The doctor exited the bedroom and the other man—Luca—followed. Jasmine could hear the two of them continuing their heated discussion outside the door, though it became more muted as they moved farther down the hallway.
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyelids, willing herself to remember what had happened. Something.
Anything.
But for the life of her, the last thing Jasmine remembered was Ashley saying, Buy condoms, lots and lots of condoms.
* * *
“She can’t stay here,” Luca insisted once the bedroom door was closed.
Hugo, who was the team physician for Luca’s racing team, had not only treated Luca after various wipeouts—including the shattered leg that had ended his career—he’d been a close friend ever since Luca joined the team five years ago. While he’d briefly explained his predicament with the family estate, and Hugo understood his need for discretion, Luca had kept most of the details to himself. Including the robbery.
“I’m sure she’ll remember the name of her hotel by the morning. Anyway, you know how important observation is in these first twenty-four hours. This woman has no one to watch her.” Hugo smiled gently. “Except you.”
“Isn’t there another way? I am supposed to be lying low. Not harboring an amnesiac tourist.”
“It’s only for one night.”
Luca groaned in defeat.
Hugo patted his arm. “Everything will be fine.” Just then, Hugo’s phone dinged and he tapped on it. “My cab is here.” He tucked his phone into his pocket and headed for the front door.
“Hugo, wait.” Luca exhaled. He hated the fact that he had to say this. “You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone, do you understand?”
“Of course.” The expression Hugo wore was kind. And most welcome after the way others had treated him since the sex scandal. “Give her acetaminophen for the pain. You know the drill. Rest. No TV.” Hugo reached for the door handle. “Bonne chance, mon ami.”
Luca banged his head—once, twice, three times—against the closed door after Hugo left, and then a noise from down the hall had him spinning around. The woman stood there, eyes wide, her feet bare, thick waves of dark hair shadowing half her face.
“I’m sorry.”
Her soft apology did more to diffuse Luca’s anger than he would have expected. “Why are you sorry?”
“For putting you out.” She gestured to his flat in general. “It’s obvious you don’t want me here.” She walked toward him, taking careful steps. Whether it was because her head hurt or because she was scared of him, Luca couldn’t tell. “It’s just...” She seemed to be weighing her words. “I don’t think I could deal with a hospital waiting room or the embassy right now. I’m still feeling a bit dizzy.”
Hugo was right...whoever this woman was, she needed to be taken care of. “It’s okay,” he said eventually, forcing a smile. “I’ve changed my plans for this evening.” Plans? What plans, Luc?
“Oh.” A little wrinkle formed between her brows.
“Please. You are welcome to stay the night.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She took a tentative step forward and then another until she stood right in front of him. The top of her head came to just below his chin, her face was tilted up so she could meet his gaze. Her lips were pink and full—the kind of lips Anika would have paid a fortune for—but it was her eyes that captivated him. Liquid brown, like melted chocolate, with smudged mascara that rimmed her wide eyes, only making them appear larger.
There was no fucking way he could say no to those eyes.
“My name is Jasmine. Jasmine Sweet.” Her lips trembled with an uncertain smile as she extended her hand. “And you are Luca...?”
“Luca. Luca Deschamps,” he lied.
THE MAN UNNERVED HER.
There was an intensity to those blue eyes—so dramatic against his dark brows, dark hair and olive skin—that made her feel as if his gaze was boring inside of her, seeking something. But what? It left her feeling shaky and...tingly.
Could be the concussion.
Still...somehow, she felt comfortable here. She’d only half lied when she’d told him why she wanted to stay. The truth was, he was doing her a favor. Now she could put off dealing with Parker and her family until later. Plus, it was one thing to be traveling solo when she knew where she was staying. It was another when she was concussed, confused and without any identification.
“Are you hungry?” the man asked.
“What time is it?”
He flipped his wrist to check his watch. “Seven thirty.”
As if on cue, her stomach rumbled and she laughed, though it sounded false to her ears. “I guess so.”
“Come. Sit.”
She followed him into the open-concept kitchen, dining room and living room. Like the bedroom, the space was stark. Wood floors, a plain gray leather couch, white walls with dark beams overhead and the floor-to-ceiling windows that seemed to be the norm in Paris.
Jasmine sat on a gray leather barstool at the breakfast counter, leaning her elbows on the granite surface, her hand going automatically to her aching temple.
“Un moment.” The man—Luca—strode back down the hall, returning a moment later with the ice pack and two tablets. He first placed the pack against his cheek, murmuring something in French before passing it to her. “It’s still cold. It’ll help with swelling and bruising.”
“Thank you.”
Then he dropped the tablets into her upturned hand, his fingers accidentally grazing her palm.
There were those damn tingles again.
She frowned, which hurt. Still, her gaze followed him as he opened a small refrigerator, removed a glass jug of clear bubbling liquid, poured it into a tumbler and handed it to her. She took a sip of the sparkling water, which burned quite pleasantly as she swallowed the pills.
“Are you okay to sit? Do you need to lie down?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
His lips turned up at the ends—not a real smile—as he prompted her to apply the ice pack by taking her hand and placing it against her head.
“It will help.”
Jasmine closed her eyes as she iced, ignoring the tingles—and certainly not thinking about the source of the tingles. Once again, she willed herself to remember what had happened after her arrival in Paris, but there was nothing behind her lids but blackness interspersed by shards of light that flashed with each beat of her pulse. For some reason, trying to remember made her head hurt more, so instead, she simply listened to Luca work in the kitchen.
Cupboards opened and closed. The sound of a nearby drawer as it was sliding open and closed on its runners. A knife against a cutting board. Slicing. Another drawer and the sound of cutlery. The clink of glass against the granite countertop followed by the pop of a cork and the gurgling of liquid being poured.
When she opened her eyes, a glass of red wine