Page 21 of Bared

It was nearly as jolting as her scent, which he hogged in his senses for a few seconds longer. It wasn’t often that he smelled amber and honey and fire and forest in the middle of a Paris cocktail bar. In the middle of anywhere.

But as he finally pulled in a new breath, he accepted the rarity of the sight in front of him too. The crazy coincidence of it…

Or was it?

Wasn’t this entire thing just like a classic Ozias stunt? Had that bastard yanked Fox along for the ride, sneaking behind Brick all afternoon just to set him up for this moment? This insane instant, realizing that the beauty was as familiar as she seemed.

That forehead, high and golden and smooth as a Mediterranean wave. Those long and decadent lashes. Her cheekbones, astonishing and bold. Her hair was different, which was what had thrown him off at first. The blunt pixie looked hand-chopped pixie, which actually made sense now. Her wardrobe didn’t contain any trendy pieces, though she still made the black, lace-trimmed tee and matching leggings look like ritzy designer wear. The stiletto boots likely added to his impression, but he credited most of his conclusion on her sure-shot tells. The way she approached the bar as if getting ready to leap over it. The nervous tap of her fingertips against her knee, even as she sat down instead. And her constant, continuing vigil of a stare—from those eyes too huge and luminous to hide.

Brick went to hooded mode with his own gaze not a second too soon, avoiding more than a passing glance from her. But years of surveillance experience served him well. He was still watching her—even as he ordered his pulse to cut itself in half and his blood to stop overheating as if he were gawking at bare tits for the first time.

But this was way more than that.

The decision that had damn near marched itself right into his lap.

But because of that, it felt…ordained. Destined. Yet still, goddammit, the hardest choice of his life.

Because as he watched, three larger guys got up from their table across the aisle from him—and sauntered their way toward the bar. Directly toward her.

Eyeing Jayd Cimarron like the main course of their next predatory meal.

Chapter Three

Anonymity was a bizarre feeling.

Not as freeing, or easy, as she had always imagined.

Instead, sitting here without a retinue of staff or a crowd of bowing subjects, Jayd felt naked. Vulnerable. Despite her basic cotton shirt and jeans, along with the recesses of her cushy chair, the discomfort was an incessant gnaw at her nerve endings.

“Bonsoir.”

The waiter’s cordial greeting had her snapping around. She gave him a prim smile and braced for the flash of recognition across his face. It was taking a while. A long while.

She reached to calm her nerves by twirling her hair. That was when she remembered: no hair to twirl. Or any makeup on her face. Or latest-news clothes on her body. To the young man who stood there so patiently, she was just another random customer, stopping in for an early Sunday cocktail. One who was now holding him up from serving others.

So she rushed out, sounding too clumsy about it, “Ermmm…bonsoir, monsieur.”

“What would you like to drink, mademoiselle?”

She smiled again, appreciating the man’s consideration. Though the last few days in the city had ensured her French was improving, her years at Stanford had ensured she maintained a distinctly American accent. He had switched over to English for her benefit.

But his query presented a new dilemma.

Never in her life had she ordered a cocktail for herself.

That felt as awkward as it sounded. But never in her life had she been in a position like this. Her entire life, food and drinks were always just brought or presented to her. Yes, even during the Stanford years. On the few occasions she could slip from her security detail and get out to a party, she had always been a known entity. Entirely too known. Someone was always there to serve, to suck up, to “help.” Nobody had ever seen her like this. As a simple girl in Paris, out on a simple Sunday evening, having a simple drink.

She wanted to embrace that. To love the freedom of it as much as she always imagined she would.

But she felt more naked than ever. More unsure.

“Well, there you are.”

Requiemme had never arrived at her side with better timing. She refrained from hauling the woman into a full death squeeze, just dragging Emme down into the chair next to hers. “Yes,” she finally said. “All of me. Right here.”

“Are you all right?” Emme leaned over, studying her. “What has happened, Highn—ummm…Hiiighlll-degard. Yes. Uhhh…are you quite all right, Hildegard?”

For some reason, it was just the medicine she needed. “Why, yes,” she returned past a small snicker. “Are you, Agathenia?”