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.
Torsten Rindle was an interesting fellow. Stryke met him in a parking lot on the left bank down the street from a vast city park. The man drove an olive-green van, and he’d opened up the back doors to reveal some boxes sitting in the stripped-to-the-framework interior.
Tor was tall, slender and dressed in a tweed vest and pleated trousers. A polka-dot tie tightened about a crisp white dress shirt, of which, the sleeves were rolled to his elbows. A cicada was tattooed on the underside of one of his forearms, but otherwise, he appeared a dapper Englishman.
Stryke liked his accent. So Downton Abbey. Not that he’d ever watched the show. Okay, maybe once on a date a girl had suggested they cuddle on the couch and watch TV. The things a guy did for a little snuggling.
“So