CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

She sat up in bed, staring at him like he’d skydived in from another planet and landed kaput on her bed.

“Michael?” She raised an eyebrow.

He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “Yeah?”

“Did you just have a conversation with me in French?”

His shoulders tightened, and he silently cursed himself. There was no denying it. He’d done nothing wrong, but he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t said those things. Not just the whole I’m crazy for you declaration, but after she’d said, “Yes, like that, just like that,” every single word that tumbled from his lips had been in French.

“Not a whole conversation. Just a few words,” he said, desperately trying to sidestep.

“How did you know what to say?”

His heart slammed against his chest. He didn’t want to tell her. Not yet. He didn’t want to expose himself like this. He didn’t want to reveal the full extent of what he’d done for her. That his desire to find her again, to be with her again, had driven him to learn a whole new language. “Just a few words. That’s all,” he said, then glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “You have an early flight. Let’s get some sleep.”

“Okay,” she said in a strained voice.

He turned out the light. “Come here. Come closer,” he murmured, and wrapped his arms around her.

“I’m already close.”

She snuggled into him, giving in on this count.

“Closer still,” he said.

“Michael,” she said, her tone pleading as she pressed her warm body to his, skin to skin.

He kissed her hair. “Not now.”

“I want to know.”

“Just let me hold you.”

She sighed, relenting as she wriggled closer, giving in. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“For taking my picture.”

He smiled into her neck and kissed her there, inhaling her scent. Tonight she was rain and sex and him. “I want you to be happy. Tell me you won’t regret this. Or me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t regret you. I could never regret you. But I want to know—”

He whispered into her hair. “Shhh…”

He just couldn’t go there tonight. He would break.

* * *

His breathing evened out, and soon he was asleep. She stared at the bright green letters on the hotel clock. After midnight. She had a five a.m. wake-up call, and the world’s earliest flight to Paris.

Back home.

Her chest ached. She missed him already.

She hadn’t realized when she sought him out how much she needed this. Contact. Emotion. Passion. She’d been so shut down, but one flip of the switch from him, and the electricity was powered on, bright and shining, lighting up a whole city.

Perhaps that was why she’d searched for him when she went to Vegas. Yes, she had neatly tucked him away when she’d married Julien. She hadn’t thought about Michael at all while she was another man’s wife. But with that bond severed, she was free to roam, to return to wondering what if. To her first love.

Such a big love.

Maybe she’d always been destined to find her way to him again. She’d told herself he was safe, but she wasn’t looking for safety, as she’d quickly learned in a few short days with him. She was on the hunt for connection, for that sliver of a thread between two people. She may not have realized it that afternoon at the Bellagio, but she knew it now, and she had unearthed the mother lode with him.

But tonight she had something new to noodle on. A twist. A surprise.

Something she hadn’t expected.

His sudden fluency.

It perplexed her that he’d talked to her in French, then tried to deny it. There was nothing wrong with him knowing her language, but she was so damn curious for details. How he’d learned it. Why he’d hidden it. Admittedly, it was odd that he hadn’t told her. They’d had so many conversations—especially the one about yogurt—when it would have been natural to say something. Especially since he’d told her years ago that he started taking classes in college. Never had she imagined he’d gone all the way.

But the clock told her it was too late to press.

* * *

The next morning, she showered, stuffed her toiletries into her suitcase, and checked that her car service was on the way. But she couldn’t seem to let go of Michael’s newfound language proficiency.

Perhaps it was the former journalist in her, the part of her that chased answers, that hunted for truths.

Even as he kissed her hard against the wall of the hotel room, whispering hotly in her ear, “I want to make love to you once more, and to fuck you at the same time. So you won’t forget me while we’re apart.”

She liked that he used both fuck and make love, because she’d learned that was exactly what she wanted from him. Both. Especially right now. “You have to know it’s that way for me too. And I would never forget you,” she said.

“Let’s just be sure of that,” he said, low and dirty, as he pulled down her panties, hooked her leg around his hip, and slid inside her.

He was tender, touching her with a sort of adoration that she longed for. But he was also willing and ready to manhandle her in a way she’d hadn’t experienced before. It seemed to awaken her, to remind her that her body was designed to feel good, and sometimes good meant sore and bruised and used. She let go for one last time with him as he took her against the wall, and they came together.

They straightened up, adjusting hair and clothes. She checked her watch. Ten more minutes. She couldn’t wait.

She blurted out, “Why did you hide from me that you know French? It’s driving me crazy. I want to know.”

He scoffed and looked away as he grabbed the handle of her suitcase. “I hardly know it.”

“But you spoke French to me last night.” He was quiet as he rolled her bag to the door. She followed him, shouldering her purse. “You always told me you wanted to learn it. You told me you wanted to be able to speak to me in French.”

“I don’t really know it well.”

But he looked away from her as he reached for the door handle, his cool blue eyes glancing anywhere but her face.

That was her answer, but she wanted the confirmation. She stopped him from opening the door. She placed her hand on his arm, then ran her fingers up to his hair. She turned him to face her. Pressed her forehead to his. And spoke to him in French, rapid-fire. “You’re amazing, and I adore you. I want to see you over and over. I want you to do everything to me, and with me, and on me. You make me feel happy again, and when you come to Paris I will show you everything, and you can have me in alleys and staircases, and we can fuck in museums and in restaurant bathrooms, and then you can make love to me in bed. You can talk dirty to me and tell me how much you want me, and I will tell you the same because I do. So much I ache for you now.”

He trembled and bit his lip like he was holding in all the things he wanted to say.

Determination spurred her on. “And you make me feel again. I feel things for you I haven’t felt in years. Or for anyone. Do you know how terrifying that is for me?” she said, laying her heart bare. She was heading to the airport in ten minutes, jetting away from him once again. What did she have to lose? She’d already lost once, so rolling the dice on this truth of her heart was a chance she should take.

His eyes squeezed shut, his expression pained. Then he opened them and met her gaze.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I know. And I want all that, too.”

She inhaled deeply and cupped his cheeks. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

She was dying to know the answer.