"Glorious," he agreed, turned her hard in his arms and jammed her against the wall. Her robe slipped from her shoulder as his own fell open. Then they were kissing each other as though they'd never mated so passionately in the bed indoors. Skin to skin, heat to heat, desire igniting desire, until Seth lifted her bodily as though she weighed no more than a butterfly. Lia wrapped her thighs tight around him, panting with need, pushing her hips into his first hard thrust. As her climax ripped through her, Seth groaned deep in his chest, throbbing deep within her, emptying himself.
Slowly Lia returned to reality. The stone wall was digging into her back. Her feet were cold. "Even in Paris, we could be arrested for that," she croaked.
"Then we'd better go inside," he said, and carried her through the doors into the green and silver luxury of the bedroom.
"I need to lie down," she mumbled, her face buried in his chest. Would she ever forget the scent of his skin? Her own skin was suffused with it. He had indeed put his seal on her, she thought in a flash of terror.
When he reached the bed, he put her down with a gentleness that made her eyes sting with tears. If she'd been honest, she'd have told him it was love they'd been making all night, not war. But she didn't want to go near the word love. Not with Seth. "Hold onto me," she said raggedly, scarcely knowing what she was asking for.
Swiftly he lay down beside her, gathering her into his arms and drawing her into the warmth of his long body. She melted into him, knowing with complete certainty that she wanted to make love to him again … in a minute, when she'd caught her breath.
With the suddenness of a very small child, Lia fell asleep.
She woke to night and the instant remembrance of where she was. Someone, Seth she could only presume, had drawn the heavy damask curtains over the windows; a soft glow from a nightlight in the bathroom was the room's only illumination.
Seth. Who'd ravished her, body and soul.
He was curled into her back, his breath wafting her bare shoulder. He was, she could tell, deeply asleep. She twisted in his arms, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. His face, in sleep, was both full of strength and yet undeniably vulnerable in a way that touched her to the heart. She looked away and knew with every fiber of her being that she had to get out of here. Away from him.
While there was still time.
Moving as carefully as she could, she eased his arm off her ribs and shifted toward the edge of the bed. Her bodysuit was draped over a Louis XVII chair, her shoes neatly aligned on the carpet nearby. She'd dropped all three of them on the floor all those hours ago. So Seth hadn't fallen asleep as quickly as she.
Had perhaps watched her as she slept.
Taking her clothes, Lia crept into the bathroom. Her makeup was smeared, her body a flow of pale curves in the long mirrors. She dragged on the bodysuit, struggling with the zipper, the wings drooping forlornly from the sleeves. The costume no longer looked outrageous: merely silly. Picking up her shoes, she tiptoed across the expanse of parquet toward the big double doors that led to safety.
Seth's cloak had been thrown carelessly over a delicate antique table by the door. She grabbed the cloak with deep relief and swathed herself in its dark folds. Then, her pulse racketing in her ears, Lia slid the door open, slipped through and closed it as quietly as she could.
Quickly she traveled the length of the hallway toward the red Exit sign. After jamming her feet into her pretty sandals, she ran down several flights of stairs, emerging in the front lobby. The concierge had his back to her. The doorman opened the glass door with impeccable courtesy, asking if she'd like a taxi.
"Non, merci," she said with a distracted smile, and walked down the street as though she made a habit of leaving luxurious hotels in the dark hours before dawn.
No coach, she thought wildly. No pumpkin, either.
Cinderella had only danced with the prince. Not made impassioned love to him … how many times had it been?
Early roses were blooming in the gardens, their fragrance languorously sweet. The half-moon had sunk in the sky. A taxi whipped past, and a scooter. Lia turned a corner, then doubled back on herself, knowing at some subliminal level that it was essential she cover her tracks.
The cloak had a hood. She drew it over her head and hurried along the deserted streets, taking the most circuitous of routes to Mathieu's flat in the 8th arrondissement. Mathieu had left for a concert tour. His key was in the tiny pocket in her bodysuit; its small metal outline felt immensely comforting against her thigh.
Thirty minutes later Lia was inside the flat, her heart racing from climbing the five flights of wooden stairs. Once inside, she looked around with the air of a woman who wasn't entirely sure where she was.
Or whether she wanted to be here.
Mathieu believed in minimalism. White walls, black leather chairs, three black and white photographs over his expensive stereo equipment: as different from Seth's luxuriously decorated suite as a space could be.
Seth. She mustn't think about Seth. She couldn't afford to. She had a rehearsal in Stockholm at four this afternoon, a concert tonight. Her flight left from Orly early this morning.
In the bathroom, it took Lia several minutes to take off her mask, which she'd anchored with glue just over each ear. But finally she was free of it. She then scrubbed the last of her makeup from her face and unpinned her hair so it tumbled to her shoulders. Taking off her bodysuit, she packed it, along with the mask and shoes, in the box the rental shop had given her. In a move that she was now hugely grateful for, she'd affixed the correct postage yesterday evening before she'd left for the ball. She could mail the box on her way to the airport.
Because she'd been so hungry for anonymity, she'd given a false name at the rental shop. They could keep the deposit, she thought. It was a cheap price to pay to preserve her privacy.
To keep her safe from Seth, when he came after her? He would, wouldn't he? He hadn't become the head of a vast international network of planes, ships and oil companies by sitting back and letting the world come to him.
She was thinking about him again. She'd sworn she wasn't going to do that. Knowing she should hurry, Lia walked, naked, back into the bathroom. The mirror was a sleek rectangle, edged with cold, unforgiving chrome. In it she saw a woman she no longer knew. Her features were the same, the lustrous black hair and dark brown eyes, legacy of her Italian father; her high cheekbones and winged brows, her long, slim body, all gifts of her Norwegian mother.
It was everything else that had changed.
As though she couldn't help herself, Lia lifted her palm to her nostrils, and caught, elusively, the scent of Seth's skin. As pain washed over her, she closed her eyes, conjuring him up, remembering with frightening clarity all the gifts of his body, the turbulence in his green eyes as he came to climax.
He'd entered her. Physically, of course. But more than that, he'd invaded her soul.
Biting her lip, she turned on the shower and stepped inside, grabbing the soap and lathering herself. Surely if she washed Seth from her skin, she could as easily wash him from her memory.
He was a man. Just a man. She'd never see him again.
Hadn't she taken every precaution she could to ensure that was true?
Not yet fully awake, Seth reached across the bed for his butterfly lover. He'd fallen asleep with his arms wrapped around her, knowing that what he wanted most in the world was to wake up with her beside him. In the daylight, he'd find out who she was. She'd understand as clearly as he did that they couldn't simply go their separate ways …
Where was she?
His eyes flew open. Morning light gleamed through chinks in the curtains. Other than himself, the bed was empty.
Her bodysuit was gone from the chair.
Seth shoved himself up on one elbow, ears straining for the slightest sound; and heard only the distant roar of traffic far below. He surged out of bed. Her shoes were gone, too.
Naked as the day he was born, his heart like a cold lump in his chest, he strode into the bathroom. Blankly, his own face stared back at him from the mirror. He turned away from it. The vast living room was deserted. His cloak was gone from the table by the door.
Far beyond pride, he searched every surface in the suite for a note, and found nothing.
She'd gone. Without a trace.
Like a man stunned, Seth walked back into the bedroom and sank down on the bed. The trolley was still there, the leftover pastries looking nowhere near as appetizing as they had the night before. He remembered with aching clarity how she'd sunk her teeth into them, then licked cream from his chin, her lips a voluptuous curve … With an inarticulate groan, Seth lowered his head into his hands. How could he have been so stupid as to fall asleep? To let her escape?