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I expect her to hustle. Instead, she strikes a pose, looking like one of those women in the paintings she loves so much. “It’s your plane, right?” she drawls. “You can pay the pilot overtime to wait.”
The temptation is strong, especially when she looks up at me through her lashes. But I’m able to keep my eyes on the prize. “Not tonight, Princess.”
She pouts, which really is almost enough to make me give in. Instead, I walk to the bedroom door. “Three hours,” I say. “They’re holding dinner on the plane.”
I go wait in my office, because I’m a fucking genius who knows the goddamn limit of his ability to resist temptation.
45
ALIX
* * *
Iblink as we circle the Arc de Triomphe, our driver threading his way through a dozen lanes of traffic like a jockey at the Kentucky Derby. On the plane, I made Trap take his pillow and his blanket to his own bed, so we’re both surprisingly awake in the bright morning air of Paris. There’s a lot to be said for private jets.
But even a billionaire can’t clear away traffic in a major European city. I glance at my phone. “We’re going to be late,” I say.
“Relax.”
“You know what’s guaranteed to keep a woman from relaxing? Someone telling her to relax.”
“You want a guarantee on relaxation? I have an idea or two that might work.”
I blush.
After everything Trap and I have done together, after all the things that have happened in and out of the bedroom, he still has the ability to make that swoop ripple through my belly, to make color rush to my cheeks.
He laughs as the driver works his way across another massive traffic circle, this one with an obelisk in the middle. I can see the Seine out my window and a dusty little park beneath winter-bare trees.
The driver pulls over to the curb.
“Where are we?” I ask. “This isn’t the conference center.”
“I want to make a quick stop.”
“Trap!” I protest. “The keynote speaker is one of the world experts on—”
“Humor me,” he says. He leans across me and opens my door, gesturing for me to step out of the car.
The December sun is brilliant, but a sharp breeze cuts across the plaza. I pull my coat closer around my shoulders, hoping Trap’s quick stop doesn’t involve public exposure in a Parisian park. He leans back into the car and says something to the driver who gives a friendly nod.
As the car drives away, Trap slips a hand under my elbow. I can’t believe he’s only wearing a sweater in this weather.
“Let’s go, Princess,” he says.
He leads the way to a low stone building. The long side of it is lined with windows that overlook the river. I can glimpse potted trees inside, their greenery broken up by oranges.
Trap leads me to the front entrance. It looks like a Greek temple, complete with columns. As we approach, someone pushes the door open from the inside.
“Monsieur Prince,” says the man, softening Trap’s last name with his heavy French accent. “I hope your trip was easy.”
“Yes, thank you,” Trap says as we pass inside.
“Très bien,” the man responds. “Very good.” He leads us through a metal detector, but no one seems to be on duty. “If you would be so good as to follow me…”
I glance around, trying not to look like a lost American tourist. I’m sure that I fail, because that’s exactly what I am—a lost American tourist who’s late to the meeting she signed up for months ago. An information desk sits unattended, but there are slots for pamphlets in French and English.Musée de l’Orangeriesays one, the letters stark against a brightly colored background.
I know about the Orangerie. I’ve read about it in books. I’ve seen its collection reproduced and read essays about the works that line its walls.
