The Hôtel de Crillon carried its history without trying to prove it, its golden stone facade facing Place de la Concorde like it had always belonged there. It was Lacroix’s territory, a choice ant to project his own legacy and stability.
Charles walked through the gilded, public rooms as if he owned them, his stride unhurried, his expression a mask of polite disinterest. I followed two steps behind, my own face a neutral expression I didn’t have to think about anymore: I was the shadow, the observer, the silent threat.
The breakfast was served in a private salon, a room of muted creams and golds that felt both opulent and suffocating. Lacroix was already there, a man in his late sixties with a mane of silver hair and a politician’s practiced smile. He wasn’t alone. Two n, younger and sharper, flanked him. His sharks. They rose as we entered, their smiles not reaching their eyes.
"Charles," Lacroix bood, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of false camaraderie. "So good of you to co all this way. I was surprised to hear you were in Paris. Unannounced."
"I travel when business requires it," Charles replied, his tone smooth as polished glass. He gestured to . "This is Eric Hart. He assists ."
Lacroix’s gaze flickered over , dismissive at first, then sharpened with a flicker of sothing else—calculation. "Mr. Hart. A pleasure." He didn’t offer his hand. He simply gestured to the table. "Please. Breakfast is served."
We sat. The public performance began. For the next hour, I was invisible. They spoke in the coded language of high finance, of market fluctuations and regulatory hurdles, of leverage and points. I ate my croissant, I drank my coffee, and I watched. I watched the way Lacroix’s left eye twitched when Charles ntioned a specific regulatory body. I watched the way one of his sharks glanced at his phone under the table, a nervous tic. I watched the way Charles leaned back, utterly relaxed, a predator who knew his prey was already cornered. He was giving Lacroix enough rope to hang himself, and I was here to asure the length of the noose.
I stayed where I was supposed to be—quiet, observant, useful. But beneath the table, my hands were clenched into fists. Because every ti Lacroix laughed, every ti he tried to assert his dominance, I felt a surge of sothing dark and protective. It wasn’t for Charles, the man who was destroying my father’s legacy. It was for the man sitting beside , the one whose scent was a constant, low thrum under my skin, the one whose presence made my body ache with a treasonous heat. The realization was a cold shock. I was losing my grip on the line between the mission and the man.
The eting ended as it began, with false smiles and empty pleasantries. "We will consider your proposal, Charles," Lacroix said, his voice heavy with a aning that was clear to everyone at the table.
"I’m sure you will," Charles replied, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
We didn’t speak until we were back in the car, the doors closing and sealing us in the quiet, leather-scented interior. The city of Paris blurred past the windows, but I barely saw it. The tension from the eting was a living thing in the small space, coiled and waiting.
"He’s lying," I said, breaking the silence. "He has no intention of accepting your terms. He’s stalling."
Charles turned his head to look at , his gaze sharp and intense. "What did you catch?"
"His left eye," I said. "It twitched every ti you ntioned the European regulatory commission. And his man, the one with the blue tie—checked his phone three tis. He’s getting ssages. Lacroix is waiting for sothing, or soone."
A slow, dangerous smile touched Charles’s lips. It was the first ti I’d seen him smile like that.
I didn’t expect it to affect , but it did.
"Good," he said, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction. "Very good, Eric."
The praise hit with a force that was physical, a warm wave that made my breath catch. I wanted to hate it, to reject it, but I couldn’t. It felt too good.
"You were right to bring ," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
"I know," he replied. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
We arrived back at the hotel. The mont the door closed behind us, the shift was imdiate. The professional distance dissolved, replaced by a simring, dangerous awareness.
He shed his jacket, tossing it over a chair. He walked over to the bar and poured himself a whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light. He didn’t ask if i wanted one. He just stood there, looking out at the Parisian skyline, his back to .
"Lacroix thinks he’s clever," he said, his voice quiet. "He thinks he can use his old-world connections to outmaneuver . He doesn’t understand that the world has changed."
"He understands," I said, stepping further into the room. "He’s just hoping you don’t change it fast enough to ruin him."
He turned then, his eyes locking on mine. They were dark, unreadable, but I saw the fire burning in their depths. "You’re very perceptive, Eric. For a secretary."
The jab was ant to provoke, to remind of my place. But I was done playing my part.
"I’m whatever you need to be," I replied, echoing his words from the night he brought to his house. "That’s what you told ."
His gaze narrowed. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving mine. "And what is it you think I need right now?"
I didn’t answer with words. I took a step toward him. Then another. I closed the distance between us until I was standing in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to sll the whiskey on his breath and the scent of his skin.
I saw the shift in his eyes, the flicker of surprise, then the dark, predatory hunger that followed. He didn’t move. He just watched , letting make the first move.
I lifted my hand, my fingers trembling slightly, and placed them on his chest, over the steady, strong beat of his heart. The contact was electric. A jolt shot through , a surge of heat that made my knees weak.
"I think," I whispered, my voice barely audible, "you need soone who isn’t afraid of you."
His hand ca up, his fingers wrapping around my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "And you’re not afraid of ?"
"Terrified," I admitted, my honesty a weapon. "But that’s not going to stop ."
He stared at for a long, silent mont, the conflict raging in his eyes. He was fighting a war with himself, and I was the prize. Then, with a low growl, he pulled toward him. His mouth crashed down on mine, a kiss that was not gentle or questioning, but fierce and demanding. It was a kiss of possession, frustration, of a hunger that had been simring for too long.
I t his intensity with my own. My hands slid up his chest, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. I opened my mouth to him, letting him in, letting him consu . This was the danger. This was the fire. And I was no longer content to stand at the edge. I was walking into the flas.
Reviews
All reviews (0)