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As in, I wasn’t about to get back my voice anytime soon, so I hoped he still had his.
For a moment, that seemed an impossibility too. He was half-turned from the door, as if he’d decided against pounding on the portal a fifth time—turning his first full look at me into a bumbling experience for us both.
Bumbling…
and
too
damn
hot.
How else could I interpret the scorching sweep of his stare down over my legs, even studying the neon yellow flowers on my bright blue toes? What was I supposed to think as he slowly, slowly climbed that study back up, an undeniable visual caress, nipping its way into every curve of my body before locking again on my face? And what the hell was I supposed to do in return, besides scope him out just as shamelessly?
“Bon aksam.”
And what the hell was I supposed to say?
“Uhhh…hi.” Smooth, Luce. “I mean, bon aksam…back at you. I mean, good evening.” Groan. Thank God the sound wasn’t literal, though it seemed the only verbal diarrhea could restrain. “What’re you—why are you—”
“I need to talk.” He looked stunned again, as if what tumbled out wasn’t what he’d planned, before composing himself and barreling forward. Two steps into the room, he about-faced and stomped back over to the portal. “I mean, we should talk. I—” Did a flush actually steal up the line of his jaw? “May I come in…please?” More words that were obviously strange for him. “I shall not take long.”
“Uhhh. Sure.” I stepped back, tamping another insane urge to giggle. “Yeah, come in.” More efforts not to giggle—making me remember Ezra, waiting in the Skype chat out on the patio. “Shit.”
Shiraz spun around, eyes bugged like I’d pantsed him. It was kind of adorable. “What?”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “One sec. Really. Hold on.”
By that point, I’d gotten back to the patio—and as I expected, Ezra’s eagerly grinning face. “Holy shitballs,” he hissed. “Is it him? Has Princey Perfection come to visit your beaudoir, mademoiselle?”
I’d never glared with more meaning. “I’ll reconnect with you later, Ez.”
“Wait! Come on.”
“Later.”
“Wait! No! Not without letting me glance at the royal jewels!”
I slammed the device shut. He’d get the idea. We could pick things up later, like when during my trip to the airport in the morning. It’d be about two a.m. in Los Angeles. Perfect.
I scooped up the laptop, glad for something to do with my nervous hands, especially because Shiraz was back to his usual demeanor. Completely controlled. Quietly concentrated.
Utterly gorgeous.
His focus cycled around the room, taking in the surroundings like he’d never been to this wing before. I wondered if that were the truth, until he spoke again.
“Do you like the accommodations?” He leaned against the back of the couch while stabbing his focus back into me. “These suites have been newly refurbished.”
I looked around too. The room, still only illuminated by recessed lighting, was still a panorama of Mediterranean luxury. Gold fixtures and marble-topped tables were mixed perfectly with furniture in rich woods, upholstered in luxurious tapestries. Across the room, cloudlike curtains slung back to reveal the grand production of a bed in the next room.
“They’re awesome.” I picked at invisible lint on the hem of my T-shirt. “I feel like Sara Crewe on Christmas morning.”
His dark brows pushed together. “Who?”
“Character from an old movie,” I explained during my trek to the wide work desk. “The Little Princess. Nineteen thirty-nine. Shirley Temple. The ninety-five remake isn’t worth discussing. It’s about a little girl forced to work for her boarding school after her father is assumed dead in the war. She and her scullery maid friend wake up on Christmas morning to find their dumpy attic turned into a luxurious palace. At first, they think they’re dreaming.”
“Is that how you feel?” he returned. “Like this is a dream?”
