eyebrows raised.

“No. I prefer the real thing,” I say, daring to slip a fingertip along her left forearm. She pulls away, hoping that I don’t see the gentle shudder of either delight or revulsion. Here’s hoping it’s delight.

“I think maybe we should keep our relationship professional,” she mutters so quietly that I’m not sure she’s convinced by the concept.

Convinced or not, my hard-on flees like an antelope being hunted by a lioness.

* * *

Adriana

His touch is electric, sending hard jolts of excitement right through to my core. It would be the easiest thing in this empty room to turn to him, to press my chest into his and find his tongue with mine. To forget that the rest of the world exists.

But I’m still processing what Galen said. That Conlon never had the experiences that a young man should have. Never had girlfriends, never felt love, at least not really. He’s as I suspected, a man shut off from the prospect of intimacy. I didn’t come to Paris to have my ego sucked dry by a man who doesn’t know how to deal with women.

I came here to fill myself with confidence. To remind myself that I’m fine on my own, even flourishing. My life has never been better. But this man could sure make it painful if I let myself get too involved with him.

Of course, he could also make it perfect. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a man. He’s brilliant, he’s beautiful, he’s athletic, he’s protective. Not to mention that he makes me hornier than anyone ever has.

Here’s the thing: I’m fucking scared. Scared to give him the power that comes with love. One person always loves harder than the other, and we both know who that would be in this scenario. He would squeeze my heart hard. Then, when he was tired of me, he’d fling it away from himself like a 100-mile per hour fastball.

But while we’re standing together like this, while I know he wants me—that’s when I get to be the powerful one. That’s when I get to hold the cards. I want to follow Katherine’s advice, to take life in both hands and steer my way through it.

I’m just not sure I know how.

“Professional. Yes, of course,” he says, pulling back and pocketing his straying hand. I’m not sure, but it looks like maybe he’s adjusting an erection. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” I reply. Should I say more? “Look, it’s just…”

“No need to explain,” he replies. “You’ll still come to dinner tomorrow though, yeah?”

“Of course. I need to learn more about this place and what you do,” I tell him, gesturing to the room. “But if I’m supposed to write your memoir you need to tell me more about yourself, too.”

“I’m an open book,” he says.

“No you’re not. You’re a book with a lock on the cover, and somewhere along the way someone’s lost the damned key,” I reply, my lips ticking up into a smile. I can’t help it; he looks almost flustered, and it’s sort of cute. God, maybe he’s as confused as I am. “Anyhow, dinner, tomorrow night. Six. I’ll be there, Conlon. Count on it.”