Bought with a snap of his fingers because he’d said, you deserve the best.
You deserve the best.
The silly woman in her had leapt around in a joyful jig in the center of her soul. She’d told herself it was because of the camera. Still, she knew it was because of his compliment.
She glanced over from gazing in dazed delight at her camera and met his tawny gaze.
He smiled, his teeth blindingly white in contrast to the tan of his skin. “You have been taking excellent photos. Every one of them is amazing.”
He hadn’t seen every one of them. He’d seen the ones of the landmarks they’d toured, the restaurants they’d eaten at, the tourists and Parisians they’d passed. He was never going to see the photos she’d taken of him. Because if he did, he’d see. He’d know. See and know something she wasn’t willing to admit to him or anyone, except her reluctant self.
Lise cut her gaze from his and pretended to be adjusting the camera lens. But the realization was stark inside of her.
She was mesmerized by him.
His beauty and grace. The animal quality of vitality.
The camera loved him. Loved his olive skin and white smile. Loved the way his hands moved as he talked. Loved—
“Have you thought of photography as a career?” His tone held the wisp of a tease.
“So I could conveniently quit HSF?” She peered at him to gauge how he took the hit.
His mouth pursed, yet he didn’t take the bait. He never took the bait anymore. “I can see that might be a problem for you.”
“But not for you.”
His hazel eyes flashed for a moment. However, like all the other times she’d pushed him these last two weeks, he’d resisted any kind of fight. The waiter brought their drinks, cutting off his response. She sipped the cool drink, habit telling her to beware of any nausea, still nothing threatened her equilibrium.
He was right. He did agree with her.
The thought didn’t please her.
Something about his company, his presence, his care during the last two weeks had caused a miracle. She was rested and relaxed and refreshed. If it weren’t for the burning need she constantly felt around him—the need to touch and taste—the need to…
How could this have happened once again? How could she allow herself to lust over this man who’d forced her hand so many times? How could she find herself actually liking this man?
Perhaps it had been the first morning in Paris when the seed had been planted.
The late morning sun had warmed her face and the soft bedding smelled of lemon and orange. For a moment, her mind blanked, not knowing where she was. Then the memories rushed back: the wedding, the arrival in Paris, their inevitable fight.
She popped her head up to glance around. She was in a bed. A lovely, king-size bed with soft, creamy linens and lacy, plump pillows. A tall oak armoire standing on one side of the wall matched the two bedside tables and the cheval mirror in the corner. White, airy, floor-length curtains floated on the gentle breeze coming from the open window.
The man had put her to bed once more.
But this time, he had acted the gentleman. He hadn’t climbed in after her.
A little hitch in her heart made her flip the covers off and scramble from the bed. Not until she’d walked to her suitcase and pulled out her favorite twill crop pants did she realize—no nausea.
Lise paused.
No nausea.
For months, she’d awakened every morning to the horrible bubbling in her tummy that always ended with a fast dash to the bathroom and some weak tea and crackers serving as breakfast.
She straightened slowly. Still nothing. Plucking a tailored pink shirt from her luggage, she tested her body by shaking the wrinkled clothing out. Her body blithely took the shaking in and gave her soft rumble back. A rumble of hunger.
She hadn’t been hungry for months. Only for the baby’s sake had she forced herself to consume the required food her doctor had prescribed.
Her tummy growled again.
A cheerful whistle came through the closed bedroom door. The piping tune tripped down the hallway from the main area of the flat, speaking of carefree days and lively nights. The maleness of the tone told her who was happily…cooking.
The smell of bacon accompanied the whistle.
Instead of objecting, her stomach grumbled at her.
Hungry.
Lise sucked in a breath. Okay. Nothing big, really. Perhaps she’d naturally moved into the next stage of her pregnancy and precisely as her doctor predicted, the nausea was gone. Certainly this had nothing to do with being in Paris or being with Vico Mattare.
Locking herself in the bathroom, she took a quick shower and dressed. Not once did she feel faint or want to sit down, or any number of other urges she’d been dealing with since the pregnancy.