Wicked Becomes You(39)

A curious amazement washed over her. I am doing this. I am drinking beer at a Parisian pleasure club. And yes, it was Alex who had pressed a bock upon her and was now sitting at her side, watching her with evident curiosity but no visible judgment whatsoever.

Her disbelief shifted into something giddier. How generous of him to take her at her word—to respect her desire for adventure despite his obvious skepticism at dinner! She found herself smiling up at him, utterly afire with gratitude. “Have you come here often, then?”

He shook his head slightly. His eyes fell to her mouth briefly before he looked back to the dancers. “Never, in fact.”

“How do you know it so well, then?”

His laughter seemed to brush against her skin, a tangible thing that made her stomach contract. He smiled at her, and it was a gypsy’s smile, taunting her for the staidness of her own small world. “They’re all very much the same, Gwen. The Bal Bullier, the Moulin, the Pere Chateau . . .”

“Well, thank you for agreeing to escort me,” she said. “I know you didn’t wish to do so. All this must be very routine and boring for you.”

He made an impatient noise. “If you mean to be wicked, here’s my first piece of advice: never fish for compliments by demeaning yourself. Assume there is no place I’d rather be than by your side.”

“But I know that’s not true.”

“It doesn’t matter what my truth is. Know your worth and assume others do, too. Modesty, if you consider it, is the most unforgivable sort of falsehood: it’s a lie that does damage to no one but yourself.”

She laughed. “Damage? I like that. Of course, you’re a heretic by profession. Most gentlemen consider modesty very becoming to a lady.”

“No doubt they do,” he agreed. He reached out to cup a tulip blossom. “The same gentlemen who liken ladies to flowers, no doubt.” He urged the blossom gently upward, as tenderly as a man might tip up a lady’s chin for a kiss, and stroked it with one long finger.

A peculiar dizziness struck her. She tried to take her eyes off his hand, but they would not budge.

“Others of us,” he said courteously as his hand dropped, “do not believe a woman’s main aim is to decorate a room.”

She looked up into his eyes. Her mouth felt dry. How odd. This was only Alex. And yet—hints of exotic mysteries seemed suddenly to cling to his shirtsleeves. Every time he came back from abroad, bits of strange new worlds clung to him.

“Modesty is useless,” he said with a shrug. “And, as I said, offensive. Cast it away for tonight.” He gave a wave of fluttering fingers, as though to illustrate the evaporation of this virtue.

The gesture struck a curious chord in her. It seemed like a flourish in some exotic dance, decidedly foreign. As he leaned back, propping his elbow atop the back of the chair, the close fit of his jacket emphasized the flatness of his belly. His black-clad shoulder was a hair’s breadth from her own.

The silence seemed to thicken, a weird, electric charge bridging the space between them, so she felt that only a breath separated their skin. She had a visceral sense of how far he had traveled, all the distant lands he’d seen—dark adventures and sultry nights she would never know about. Her hand curled at the sudden memory of how he had felt to touch, the hew of his muscle. She had dug her fingers into his arms as he’d kissed her. He’d felt so solid.

Why hadn’t he kissed her again? He had no care for morals.

She turned her face into her beer, taking a very large swallow.

“Give it a go,” he said.

“What?”

“Practice makes perfect. Say something immodest.”

She took a deep breath and looked up. “I want to touch you,” she said.

He smiled. “Very good. But perhaps the first lesson should concern the avoidance of beer foam.” His hand lifted, brushing across her cheek.

Did he not realize she was serious? Some wild impulse winged up through her. She grabbed his wrist.

His smile widened. “You have foam,” he said patiently. “On your cheek. I only meant to brush it away.”

She could feel his pulse beneath her thumb. She opened her mouth, but words dried up. His wrist was solid and hot. There was such density to him. Her fingers tightened, testing it.

His face changed. Such an indefinable shift: only the expansion of his pupils, the slight loosening of his lips. But her body understood it. The wild instinct made her thumb press harder. Strange, predatory thought: I’ve caught you.

He exhaled through his nose. “Let go.”

“No.” The whisper felt drawn from her by some power outside herself. As he met her eyes, she did not even feel embarrassed. The dim glow of the fairy lights, the violinists’ abrupt segue into a waltz, made the scene surreal, dreamlike.