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Only his name wasn’t Blaise. It was Jacques Le Grand. Grand. The French word for big.
Oh, yeah. Blaise’s hair was longer than Jacques’s, but it was definitely him. She’d recognize him anywhere. Most male porn stars weren’t much to look at, in her opinion, which was why she had noticed Jacques Le Grand. He was beautiful.
“Lorraine?” The muscles in Blaise’s face tightened. “What is wrong?”
Raine stared at his concerned gaze. Exactly how did one bring up the subject? Thank you for taking care of me. And by the way, I’m a big fan of your work. She settled for, “I think I’ll take that wine now.”
“Of course.” He rose and walked back into what she assumed was his kitchen. Raine’s pulse raced. She had to get out of here. He was a porn star, for God’s sake! She stood, her head still a little fuzzy, and looked around for her shoes and purse.
Blaise hurried toward her with two glasses of wine. “Lorraine. You should not be up. Sit. Please.”
She relented, plunking back down on the sofa.
He sat next to her and handed her a glass of wine. “This is Beaujolais-Villages. It is light and fruity. I think you will like it.”
“Sure. Thank you. Er, merci.” At this point, she didn’t much care if it tasted like motor oil. She wanted something to calm her nerves. She took a sip. Crispy, grapey, and non-complex, the liquid danced across her tongue. Perfect. “So, Blaise”—she cleared her throat—“how do you speak English so well?”
“I lived in L.A. for two years.”
“Oh.” Of course. That’s where the porn industry flourished.
“Yes.
But I return to France three years ago.”
“Why?” “I hoped to get into acting in Hollywood, but my big break never came, so I come home.”
Yeah, well, the big studios frown on porn. “What do you do now?”
“I am a model.”
No surprise there. “I see.” She took another sip of wine. Delicious.
“And what do you do, belle Lorraine?”
Belle. Beautiful. He didn’t really think she was beautiful, did he? “I-I’m a writer. Freelance.”
“What do you write?”
“Short stories, mostly. Some non-fiction pieces.”
Blaise set his wine glass on the coffee table and picked up her left hand. She tried to hide the shiver his touch produced. “You do not wear a wedding ring.”
“No. I’m divorced. You?”
“Never married.”
Why did that response send a chill through her? She wasn’t interested in a porn star. She sipped her Beaujolais, relishing its softness on her tongue. He continued to hold her hand, lightly rubbing her palm with his thumb. She tried not to think about how good that thumb would feel circling her hard nipples.
“Lorraine.”
“Hmm?”
“May I tell you something? Honestly?”
“Sure. Go ahead.” Her skin prickled. He was about to tell her who he really was. She knew it.
Still holding her hand, he reached the other toward her face and lightly caressed her cheek. Tingles shot from her head to her toes.
