Celine blinked.
“I’ll admit, you had me there for a moment, baby vamp,” Bastien mocked, holding her chin between his fingers. “Those magazines aren’t half wrong with thevampallegations. But you cannot cheat me at my game.” He disentangled himself from her. “Good effort, though.”
The poker face she had fastened on dropped. Bastien stalked towards the window, his back to her. An arrogant grin reflected on the glass pane. Outside, the city had already come to life. The lights had flared up in concession and the traffic had thickened since Celine had arrived at the old house. The sound of honks mixed with that of chatter outside cafés as the sun vanished beyond the glistening rooftops. The Eiffel Tower had sparked up in a dazzling glimmer.
Celine was fuming. The space Bastien had occupied around her was replaced by humiliation, and it was even harder to dispel than silence had been. “Let it be known that Bastien Ménard is a coward,” she rebuked.
“You didn’t seriously think I would believe your sudden obsession with me, did you?” Bastien pivoted slowly. Opening his cigarette case, he pulled one out with his teeth. “You’re not stupid, Celine. You wouldn’t throw away a year of pretending to be in love with Jacques just for a kiss.”
“Ugh, again with the Jacques thing! Don’t you have anything else to pick at?”
Determined to win this round, Celine hopped off the table and strode towards him.
“If you’re going to slap me again—”
Taking the cigarette from his lips, she kissed him.
Bastien’s body went rigid against hers. He only moved when Celine reached up on her tiptoes and sank her fingers into his hair, pulling him down to her height. His lips parted with a soft moan.
Once she released him, Bastien jerked back, bringing a hand to his mouth.
“What’s one Ménard for another?” Celine spat the words at him angrily. Her breath was coming fast, her chest rising and falling rapidly with exasperation. “It doesn’t feel good when someone plays with you for a change, does it?”
To her chagrin, he had the audacity to tear his gaze away.
“Lookat me,” she demanded, chucking the cigarette at his feet. “No wonder you make it into those scandal columns day and night. You have no respect for anyone. Being belittled is what you deserve.”
His expression shuttered. He removed his hand from his lips, slowly, as though he was wiping off her kiss. Celine scowled.
“That’s not fair,” he rasped.
“Not fair?” she bellowed, unable to fathom why he couldn’t just admit he was wrong, that he’d made a mistake, that he was sorry. No, Bastien Ménard had the pride of Napoleon. “You don’t care about anyone but your temporary amusement. And you like to mock me about Jacques but”—her voice caught—“I doubtyouhave ever loved anyone before.”
A muscle feathered along his jaw—the only sign of annoyance that told her she had truly hit a nerve now.
“Don’t push it,” he warned. “I apologise for what I did at the party—now leave it at that.”
“Oh,” Celine chuckled. She couldn’t stop. She had wanted to make him pay—hurt him even—and the words simply spilled out of her like a cracked dam. “You’re not even a coward. You’re scared.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You're afraid to see what will happen if you take your games too far. Especially this time. But hey, count us even.”
Bastien shook his head. “Oh, Celine. We’re notnearlyeven.”
“What are you—”
She was cut off.
Because in a flash, Bastien took her face in his hands and slanted his mouth over hers.
Celine stilled, too stunned to do anything but grab onto his shirt for balance as he walked them back towards the table, lifting her onto it.
“You are wrong,” he said against her lips. “I know plenty about love. I can still show you, if you want.”
Right—that was how this whole conversation had started, although they had both spiralled from it, attacking each other instead. But his eyes had turned a menacing grey and Celine wasn’t so sure she had the upper hand anymore. She had takenhim by surprise with that kiss—which he hadn’t wanted, but now, he seemed to.
Responsively, her eyes trailed to his lips.
