Hot And Bothered. Liz Maverick

now, that’s an apology.

      Some idiot pounded on the bathroom door. “Um, everything okay in there?” asked a too familiar voice.

      “Anna?” Jack asked.

      I sighed. “She has a very annoying sense of time.”

      But I was glad she’d knocked. I needed to get back to the party, plus some wicked part of me kind of enjoyed that there’d only been enough time for me to receive without giving. Maybe in my weakened orgasmic state I’d accepted his apology, but I hadn’t forgotten the past, just maybe sorta forgiven him. “Be right out!” I called as I slid out from between Jack’s arms and went to assess the damage in the mirror. As I straightened my bra and pulled at my dress so the fabric settled properly, I watched Jack’s reflection fix his shirt. Chocolate-brown lashes swept toward his cut cheekbones as he looked down to slip a rebel button back through the hole. The Marchands were all beautiful boys, but for me, there was something special about Jack’s dark elegance that sent the butterflies flying.

      He took a deep breath like the ones you take when you’re forced to keep your shit together whether you want to or not. That thought made me smile. I make him lose control. He’s trying to keep his shit together. After all this time, I still mess him up as much as he messes with me. So now what? Now nothing, Cass! That’s that! Demons slayed, credits rolling.

      Jack looked up at me in the mirror and smiled back. “How much longer will you be in Paris?”

      “One week,” I said, tightening the posts on my earrings.

      He stilled for a quick second and then continued checking the rest of his buttons. “One week? This is unfortunate. Can you stay longer?”

      “No, I can’t. There’s a lovely little villa on the market between Florence and Siena that my employer wants me to investigate. And frankly, I think the Italian sunshine will do me some good. My base tan is a disaster.” If I was laying the insouciance on a bit thick, I didn’t care. It was all true.

      He looked legitimately disappointed, which made me unaccountably pleased. Then he shrugged. “A week in Paris. It’s doable.”

      I reset a couple of bobby pins in the back of my hair where the towels had wreaked havoc. “What’s doable?” Me? I wasn’t sure I liked that. I wasn’t sure I didn’t.

      Jack’s fingers tickled the back of my neck, and I shivered as desire shot through me once more. I turned around to break his hold on me and caught a stare so naughty I wouldn’t have been surprised if the peonies spontaneously combusted. “I suppose a man can rewrite history in a week,” he murmured, that rich voice burying into my skin.

      I leaned against the edge of the marble counter and stared at him with all the incredulity I felt. It was starting to dawn on me just how quickly I’d succumbed to the charms of a man who’d charmed the pants off me pretty quickly ten years ago. I could only hope it wasn’t in his plan to walk into my world and get it on so easily just because he’d done it before. Yeah, I was definitely glad I hadn’t reciprocated. Well, mostly. “Was this your plan all along? I mean, by coming to this party, did you have a plan to, uh, rewrite history with me?”

      “Absolutely,” he said with a shrug.

      I burst out laughing. “That’s ridiculous. It’s been ten years. You’re making this up.”

      He leaned over and pressed his mouth to my ear, igniting my skin as his lips streaked across my cheek to my lips, which he just barely grazed before pulling away. “I’m a grown man. I don’t worry about looking ridiculous. Some things we cannot forget. We know what we know, oui? And I know I want a—what do you call it? A do-over with you.”

      My eyes narrowed but I couldn’t move my focus from his mouth, which had definitely left my own lips too soon. The tip of his tongue moistened his top lip and then vanished. Somewhere between my legs I started to get antsy again and had to switch my gaze back to his eyes before I lost my mind. What was he saying? He wanted a do-over? No, he didn’t. He didn’t want us back. “You don’t want a do-over, Jack. You just want to do me.” Which you halfway did.

      “You would also like a do-over,” he said with extreme confidence. His smile dripped with knowing, wicked lust. “You would like to spend the next week with me.” He voice dropped to a whisper when he added, “I know this to be true.”

      The audacity of it all. The bossy, self-assuredness of it all. I loved it. Ugh. “Just because you get to say things with a sexy accent doesn’t make the things you say right. You want me to drop everything and play Girlfriend of the Hot French Man for a week?” Almost immediately after I’d asked myself this question, I started getting confused about why this was bad, and had to pull myself out of a nosedive. “I’m not sleeping with you, Jack. I appreciate the, um, apology. And now I have to go back to the party.”

      His mouth twitched like he thought that was funny, which really wasn’t the reaction I was going for. “You American girls are so on the nose. I thought we would begin by attending the Festival de Mille Feux . It’s a gala—”

      “I know what it is.” It wasn’t just a gala. It was a private society gala that was impossible to infiltrate unless you were part of the money set. Only an idiot with excessive pride would turn down an invite. “And thanks, but no,” I said, opening the door and holding out my open palm, indicating he could leave first. “In the original version of our story, I lost my virginity to you and before we parted that night you said you were going to take me out the next night. But I think we both know what happened in the light of the day. The light-of-the-day Jack is a different guy. So no. Leave well enough alone.”

      He studied my face for a good ten seconds, and then he leaned in. I stiffened, thinking he might try to stuff his tongue in my mouth just at the moment I expressly didn’t want to believe he was all seduction and no heart. But he merely kissed me softly on both cheeks and closed the door behind him. “I understand,” he said, and that was it.

      That was it! For the rest of the party, he left well enough alone, as I’d asked. With one eye configured like a GPS to know Jack’s position in the apartment at all times, I went back to hosting duties. Jack kept his distance—was it just me, or did he somehow calculate just how far he could go without ever leaving my sight or my mind?—shooting me polite, loaded smiles across the room if our eyes accidentally met, but generally being a great guest by introducing himself to new people, moving the furniture at midnight to start a boisterous dance party in the living room—always a good sign that the party is working—and basically making no trouble for his host. And wouldn’t you know it, there I was at the end of the night so drunk I almost yelled out, “For God’s sake come back here and make some trouble for your host!”