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My fingers opened in a panic against his chest. I hadn’t consented to this kiss, this forceful possession. I hadn’t asked for it, no, but I’d imagined it feeling just like this. His arm tightened, pulling me against him. Lust and violence. Hardness and heat. Was this what he’d wanted to protect me from? His lips molded to mine like he was trying to breathe me in, and I could feel his thick, hard cock pressed to my front, even through my coat. His fingers crept into my hair, tangling in my braids.
Then, as quickly as he’d attacked me, he let me go. “That’s what I feel,” he said when he pulled away. “And that’s what I need to protect you from.”
Without thinking, I slapped his face, leaving a flushed mark on his cheek. “That’s what I feel. Leave me alone, Fort. I’m going to the subway, and if you follow me, I’m going to call the police.”
I turned and left, barely aware of gawking onlookers. Let one of them mess with me. I was in a bad, bad mood, and fairy lights and ivy would forever be the stuff of nightmares to me.
Again? Seriously, again?I berated myself.You let yourself fall for the hot ones, and pay the price for it every time.
Chapter Seven: Fort
Ilooked upfrom my phone as Devin strode into the Paris airport’s private Gibraltar lounge. His steel-gray pilot’s uniform intensified his blue eyes, though they still weren’t as blue as Juliet’s.Stop. Don’t think about her.
“Well, if it isn’t my old friend Forsyth,” Dev said, wheeling his bag to the chair beside mine. “Thanks for the text. Nice to see you while we’re both blowing through town. Headed to Milan?”
I nodded. “My flight’s in a couple of hours.”
He took in my leather weekend bag and pinstriped suit as he eased into one of Gibraltar’s club chairs. I liked to travel rich, which he knew. His father was part owner of Gibraltar Airlines, so Dev and I flew wherever we wanted, whenever we wanted, as our schedules allowed.
“You look dapper,” he said, with a snarky curl to his lip. “I hope you had time to torment some poor French subbie while you were in Paris.” My non-response was enough of a response for him. He threw up his hands. “You have a stable here, surely.”
“I used to, Dev. I don’t keep up with all of them. Anyway, I didn’t have time.”
The old me would have made time. The new me had come to Paris to be sure the Sinclair ads featuring Goodluck’s art were displayed in all the contractually negotiated places, including several large boards at the airport. It had been almost two months since Juliet Pope had slapped me outside the Ivy, and I’d managed to leave her alone, letting Angela handle the necessary business contacts.
But every time I looked at one of the damn billboards, I thought of her.
“Well?” My friend stared at me. “You know what I’m going to ask. Are you sick? Testicular cancer? Did you finally contract herpes?”
“Jesus, Dev. I just didn’t feel like trolling around Paris this time.”
He stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles, and regarded me with steepled hands. “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”
“About what?”
“I know you, man. I know that look on your face. Who is she?”
I considered denial, but Dev was right. He knew me. “She’s no one,” I said. “A bad idea that I’m trying to get over.”
“Someone from The Gallery?”
“No.”
His brows rose when I failed to elaborate. “I’m telling you this as a friend, man. Don’t get messed up in any shit.”
He was as careful as me when it came to relationships. We’d both grown up with everything money could buy, the world at our feet, everything under our control except women and the havoc they created when you let them get too close. I knew Juliet Pope was a storm of havoc waiting to be unleashed.
“I’ll move past her eventually. It’s just that she’s different. She’s unconventional, but sweet…” I tried to explain her lingering appeal. “And kind of effortlessly beautiful, but not in the standard way.”
Devin made a dismissive sound, something between a growl and a laugh. “Let me tell you a story about a messed-up young man named Forsyth and a beautiful graduate assistant with a feminist roommate.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Then there was the ballroom dance instructor who also had something about her.”
“Enough.”
“They don’t all turn gay, you know. Some of them litigate. Some of them go off the deep end and start to self-harm. Some of them threaten to go to the police—”
