Page 76 of Bared

“Sweetheart, you’re lucky I’m not demanding to go to the bathroom with you by this point.”

And there was definitely one more for the truth column, though she refrained from vocalizing it. There were too many other logistics—good ones now—playing laser tag in her brain. Her father had not stood her up! He still wanted to see her, to hold her! Even better, she would be going to him with a one-man security team in place. Brickham was capable of filling in for at least four Arcadian soldiers. That simple confidence already raised her radiance. If she had to do this without Emme by her side, Maximillian Brickham was the next best choice. Perhaps better…

She shook her head fast, banishing the musing. Emme and her poor leg needed every good thought and prayer she could spare right now. But she could send her friend a heart brimming with love and still have enough to shower on her father. She even unfurled a wide smile Brickham’s way, while holding her burner up with a lighthearted wiggle. “So what do I tell him, Sir?”

This time, the man received the designation with better spirits. Brickham quirked a corner of his mouth before offering, “That depends. Are you asking for advice, Pixie, or still seeking permission?”

“Is one going to get me a different answer over the other?”

“Probably.” His smirk remained, but his scrutiny darkened, implying his subtext. Definitely.

“Then what would your advice be?” She winked while doubling down on the emphasis and welcomed a kaleidoscope of butterflies to her belly when Brick’s gaze smoldered in return. But all too quickly, he was back to his all-business overlay.

“If you’re determined to do this, then I suggest someplace public. A café or coffee house near a crowded public area. Not the Très Particulier again.”

“Why not?” While she had glaring reasons to avoid the place for the rest of her days, she was curious about his adamancy. And on a selfish note, she was riveted by the man when he took his testosterone showers.

“For one, I don’t want the remotest chance of again running into our friends Gervais and Remy,” he replied. “Snakes have a tendency to slither back to the same rocks.”

“Exceptional point.” She nodded with practiced poise. “And secondly?”

“It’s not ideal to give anyone a clue, however tiny, about where you’re staying. That even includes your pops.”

He accompanied the explanation with a walk across the room. After stopping before the bay window at the other side, he braced his hands on either side of the aperture. With him next to it, the big window now looked like a dollhouse feature.

“Third, it’s best to have an environment with a lot of escape possibilities.” The whole line of his upper back, from one outstretched elbow to the other, visibly tensed. “If things do go sideways—don’t freak; that’s a big if—it’s good to have a number of escape routes. Access to taxis or a metro line, perhaps a few restaurants with easy back doors…”

“Also exceptional points,” she interjected. “For which I have the perfect answer.”

“Nothing’s perfect in this world except your orgasm scream, Pixie. But let’s hear that brilliant idea anyway.”

Once more, her mouth fell open and danced with the air. She waited for her aggravation to bloom into anger at the smug slickster, but all she could do was laugh.

“Well, brilliance is surely an aggrandizement, Mr. Brickham. But if we go with my idea, perhaps I shall be rewarded with a few fun sounds from you as well.”

“Fun…sounds?” he uttered, banishing his smirk. “Is this where I start to be afraid?”

Another laugh trotted off her lips. “I said fun, did I not?”

“Woman, your idea of fun is hitching a ride on a fishing rig across the Mediterranean and then chopping off your hair so you can Jamie Bond your way into Paris freaking France.”

“Then maybe you had better take a few memos, Mr. Moneypenny.”

The man dug a foot at the floor—exactly as if he were kicking a microphone her way. Or maybe demolishing the thing? Either way, Jayd enjoyed her girl boss moment as the towering man returned her grin with a stare that nearly took her breath away. He was grinning now too. His twin blues sparkled, the color an arresting match to the glittering rain spatters on the glass.

“Christ,” he finally laugh-mumbled, shaking his head. “Now I really am afraid.”

Her suggestion was actually a good one. A damn good one. The Place Blanche, within walking distance of the apartment, likely would’ve made Brick’s own short list for an ideal connection point with LaBarre.

Six streets converged in the area, which was one of two plazas along the wide and well-lit Boulevard de Clichy. It had its own metro station and even a Starbucks. But its most important feature was the Machine du Moulin Rouge, which ensured they’d be surrounded by a few thousand tourists who’d just attended the club’s famous cancan performance. At least he hoped…

The tourists didn’t let him down.

Nor did the colorfully clad hipsters in line for the dance club a block away.

Nor did the equally vibrant Moulin performers, still in their high feathered headdresses and flowing boa bustles.

Okay, so they had a lot of company. Too damn much, if Brick’s nervous system were going to be consulted about the matter—which it wasn’t. He shut that shit down faster than the frazzled mother who went rapid-fire feral on her child for running across the raised grate in the middle of the plaza. When that didn’t work, the woman held the kid’s ice cream cone over a trash bin. Shit. French mothers had girl-balls of steel. And now he wanted ice cream.