I relax with him, my lips curving, my ingers teasing his smooth jaw. “That I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

His hand settles possessively on my lower back and molds me closer. “That’s right.” And then his talented tongue is licking into my mouth, drinking me in with one long, seductive stroke, followed by another and another. I moan as his equally talented ingers caress up my waist and over my breast to tease my nipple. A delicious ripple of pleasure travels directly to my sex and I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing closer to his hard, lean body.

He deepens the kiss, caressing my backside—a irm, deep touch—and I welcome the stir of erotic memories. The room fades away and I am back on my knees on the rug in the living room, na**d and exposed for him, as I have never been for another man. Slick heat forms between my thighs where I want Chris. Where I want him now.

Chantal’s laughter lifts in the air, louder now, and my eyes pop open. I’ve totally forgotten we aren’t alone. I try to pull away but Chris holds me to him, leaning in to nip my earlobe and whisper, “That’s how trust tastes, baby. I’ll show you how it feels tonight.” He releases me, leaving me weak-kneed.

“Good morning, Sara!” Chantal sounds sweet and innocent as she approaches.

“Morning,” I all but croak out, backing against the island counter for stability. I don’t turn to face her. What if I have lipstick smudged all over my face? I quickly inspect Chris’s, inding him free of my pale pink shade, and reach up to wipe my mouth.

Chris steps close again, his body radiating heat into me as he uses his thumb to swipe around my upper lip. The friction of his touch sets of an eruption of goose bumps and I lean harder into the counter.

“She’s right,” he says. “It is a good morning.” But there is absolutely nothing resembling Chantal’s innocence in the way he says it or in the wicked, possessive way he looks at me. But there is more in his eyes; a glint of something I can’t identify.

And then, with a quirk to his sexy lips I really want somewhere on my body right now, he turns to greet Chantal and Rey, but I ind myself suddenly taken aback by what my lust-laden mind had missed. What just happened between us wasn’t a simple seduction; it was cause and efect. My reaction to Amber’s visit triggered his need for control. And driving me insane in a minute lat and making me wait for satisfaction was his way of claiming it, and me.

By the time Chris walks us to the black sedan Rey’s driving, I’ve decided I have to put my insecurities aside and give him space. Regardless of what he means by the “right time,” it may never be the true right time for him—or us.

Chantal slides into the car and Chris wraps me in an embrace. “I’ll see you tonight.” His voice is soft velvet I feel like a caress stroking my body. “All of you.”

I trace his lips with my ingers. “As long as I see all of you.” He might take my words as another push, so I quickly twist them into a double entendre. “I like you better without clothes.” I slip from his arms and slide into the car, with his husky, satisied laugh following.

Fourteen

With Rey and Chantal on either side of me, I enter the embassy feeling pretty darn glad to be alive after Paris’s insane rush-hour traic. I might not be happy with my bodyguard situation, but the way Rey avoided a number of crashes earns him a lot of respect. In fact, if I wasn’t in so in love with Chris, I might fall madly, deeply in love with Rey, if only until the adrenaline rush of near death completely faded.

Inside the building, which looks like any administrative building in the States to me, Chantal and I slide of our hooded jackets, and we all wipe away remnants of the cold rain. Being a macho kind of guy, Rey of course isn’t wearing a jacket at all.

The passport oice turns out to be an oversized waiting room with rows and rows of steel chairs, and a line of window booths at the front. We’re directed to a line. A very, very long line.

I sigh. “Why don’t you two go get some cofee or something? I don’t want you to have to stand in line.”

Rey axes the idea instantly. “I need to stay close to you, in case you need anything.”

I press my lips tightly together to bite back an instant re-tort. He’s inadvertently hit a nerve called “anything to do with my father.” All through my childhood, a security guard ac-companied me and my mother at outings. As a child I’d simply thought it part of having a powerful father who loved us. As an adult, it became evident he was just protecting his property.

Rey reaches for my jacket, pulling me back to the present and the crowded, stufy room. “Why don’t I take this for you?”

I blink at him and release my jacket. “Thank you.” Rey isn’t my problem; my father is. And Chris isn’t the problem, either.

Unlike my father, his desire to protect me has nothing to do with a power trip or personal gain. It stems purely from a mix-ture of Ava’s attack and a lifetime touched far too intimately by the hand of death.

“I could give you a French lesson in line,” Chantal ofers.

“I’m too distracted to learn French right now,” I reply, slamming my mental box shut a little harder.

She waves of my excuse. “Nonsense. This is time we can put to good use. When you are speaking French, you’ll thank me for pushing you.”

Rey reaches for Chantal’s coat, his attention sweeping over her determined expression, and there’s both amusement and a hint of male appreciation in his face.

When he steps into the line with us I frown. I can deal with him being here, but not hovering. “I thought you were going to go work on a backache in one of those steel chairs?”

His lips twitch. “A backache. Yes, I can’t wait.” To my surprise, he saunters away.

Chantal watches his departure and sighs wistfully. “He can be my bodyguard any day.”

I roll my eyes. She’s been casting him shy, admiring looks since she arrived at the house. “Go talk to him. Get to know him.”

She purses her lips. “You’re just trying to get out of French lessons.”

“No, I’m simply putting of making a fool of myself in public when I butcher the words. You can join me when I’m close to the front of the line.”

“Oh, no.” She shakes her head, and you’d think I’d told her to dive of the roof without a parachute, for the panic on her heart-shaped face. “I’m afraid we’ll just sit there in complete silence, and I’ll drool on myself and he’ll have to wipe my lips.”

I give her a serious look. “Not if he does it with his tongue.”

She blinks at me and we both burst out laughing. My cell phone goes of with a text and I retrieve it to read his message.

Are you there yet?

Yes, I reply. The line is long. This could take hours.

Where is Rey?

Generally hovering, as you instructed.

For your own good.

Hmmm . . .

What does hmmm . . . mean?

It means . . .

I consider a short, text-worthy way to state what I feel.

I love you, Chris.

I love you, too. Going into meeting. Text me before you leave so I can meet you at the rug.

I’ll bring the pink paddle, I type, and my cheeks burn with my boldness.

It’s in my suitcase.

I bite my lip. Is he serious? Did he really carry it through customs?

I stuf my phone back into my purse, and I swear my backside tingles.

Chantal’s laughter cuts through the decidedly lusty sensation I’m feeling, and I turn to ind her in conversation with a woman in line behind us. The instant she notices I’m free, she ends her chat and pulls a small lip chart from her purse. Evidently unconcerned about my embarrassment, she starts drilling me, her expression returning to her previous determined one. I respond with a groan and a laugh, accepting the inevitable, and dutifully repeat a phrase in horridly spoken French.

Thirty minutes later the front of the line is inally mine, and I head to the window—only to be given reams of paperwork to ill out. Chantal and I join Rey, and I wade through pages of forms.

Chantal seems to have the opposite problem to mine. Where I ramble when nervous, she doesn’t speak at all. It’s awkward, just as she feared, and I can’t focus on my paperwork.

Finally, I can’t take the silence anymore and I glance at Chantal. “Can I convince you to ind cofee somewhere? My treat. I’ve got a chill from the rain I can’t shake.”

She pops to her feet, seizing the escape. “Absolutely. Cofee sounds great.” She glances at Rey. “Would you like some?”

His lips twitch and he answers her in French. I have no idea what he says, but she blushes, looking exceptionally young in her pale pink sheath dress, with her light brown hair curled sweetly on the ends.

I watch Chantal leave and a pinch of protectiveness overcomes me. Rey’s a good ten years older, and far more worldly than she. I c**k my head and study him. “What did you say to her?”

“If I wanted you to know, mademoiselle, I’d have said it in English.” He delivers this statement in a completely deadpan voice, but I have the distinct impression he’s trying to get a rise out of me.

I narrow suspicious eyes at him. “How long have you known Chris?”

“Seven years.”

“So he trusts you, even though you’re a smart-ass.” My tone is as perfectly deadpan as his had been.

He stares at me a long moment and then lets out a deep, hearty chuckle. “Yes. I suppose he does. And I guess the same applies to you.”

This time I laugh and, unlike Chantal, I’m comfortable with the silence we fall into as I complete my forms. I instinctively like Rey, even if he does refuse to tell me what he said to Chantal.

I complete the forms and head to the desk to turn them in, hopeful the process will move quickly from here.

It doesn’t. For the next hour the three of us wait, and Chantal thankfully begins to loosen up with him. Both of them drill me on my French, laughing at my pronunciation—and I do, too.

At some point, I relax into what I believe to be new friendships blooming, and with them, connections to this city and to Chris.

When inally my name is called, my mood and my steps are lighter. A plump woman behind the counter with a thick accent asks my name. She keys my information into a computer and studies her screen a moment, then she begins to speak in highly accented English and at lightning speed.

“Can you repeat that, please?”

“Denied,” she states latly. “Your passport is denied.” She hands me my paperwork and a form written in French.

My pulse leaps. “Denied? What does that mean?”

“Denied is denied. No reissue. You want answers, go see Special Services.”

“Where is Special Services?”

She points to my left and I see a “Special Services” sign over a door. Blind to the rest of the room, my heart thundering loudly in my ears, I rush toward the sign and ind a small oice with four steel desks, only one of which is occupied.

A man in a dress shirt and solid navy tie, with streaks of gray in his neatly trimmed brown hair, gives me an expectant look.

“English?” I ask hopefully.

“Yes, madame.” He sets down his pen and rests an elbow on the desk, looking rather mifed at the interruption. “What can I do for you?”

I cross to his desk and hand him my paperwork. He glances at it and then at me. There is a new sharpness to the way he looks at me, cutting and almost . . . accusing. I tell myself I’m 176

being paranoid, but adrenaline is pouring through me and I barely keep my voice normal. “What’s the problem?” I demand, when he says nothing.

He picks up the phone, using his other hand to point me into a chair in front of his desk. The silent command provokes another surge of adrenaline and I have to inhale slowly to calm myself before I sit down.

I’ve barely settled into the seat when he hangs up the receiver. “Please stay here, Mademoiselle McMillan. We need to ask you some questions.”

My heart skips a beat. “About what?”

But I know. This has to do with Rebecca.

“Just wait here.” He delivers his clipped command as he pushes to his feet and walks away, exiting out of a back door several feet behind his desk.

I spring into instant action, unsure how long I have to enlist help before he returns. Fumbling with my purse, I pull out my cell and dial Chris’s number.

The three rings feel like a dozen before he answers, “Sara?”

His voice is rich, warm, soothing, and oh so welcome.

“I need you here,” I breathe out. “I need you at the embassy.”

Chris immediately starts speaking in French to someone else and I hear several voices communicate with him before he’s back on the line with me. “I’m already walking to my car.”

I close my eyes in relief. He hasn’t asked why I need him.

He’s simply leaving a meeting without an idea why. Guiltily, I think of how I’d allowed Amber to rattle me earlier and I’m reminded of all the reasons I shouldn’t worry about Chris shutting me out. All of the reasons why I should, and can, count on this wonderful, amazing man.

“Talk to me, Sara. What’s happening?”

“They denied my passport and said they need to ask me questions.”

He curses under his breath. “Don’t answer anything until I get there. I’m calling Stephen. I’ll call you back.”

“Okay.”

“Sara. It’s going to be ine. It’s an administrative lag, nothing more. A misunderstanding we’ll clear up.”

But I’d heard his initial reaction, his curse, and we both know it’s more than an administrative lag. “Just hurry, please. I need you, Chris.”