The worst part? It wasn’t a joke. Not with him. Not after last night.
Heat flushed my cheeks, and I dragged myself out of bed.
My neck was stiff. I hesitated, then touched the place where he’d bitten me.
Heat began to pool between my legs.
I padded toward the en-suite, muttering threats under my breath. Ten minutes later, wrapped in a towel with damp hair clinging to my back, I crossed into the adjoining room.
I dressed quickly—jeans, boots, a cream top—and shoved euros into my bag before slipping out of the suite.
The Paris air was crisp, cool, and free.
I headed straight for the nearest café, ordered a strong coffee, and made a list on my phone:
•Return to London with my passport intact.
•Pick up Eiffel Tower souvenirs for Evelyn and Allison.
•Try not to kill Laurent when I see him again.
Small victories.
Tiny rebellions.
It was all I had left—for now.
?? ?? ??
I didn’t even get the key card fully into the door before it flung open.
Not from the outside—from the adjoining room.
He’d stepped in like he owned the place. Which, technically, he did.
Laurent.
Suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, phone pressed to his ear, expression thunderous. “She’s back,” he said curtly, not even looking at me yet. “You can stop searching.”
Searching?
He snapped the phone shut, finally letting his dark gaze rake over me from head to toe. Not a word. Just… that look.
I clutched my little gift bag tighter, like it could defend me from whatever tirade was about to erupt.
His eyes dropped to the bag.
“What’s that?” he asked, stepping closer. Each click of his shoes against the floor echoed louder than it should have. “Souvenirs?”
I nodded, cautiously. “Just—trinkets. For Allison and Evelyn.”
His jaw flexed. “And you didn’t think to leave a note?”
My mouth fell open. “You stole my passport!”
“You had money.” He shrugged, like that was a perfectly reasonable trade-off. “Besides, it wasn’t about the note. It’s the disappearance I take issue with.”
“I was gone an hour or two—well maybe three,” I snapped.
