Читать книгу Moonlight and Diamonds - Michele Hauf - Страница 8

Chapter 2

Stryke Saint-Pierre was one gorgeous man. And polite. While he could have copped a feel when they’d been tangled out on the museum floor, he had remained the consummate gentleman. Too bad for her. Blyss wanted to feel his deft fingers smooth over her derriere. She wanted to lose herself in the rugged smell of him, the roughness of him.

And she wanted to feel that now.

She strode down the dimly lit hallway toward the back office. It was her office, but she shared it with Lorcan, her assistant, and used it principally for paperwork, business calls and the occasional make-out session with a sexy man. It was what she did. She saw an attractive man. She wanted him. She won him. The winning part gave her immense satisfaction. And sometimes a sparkler for her finger or ear. She was choosy, most certainly, and discreet. And never greedy.

Tonight the win was born of necessity.

“You live in Paris?” she called back.

“Staying for a week or so, then heading back home to Minnesota.”

Perfect. He’d be gone and out of her hair as soon as she had accomplished her task.

Minnesota? Blyss vaguely imagined a tundra with blowing winds and snow and—not of interest to her.

As she unlocked and opened the door and strode into the office, she surreptitiously glanced over a shoulder to catch the strut of the man’s long, confident strides. Following at a distance. Smart man. Well, she did have something of his that he wanted back. The cuff link was too small to sell for any worthwhile amount, so she would give it back.

But first, to enact part two of tonight’s plan.

Stryke closed the door behind him.

“Lock it,” Blyss cooed. She stood across the room and turned, back against the wall, one leg bent and a black patent leather shoe heeling the wall.

The man’s long fingers flicked the steel door lock. Something about those sexy, strong fingers. She needed to feel them on her body. And she would. And the man’s name was Stryke. So bold and macho. Everything about him screamed alpha—yet to think that term gave her a shudder.

She eyed the small drawer at the corner of her desk. Inside was the key to securing her future. She must concentrate on the task at hand. Not on his virile attraction or her increasing need to surrender to that virility.

“Where are you staying?” she asked, because it was important.

“On that little island behind the big church.”

The man was quaintly rustic. But that smile of his was dangerous. It said to her, “I like to have fun, and if you’re lucky, you can go along for the ride.” Blyss couldn’t remember when last she’d had fun with abandon. Had she ever?

“Île Saint-Louis?” she guessed, keeping her growing desire for his touch under control by pressing her palms against the wall behind her.

“That’s the one. My grandfather owns one of the buildings and my entire family is staying there. We’re in town for my aunt’s wedding. The apartment I’m staying in is right above a candy shop. In the mornings I wake up to the smell of chocolate.”

“Oh, I know that one. About center of the island.”

“Yeah, exact center, I’d guess. It’s a neat little neighborhood. I haven’t done much exploring since arriving, but I hope to walk the city tomorrow. So...”

His eyes followed the lines of her body, up the slit that exposed her leg, which was darkened by a sheer black stocking. A red bow teased at the top of the stocking. All carefully planned, of course. Blyss thrived on male attention. It fed a part of her soul. If not her bank account.

He strode toward her and she smiled and placed the cuff link between her lips. He wanted her. She wanted him. Too bad this was to be a business engagement.

“Quickly,” she said around the cuff link. “I can’t be away from the event for too long.”

“Is that so?” He stepped before her and plucked the cuff link from her mouth. They matched in height, but that was only because of her heels. She tapped his long blade of a nose, gliding her finger down it and to his lips, which were firm and, over the upper, topped with stubble. His tongue lashed her finger and she pushed it into his mouth for him to suck. “You want me?”

He pressed closer so she could feel the fabric of his suit brush against the lacy dress, yet he didn’t push his body against hers. Teasing? Or not so daring as she had hoped?

“You are like those diamonds displayed out in the gallery,” he said. “Pretty to look at, yet a man could never dream to possess them.”

“Good boy. So you know you’ll not be walking out of here tonight with me on your arm.”

“I get your game. A quickie with a stranger?”

“Quickie is a vulgar term. I prefer an amorous liaison.”

“I like the sound of your French words, glamour girl. Then I guess I’d better get to it. Quickly,” he whispered against her ear.

The brush of his mouth along her jaw made her sigh and tilt her head back, wanting him to paint his warm breath along her skin and to, for one moment, feed her the warmth she sought.

Stryke’s hands glided up her thighs. One stopped at the ribbon that topped her stocking. The tickle of his finger shimmered a delicious hum through her mons and core.

“Mustn’t tug,” she admonished. Placing her hand over his, she again claimed the cuff link.

“Let me guess. You don’t like to be mussed.”

She slid her hands down to his fly and unzipped him.

“No mussing, it is,” he groaned tightly.

He was hard and ready. Just the way she wanted him. But before they began, she lifted his wrist and stuck the cuff link through the buttonhole. “I’ll let you keep this trinket.”

And gliding her hands inside his coat, she slid them up his back between the crisp dress shirt and the silk coat lining. So many pockets lining the interior. Excellent. And then back around to unbutton his trousers and push them down.

“Take me,” she insisted, defiantly holding his wondrous gaze. She did love it when they seemed shocked, the treat of a stolen liaison so unexpected to them. “Fast and hard.”

His swallow was audible. But he didn’t balk. Pushing up her dress, he lifted her against the wall at the same time. She wrapped her legs about his hips. His erection fit like a hot steel rod against her mons.

“You’re soft and you smell great, and you’re so hot,” he babbled as he found his way inside her.

Blyss gasped as his thickness entered her in a smooth glide. She hadn’t required lubrication because she’d been turned on since he’d gotten caught on her dress. Mmm, he felt like hot, hard steel. Every in-and-out motion teased at her apex, and she thought she might even climax, even though simple thrusting generally didn’t do it for her.

She glided her fingers through his hair, seeking to grip hanks but it was so short, like uncut velvet. And then she did something she never did with her hookups. She didn’t even think about it. Her head simply tilted and her mouth sought his. He tasted like champagne. His moan echoed inside her, stirring up her own moan. His powerful biceps flexed under her hands. His hips slammed her against the wall.

Gripping him at the back of his neck, she kissed him deeply, wanting to get lost in him, to find... No. Mustn’t be a fool.

Stryke gasped harshly, yet quickly muffled the noise by pressing his mouth against her neck, his teeth pressing gently into her skin. “Shoot, I didn’t use a condom...”

“I am on the pill,” she whispered. “No worries.”

“Whew.” And as his body shook against hers, she reveled in his quick yet furious orgasm that shuddered his body against hers. Until she remembered...

The desk drawer beside her slid open with ease. She palmed the item she’d placed inside earlier and then slid her hand inside his suit coat. He was lost in the orgasm, oblivious to her actions.

“That was so—mmm, good.” His eyes sought something in hers, so desperately, Blyss felt as if she’d done something wrong. “You’re...” He sniffed, pushing his nose against her neck again and lingering at the base of her ear where her hair must tickle his face. “God, you smell good. But there’s something...”

She dropped her legs and tugged down her skirt. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. I just...” He pressed a hand over her breast, and it was only then that Blyss noticed how her heartbeats thundered. She’d love to do it again with this one—to actually take her time and find her own orgasm—but...

She would see him again. He just didn’t know that yet.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “But you don’t belong here.”

The hand at her chest suddenly felt like a two-ton weight. Blyss gaped. She shook her head. “Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know why I feel that, but I do,” he said. “Something about you. Are you...lost?”

A knock at the door sounded.

Stryke quickly zipped and Blyss tugged down her dress and adjusted the red ribbon at the top of her silk stocking. “Lorcan?” she called.

“You busy?” a British voice called from outside the door. They’d done this drill before. He knew never to simply open the door and walk right in.

“He’s my assistant.” And such perfect timing!

She pushed by Stryke and strode toward the door, hands smoothing over her hair. “I have to get back. They’ll be looking for me. You should leave now. Please.”

She unlocked the door and opened it, revealing Lorcan waiting outside. He knew better than to show a cheeky grin or even a raised brow. The man was ever discreet. She returned the same courtesy to him. Turning, Blyss gulped down the longing that had been planted there by Stryke’s sensual prowess. She’d wanted to linger.

Really? Linger against his heat, his overwhelming essence of man, sex and muscle? Sounded delicious. But indulgence in what her heart desired was something she never allowed.

Stryke passed her and slowed, as if he wanted to say something to her, but with Lorcan standing in the doorway, his eyes respectfully gliding along the door frame, Stryke simply nodded and walked out.

“Don’t go back into the gallery!” she called after him. “Please.”

He nodded as his strides took him down the hallway and away from her.

And she turned and strode back to the desk, palm pressed over her heart and biting her lip to prevent the tears.

Tears? What had he meant when he’d insinuated she was lost? Perhaps he hadn’t been such a wise choice, after all. It was too late to alter her plan. She’d already completed the main step.

She would have to see Stryke again. And she looked forward to it. She dreaded it, as well.

“Everything all right, duck?” Lorcan asked.

She nodded. “I’m sorry. You know sometimes I just...”

“No need for an explanation. I’m headed out myself with a pretty young thing. Wanted to let you know I’m leaving. Unless you need me to stay and lock up?”

“No. Thank you, Lorcan. I’ve the security guard and the waitstaff will be around, as well. Go have some fun. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Yes. We’ll cement our plans for the showing then, eh?”

She nodded.

If all went well, that showing would never occur. And the only one aware it had failed would be her. She had a plan for keeping Lorcan in the dark about it.

He left the office door open, and Blyss bent and peered past her assistant to see if she could still see Stryke’s back, but he was gone.

“The Île Saint-Louis,” she whispered. “Now to step three in the plan. This will be the most difficult.”

And if her heart got in the way again she truly would be lost, as he’d guessed.

* * *

Talk about the cold shoulder.

Stryke actually shivered as he strode down the darkened hallway, passed by the gallery and aimed straight for the exit.

Outside, he shrugged off the uncomfortable suit coat and tossed it over a shoulder. He should have hailed a cab, but he could see the river Seine from here. One thing he’d learned since arriving in Paris: if a man could locate the river, he’d never get lost. There was the left bank and the right bank, and the river. And he knew the island where he was staying was to his left.

It would be about a twenty-minute walk. He could use the fresh air. It was July and even nearing midnight the air was sultry. But not as sultry as the sexy handful he’d just held up against the wall.

“Blyss,” he murmured.

And yet.

“What happened back there?”

Earlier this evening he’d donned a borrowed suit, met Blade on the street before the chocolate shop and entered the gallery with hopes to view some interesting artwork. A couple of rednecks mingling with the snooty set. It was supposed to be a kick. Stryke hadn’t expected to pick up the hottest chick in the place.

And to have sex with her.

Blade and his miniskirted twins had nothing on what he’d scored.

But the craziest thing of all? There had been something about her. And it wasn’t her beauty or her bold tease or the quick but satisfying liaison. He toggled the cuff link she’d returned to him. Her scent had been... Well hell, he didn’t know how to categorize the uniqueness of her. Beyond the sweet flowery perfume, he had scented something deeper. Intriguing. Familiar?

“Crazy,” he muttered as he strolled along the river. Lights on the buildings cast a spectacular show across the Seine’s darkened waters. He marveled that tourists were out in full force. The City of Light truly never slept.

“I was caught in the moment. And what a moment.”

Would he ever see her again? If he returned to the gallery would she give him the time of day? Acknowledge they’d shared that moment?

Probably not. A woman like Blyss probably picked out a man to please her then tossed him aside without a glance over her sexy, bare shoulder.

Yet she hadn’t gotten off. He’d come so quickly. Hadn’t been able to stop himself. He felt bad about that. Normally he tended to a woman’s pleasure before allowing his own. But the moment had jumped on him and he’d been swept away. He should have dropped to his knees and...

The assistant had banged on the door, ruining the whole thing.

Stryke paused at an intersection and glanced back the direction from which he’d come. A brightly lit Ferris wheel spun through the Paris sky to his left.

Why had he walked away? He should have waited around for the guy to leave and then got her phone number.

Was his hasty retreat because he’d felt as if she’d rejected him by pulling away from him so quickly? Probably. The woman defined classy. So out of Stryke’s universe. Probably ate caviar and champagne for breakfast, then skirted around Paris in a Lamborghini painted pale pink, the color of her lips.

Rubbing his brow, Stryke shook his head and walked across the street on the green light. Smirking, he shook his head again. “It was a hookup,” he muttered. “Let it go.”

But with the lingering scent of flowers imbued on his skin, letting go was easier thought than done.