A honeymoon for one...

Pleasure for two!

After catching her fiancé cheating, Jasmine Sweet is on her Parisian honeymoon alone. She’s determined to have an adventure! But an altercation resulting in temporary amnesia is more the stuff of nightmares. Then she meets a gorgeous stranger, and her time in France becomes a tour de fantasy! Luca shows her desires she never dreamed of—until their sexy dalliances become more than just a game...

“DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author DAIRE ST. DENIS is an adventure-seeker, an ancient history addict, a seasonal hermit and a wine-lover. She calls the Canadian Rockies home, and has the best job ever: writing smoking-hot contemporary romance in which the pages are steeped in sensuality and there’s always a dash of the unexpected. Find out more about Daire and subscribe to her newsletter at dairestdenis.com.

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Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Pleasure Games

Daire St. Denis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07122-2

PLEASURE GAMES

© 2018 Dara Lee Snow

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Steena, Elena and Trish.

True friendships are where sanity and insanity collide.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

LUCA LEGRAND COULDN’T decide whether he had the best luck in the world or whether he was actually cursed with the worst fucking luck ever. At the moment, sitting in a holding cell that stank like piss and rancid sweat, he was pretty sure it was the latter.

“Legrand!” A uniformed member of the Paris Police Prefecture banged on the bars. “Votre avocat est ici.” Your lawyer is here.

Pushing himself to his feet, Luca waited for the man to unlock the cell and then followed him down the hall to a cubicle not much larger than a toilet stall. François Chevalier, the lawyer for the Legrand Estate vineyard, was already waiting inside, reading a newspaper at a steel table that was bolted to the floor.

François glanced up when the door opened. He didn’t stand, and did not greet Luca, but rather drummed his fingers on the metal tabletop as he waited for Luca to take the seat across from him.

Once the door was shut behind the officer, François went back to reading the paper. More specifically, he perused an article with the headline, Héritier de Legrand Vineyard en Prison Pour Voies de Fait. Heir to the Legrand Vineyard in Prison for Assault. Beneath the headline was a blown-up image of Luca being shoved into a police car.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Luca said.

“Really? Because it looks bad,” François said calmly, though his mustache twitched.

Luca leaned back in the hard metal chair, folding his arms over his chest. He gazed directly at François, not willing to look away because he was not contrite in the fucking least.

“It’s not my fault,” he said.

“Is that so?” François leaned toward him, palms on the table, forcing Luca to look up at him. His face—though always red—was now the color of a sun-ripened heirloom tomato. “You punched a reporter. You broke his nose. You smashed his camera. How is that not your fault?”

He stood up and swept a hand around the tiny room that smelled like mildew and stale cigarettes. “The first Legrand man to ever be arrested. Yet still you sit there and say it’s not your fault?” He made a sour face, as if tasting a too-green wine, one that should be spit out immediately.

Slowly, Luca got to his feet, all six feet two inches of him, so François had to look up at him. “The man deserved what he got.”

“I don’t care what he deserved. All I care about is your legacy. Which you have single-handedly destroyed.” He glared at Luca. His heavy lids and the bags beneath made it nearly impossible to see his eyes, but Luca was determined to hold François’s gaze. The fact that François looked away first did not give him any pleasure, however.

“The value of our champagne has dropped significantly since you took over. Do you realize that?”

Luca ground his teeth, forcing himself to count to five. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq... But counting did not stop the deepest part of his gut from rumbling with liquid fire that was amplified with every breath. Through clenched teeth, he said, “The value of our champagne dropped the day my father died.”

It was true. His father had run the estate for thirty years, continuing in the footsteps of his father and grandfather and two hundred years of ancestors before that. His father had been a robust, healthy man and it had seemed as if he would live forever. Not that Luca had seen much of him in the past ten years while he was competing on the Grand Prix motorcycle racing circuit.

“This cannot continue—” François gestured toward Luca’s chest. “These scandals.”

Here we go. Luca leaned against the wall, crossing one ankle over the other. Waiting for François to detail each of his latest “scandals.” There was no point in defending himself.

Ticking items off his finger, François began the lengthy list. “Disturbing the peace.”

Disturbing the peace? Luca had broken up with his girlfriend, Anika Van Horn, a model he’d quickly learned was more interested in the fame and fortune of the Legrand name than in Luca himself. She did not take the breakup well. In fact, she’d slapped him, making sure to do so at an outdoor café, causing a scene that spread in seconds via social media. He still wasn’t sure how charges had come of it.

“Public drunkenness.”

He had attended a fellow Monster teammate’s bachelor party. While Luca had had his fair share of drinks, he had not been nearly as drunk as the groom-to-be, whom Luca had rescued from the Fontaine Stravinsky.

“Public nudity.”

It had been his friend, the bachelor, who was naked. But the press had a way of spinning things so that it sounded like Luca was the one who’d disrobed, jumped into the fountain and done lewd things to a colorful, busty mermaid with water spouting from the tips of her breasts.

Sighing, Luca waved for François to keep going with the damning list, knowing what was coming next.

“Then. Just to up the ante...a sex video gone public. And not just any sex...” François paused, arching his brow for effect. He sniffed instead of finishing his sentence. “Such a boost to the prestige of your esteemed family name.” François grimaced with sarcasm.

Luca opened his mouth, the excuse—the fact that the video was meant to be private and that Anika had obviously been the one to leak it online, either for publicity to boost her career or to publicly humiliate him—was ripe on his tongue. But what good would it do to explain this to François? It didn’t change the outcome.

“And now, one week later, here you are.” François’s eyes leaked with moisture born of anger, like a grape in the press right before it was about to pop. “Assault and destruction of property. How noble.”

The paparazzi had been relentless since the sex scandal. Luca had been unable to leave his flat. To go to the market. To do anything without being accosted. When one particularly pushy reporter, who had been doggedly harassing him night and day, had stepped in front of Luca while he was on his brand new Yamaha VMAX, causing him to swerve and nearly crash into a lamppost, Luca had lost it. He wasn’t proud of his actions, but if faced with the same situation again? He wouldn’t change a thing.

He’d parked the bike, walked straight up to the man who had the camera attached to his face like it was an appendage and asked him—civilly—to erase the images. When the man ignored him in order to take more pictures, Luca had simply snatched the camera away with the intent to erase the memory. The man shoved him, which resulted in Luca dropping the camera, smashing it on the cobblestones.

Oops.

Then the screaming idiot had thrown a punch, which Luca had easily dodged before acting on pure instinct. One punch. That’s all it took to drop the petit connard. It wasn’t his fault the man had started something he couldn’t finish.

Again. No point in explaining any of this to François. The man cared about one thing and one thing only. The value of the estate. Which had, indeed, plummeted since Luca took over.

“I get it.” Luca returned to the chair and sat down. “I’m a big fucking disappointment. Now, when are you bailing me out of this shit hole so I can get to work to rebuild the ‘family name’?”

“Bail you out?” François laughed. “I’m not bailing you out. Non.” He shook his head. “This is the safest place for you. You can’t get into any more trouble if you stay locked up.”

The molten metal that swirled in his gut erupted, filling Luca’s veins, forcing every muscle to contract. He grabbed François by the collar and hauled him across the table toward him. “What did you say?”

The only sound François was able to manage was a sputtering plea for his release, which resulted in spittle spraying Luca in the face. For the first time that day, Luca felt remorse for his actions. François had been loyal to the family for three decades, yet he barely knew Luca, and for all he did know, Luca was indeed the fuckup that the media was making him out to be.

The sex scandal was one thing, but Luca couldn’t understand the rest of it—the charges and the constant bad press. As a Grand Prix driver and a Legrand, he was used to being in the public eye, but lately the media seemed out to get him. Why? Was it because of the sex tape, or did he simply keep ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Softening his grip, Luca raised his hands in appeasement. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” François’s voice was high. “This behavior of yours is unacceptable.” The lawyer straightened his shirt and tie where Luca had crumpled it. “You are an embarrassment to your family name.”

“François, I recognize the...” Luca swallowed. With difficulty. “The folly of my recent actions. But I can’t very well right wrongs from a prison cell.”

Blinking rapidly, his eyes so puffy they were mere slits in his face, François said, “I don’t think you understand the full implications of your actions.”

“Then explain them to me.”

François removed a sheaf of papers from a briefcase beneath the table and plopped them on the table.

“Do you know what these are?”

Luca slid the papers toward him. “Company bylaws.” He slid them back across.

“Yes. And, if you were to read them, you would know that there is a code of conduct clause.” He paused. “For all employees.” He flipped to an earmarked page and shoved the document back across the table.

Luca glanced down. The words “grounds for dismissal” were highlighted as well as, “appropriate conduct.”

“I know the bylaws. I am the CEO.” It was sort of true. He’d been too busy running the company to pay much attention to them.

“So it should come as no surprise that the board is discussing your removal as CEO.”

“What?” Luca guffawed. “They can’t do that. I’m the only heir to the estate and I own fifty-one percent of the shares of the company.”

“Well...”

“Well, what?”

“There has been discussion about your father’s will being contested. In light of all that has occurred.” He gestured toward the room in general.

“Contested? By whom?”

“Marcel Durand.”

Marcel was only a few years younger than Luca and had only worked for his father for maybe five years. “Why would Marcel Durand contest my father’s will?”

“Because Marcel is your half brother.”

* * *

The first thing Jasmine Sweet did after finding her seat in first class on the Air France flight to Paris was to ask for a glass of champagne. The second thing she did, once she had the glass in hand, was to turn away from the large and empty seat beside her and sip the bubbly liquid until it disappeared. And the third thing she did was twist off the platinum band with the four-carat princess-cut diamond and shove it into the inside pocket of her purse. This was all accomplished before the plane had finished boarding.

“Excuse me.” Jasmine held up a finger to signal the unfairly beautiful and terribly refined French flight attendant. “Do you have any berries? Blueberries, raspberries, that sort of thing?”

“Berries?” The woman asked with what Jasmine decided was a disdainful tone. “Non.”

“Too bad. Just another champagne, then, please.”

The woman pursed her lips before settling into a bored smile. “Would you care for orange juice with that or perhaps something to eat?”

“No, thank you,” Jazz said, waving her hand dismissively. “Just the champagne.”

Before the attendant moved past, Jasmine stopped her again. “Oh, and if it’s not too much to ask...” Jasmine glanced at the seat beside her and lowered her voice. “This seat is empty.” She pulled tickets out of her purse. “I have both tickets. Would you see if someone from economy would be interested in an upgrade?”

Both delicate brows arched at this request as the woman took the tickets from Jasmine’s hands. Her full lips pursed together. “Yes, I see.” Handing the tickets back to Jasmine, she said, “I will inquire.”

“Oh, and make sure they like champagne. That’s a must,” Jasmine called, but the woman didn’t turn around. “Thanks,” she shouted. “You’re a peach.”

The flight attendant carried on through into coach, ignoring her while she made sure all carry-on items were stowed correctly.

Well, what had she expected? Friendliness? Kindness? Empathy?

Ha! So far her experience with the French was that they were aloof, intimidating and gorgeous. But, she supposed, she wasn’t even off American soil yet. Things would be better once she landed in Paris.

She rubbed the bare spot where her ring had been only moments before. Her skin was lighter where the band had circled her finger for the last sixteen months, a promise of the life she’d always dreamed of, as if her skin wasn’t quite ready to give it up.

She closed her eyes, imagining that she and Parker Wright had gotten married yesterday, as planned, celebrating their union at the Waldorf Astoria in Chicago with three hundred of their closest friends and family—Parker had a large family. And lots of friends. Well...work colleagues and friends of his parents, really. But whatever. And now they were on their way to Europe for their honeymoon. With eyes closed, she observed the physical sensation of the plane taxiing along the runway before accelerating, the seat beneath her vibrating as the plane took off.

A week in Paris, another week in the South of France, then on to Italy: Venice, Milan, Tuscany—ahh!—before returning to Paris for the final few days. She’d planned the whole thing, poring over hotel web pages and travel forums for what to do and where to stay.

“Money’s no problem,” Parker had said. “It’s our honeymoon, after all.”

Yes. It was their honeymoon and she’d booked all these gorgeous boutique hotels close to the sights, restaurants and shops—shopping was something they both loved to do. And then, after a day of exploring, she’d thought they would return to their hotel and make love—tenderly, passionately. Definitely trying new things now that they were married (like the new furry handcuffs she’d picked up and the ridged vibrator—yes, please!). As her imagination strayed to creative ways to use the toys, her hand strayed to the seat beside her, encouraging Parker to take her hand and clasp it in his warm fingers.

Instead, her hand came into contact with a large, hairy arm that was a smidge damp. Jasmine’s eyes popped open and she swiveled to face the person seated beside her. He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties with thinning hair and a friendly face. He wore a tie-dyed T-shirt that stretched across an ample frame, and as he met her gaze, he pushed square glasses back onto the bridge of his nose before dipping his hand into a party-sized bag of Doritos. Jasmine noticed bright orange crumbs dotting the front of his shirt and the armrest.

“Doritos?” he asked, as he held the bag out to her.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Jasmine said, taking a handful. She waved at the glass of champagne sweating on her pull-down table. “Do you want something to drink? It’s free up here, you know.”

The man smiled and Jasmine tried not to stare at the orange residue stuck between his two front teeth. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Jazz pressed the button to signal the attendant and the woman materialized beside her seat. “Another champagne for my friend, here.”

“I’d prefer beer if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” Jasmine smiled sweetly at the man before turning her beaming face toward the French woman. “Beer for my friend. And another champagne for me. In fact,” Jazz added, indicating the first-class cabin with a wave of her hand, “Why don’t you bring out champagne for everyone!”

The woman rolled her eyes but Jasmine didn’t care. Was it the champagne making her feel light-headed and carefree?

“Toodle-oo, now.” She motioned with just the tips of her fingers, hoping to give the woman—who wasn’t even attempting the bored smile anymore—the brush-off. Then she turned to her seatmate.

“I’m Jasmine.” Jazz stuck her hand out and the man beside her took it, shaking it with a surprisingly firm grasp.

“Neil.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Neil. So, tell me about yourself.”

The two exchanged pleasantries: where they were from, what they did for a living, whether they’d been to Paris before.

See? Jasmine consoled herself. Look how calm I am, making nice with a complete stranger as if everything is normal.

As if her whole world hadn’t been turned upside down a mere forty-eight hours ago and she hadn’t received the worst shock of her life.

Their drinks arrived, though Jasmine noticed her champagne was a little on the glass-half-empty side.

Bitch.

“So, Neil, what’s in Paris? Business or pleasure?” She downed the champagne in three swallows and pressed the call button again.

Two can play this game, gorgeous French woman.

“Oh, a comic convention. It’s the biggest one in all of Europe. I’m an illustrator.” He brushed a wisp of hair off his forehead.

“Interesting.” Jasmine helped herself to another handful of Doritos. “What kind of illustrations?”

“Do you want to see?”

“Why not?”

Neil unfastened his seat belt and retrieved a bag from the overhead compartment, taking out a sketchbook before replacing the bag and sitting down. He flipped open the sketchbook to cartoons of—well, Jasmine was having a hard time focusing, to be honest.

“The cartoon is called Betty Boobs. It’s a play on Betty Boop. It’s very popular in Europe.”

Jasmine blinked and squinted. Big-chested, naked cartoon women with a bit of 1930s flare graced the pages of his sketchpad. Getting it on. Porn. The guy drew cartoon porn.

Cool.

“Neil, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know what a beard is?” She blinked at him, forcing herself to swallow. That last sip of champagne had burned.

“You mean like facial hair?” He stroked his chin.

“No. The other connotation. Do you know it?”

His bushy brows drew together and then rose up his forehead as if filled with helium. “You mean like a gay guy who—”

“Yes.” She poked him on the arm. “That’s exactly what I mean. For example, my fiancé—well, ex-fiancé—asked me to marry him, right?”

“Okay.”

“Unbeknownst to me, I was his beard.” Reaching over to the little table in front of Neil, Jasmine snagged the can of Bud that he’d barely sampled and guzzled a good third before continuing. “We were supposed to get married yesterday.”

“Really?” His gaze was on the beer, not her.

She nodded.

Wow. She was really doing it. No tears. No temper tantrums. Just reporting the facts as if it had happened to someone else or like she was completely over it. Jasmine was proud of herself.

She drank deeply again before leaning close and placing her hand on Neil’s sweating forearm. “Yep. I’d have never known, except the night before the wedding, while I was supposed to be staying at a hotel with my friends, I came back to my apartment to pick up something I’d forgotten—something borrowed, or was it something blue?” She tapped her lips. “Hmm. Either way, that part doesn’t matter. What matters is that I caught my fiancé in bed with his best friend. They were booping. Betty Booping, if you will.”

“Holy shit,” Neil said, still eyeing the beer in her hand. “That must have been a shock.”

“Oh, yeah.” She pointed to the seat he was occupying. “My new husband was supposed to be sitting where you are sitting right now, but he’s not. Because he’s gay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He never loved me.” Jasmine fell back into her seat, staring at the headrest in front of her. “He was only using me. God. And I was so blind because he gave me whatever I wanted.”

“Hey.” The guy patted her hand where it lay on the shared armrest. “You okay?” He carefully retrieved his nearly empty beer from her slack fingers.

“A gorgeous penthouse apartment. Fifty-thousand-dollar limit on my credit card.”

“I can’t imagine...though a limit like that would be nice...”

“You know what the worst thing was, Neil?” She lolled her head toward him. “After I caught him? He was relieved. Relieved.”

“It’s hard to live a lie, I guess...”

“And he said nothing had to change.” She poked him in the sternum, above the orange crumbs. “Can you believe it? He still wanted to marry me!”

“Umm, you might want to keep it down a bit—”

“A housekeeper and cook if I wanted...whatever I wanted, really. Bribery.” She shook her head. Her neck was stiff. So was her jaw. Tight, like it was wired shut. “All fucking bribes and distractions,” she said through clenched teeth. “Distractions from what, you might ask?” She turned to face Neil and the rest of the story came out of the deep hole where her heart used to be. “So that my soon-to-be husband could take business trips with Robert. That’s the fucker’s name. Robert Miskey. I’m a fucking cover so Parker can be-boop Robert fucking Miskey.”

“You’re not allowed to shout on planes these days.” Neil blinked nervously.

“Am I making a scene, Neil? Am I?”

“Umm, yes.”

“Don’t you think finding out that you’re a beard on the eve of your wedding warrants a scene?”

The man was now frantically pushing the attendant call button.

Unbuckling her seat belt, Jasmine stood, addressing all the people in first class. “I’m supposed to be married. I’m supposed to be on my way to Europe for my honeymoon. And instead I’m here with Neil, who draws cartoon porn.” She glanced at Neil and said in a marginally more controlled voice, “Sorry, Neil.”

His smile wavered and his hands said, No problem, crazy lady.

“Doesn’t that give me the right to make a scene?” She tried to meet the other passengers’ eyes, but there were no takers. “Doesn’t it?”

Cool fingers circled her upper arm and an accented voice said calmly, “Please return to your seat or we will be forced to make a stop in New York City where you will be escorted off the plane and detained. Do you understand?”

Jasmine attempted to tug her arm out of the attendant’s grasp but the woman was freakishly strong. Fucking French.

“I—” When she turned her head she was met with the sincerest smile she’d received from the woman yet.

“Please,” the woman said soothingly. Her sincerity came as such a surprise that Jasmine’s knees buckled and the woman had to help her back into her seat.

Jazz caught a whiff of the woman’s perfume—Coco Mademoiselle by Chanel, if she wasn’t mistaken—as the flight attendant leaned over her to secure Jasmine’s seat belt. Tasteful, subtle, perfect.

“I’m very sorry you’re having a bad day. Please don’t make it any worse.” Before standing, the woman tucked a handful of tissues into Jasmine’s fist and, moving close to her ear, whispered, “Whoever this man is who hurt you? He did not deserve you.”

CHAPTER TWO

THE SECOND JASMINE opened the door to her hotel room, she smelled roses.

Ugh.

Towing her bag behind her like it was an old, arthritic dog who was too tired to go for a walk, Jasmine made her way through the suite she had so lovingly booked months ago. Months ago when she thought she’d be sharing this room with the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with. But he’d been lying to her the whole time! Asshole.

The room was gorgeous—dammit! Twelve-foot ceilings and original crown molding from when the hotel was a mansion owned by a famous jeweler who had bought it for his mistress during the Renaissance. Now the beautiful, airy suite only mocked her. The Louis XIV furniture taunted her, reminding her that she’d chosen it for Parker. She preferred country chic. The filmy white drapes only served to remind her of the ten-thousand-dollar wedding gown that hid in her closet like a shameful secret, never to be worn.

But the worst was what she found on the polished cherrywood table in the sitting area: a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries, with an envelope addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Parker Wright propped between the berries and an ice bucket. Inside the bucket was a bottle of champagne sitting at a jaunty angle, chillin’.

Like a villain.

Stupid champagne.

Jasmine plucked the bottle from the bucket, unwrapped the foil on top and popped the cork. It ricocheted off what she hoped was an imitation painting, then off the crown molding, landing somewhere behind a potted plant. Not bothering with the crystal flutes, Jasmine drank directly from the bottle like it was water and she was dying of thirst.

“Hair of the dog,” she muttered, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She set the bottle on the table, unconcerned with the wet patch left on the highly polished tabletop, and rummaged in her bag for aspirin. Instead of the travel-sized bottle of pills, she located her cell phone.

According to her phone it was 3:23 and there were forty-seven—yes, forty-seven!—texts waiting for her. Reminding her—as if she needed any more reminders—of the ordeal of the last forty-eight hours.

With a groan, she tapped the message app...

Five from her mother. Delete.

Two from her father. Delete.

Thirteen from her best friend, Ashley...hmm. Maybe she’d read those later.

Twenty-seven from Parker.

The man was desperate.

Her finger hovered over the delete button, but instead of deleting the messages, she deleted him from her contact list.

“Liar. You’re dead to me,” she muttered before tilting her head way back and letting the bubbly burn down her throat.

Parker’s voice rose between her ears, C’mon, Jazz. I figured you knew. Nothing has to change between us. I still love you, you know, as a best friend. He’d made that statement while sitting in bed beside his lover. Then he’d gotten out of bed and approached her, hands out, pleading. You can have whatever life you want, I won’t interfere. All I ask is that you keep my private life secret.

Honestly? In this day and age, why did he need to pretend? Well, she’d asked him that question directly.

It’s my father. He’s homophobic, okay? I’ll lose the trust fund.

God! So, all of this was for the money? He’d deceived her for years just so he could maintain his precious lifestyle?

Not that she’d minded the lifestyle. It was what had kept her from making demands, from thinking too hard about the lack of intimacy and passion she’d yearned for. Parker’s generosity seemed proof enough he loved her, and she’d been so wrapped up in their perfect life, she’d failed to see what was happening right in front of her.

With bottle in hand, Jasmine wove toward the window, pushing the drapes aside so she could admire the view.

And what a view. The rounded Parisian rooftops, the Eiffel Tower—so close she could practically lick it. The view was the reason Jasmine had chosen this suite, a dream come true...

Opening the French doors, Jasmine stepped out onto the wrought-iron balcony. Fresh air. That was what she needed. She plunked herself down in the chair and set the bottle on the glass-topped bistro table as she gazed out at the magnificent sight.

And she had no one to share it with. She was completely and utterly alone. She sighed, slumping with the weight of self-pity. Wasn’t she allowed? She’d been ready to give Parker everything, thinking he’d felt the same way. She shut her eyes. Maybe her ex-fiancé cared for her, even loved her, like he’d said. But it wasn’t the kind of love she’d thought it was. The love she’d always craved. And she wasn’t ready to forgive him for tricking her into believing that it was. Her phone chirped, and Jasmine automatically glanced down. Another message from Ashley. Tapping on the message app, she skimmed the messages.

Jazz? Are you okay? Call me.

Please, let me know you’re okay.

Your parents are worried. You should call them.

Jazz? Are you in Paris?

Instead of replying to the text, Jasmine touched the FaceTime button. Her best friend answered immediately. The video was grainy, but Jasmine could still see the dark circles beneath Ashley’s hazel eyes and that her fine blond hair had yet to be combed.

“What time is it there?” Jasmine asked by way of a greeting.

Ashley blinked. “It’s twenty to ten.”

“In the morning?”

Ashley’s eyes narrowed. “I knew it. You went to Paris, didn’t you?”

“See for yourself,” Jasmine said, panning her phone to give Ashley a panoramic view of the Paris skyline.

“Holy shit,” she heard Ashley comment. “Nice.”

Switching the screen back to face her, Jasmine half smiled. “It’s nicer now that I have you to share it with.” She sighed. Damn if her lip didn’t start quivering. “If I had been thinking clearly, I would have changed the other ticket and brought you with me.” Her lip quivered for real and she covered her mouth to quell the shaking.

“If you had been thinking clearly, you would have at least told me—told someone—what you were doing. Jesus, Jazz. We’ve been so worried.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just...” She had to stop talking because the trembling in her lips spread across her face, pricking the backs of her eyes until tears spilled over her lashes. She shook her head since words were impossible at the moment.

“Have you talked to Parker?” Ash asked softly.

“No.” Jazz wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m not going to, either.”

“Understandable. What about your parents?”

“I will.” She passed back through the French doors into the hotel suite and plopped down at the table, plucking a sweating strawberry from the plate and popping it into her mouth.

“So, what are you going to do?” Ash asked. “God, those strawberries look good, by the way.”

Jazz grabbed another berry and bit into it. “They are good. Really sweet.” Her voice cracked on the last word and the chocolate-covered berry suddenly tasted like ashes in her mouth. She swallowed the lump with difficulty.

After a pause, Ashley piped up, “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.”

“What?”

“You are going to have yourself an adventure.”

“An adventure?”

“Yep. You want to forget about Parker? Go have fun. Do all the things that you want to do. Shop on the Champs-Élysées, go on wine tours and see the sights. Hell, take a train to Monte Carlo and rack up Parker’s credit cards.”

Something hot yet icy lanced Jasmine’s gut. “Oh, God. The credit cards.” She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t want to use them.”

“What do you mean?” Ash asked, leaning closer to her phone camera. “After all you’ve been through? You deserve to spend some of Parker’s money.”

“No. I can’t do it. I can’t live off of him anymore. It’s just so...” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Symbolic of my life with him. Dependent and lame.”

Even from across the distance, Jasmine heard Ashley’s deep inhalation, followed by a long exhalation. “But, how are you going to survive if you don’t?”

The reminder that she had no way of supporting herself slammed through Jasmine. When she’d met Parker she’d been working as a stylist in an upscale salon. She’d liked the job—loved it, actually—but as her relationship with Parker progressed, they’d seen little reason for her to keep it. He made more than enough to support them.

“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think about money before I left.”

Ashley rubbed her jaw, her gaze sliding up and to the side as she considered this possibility. Her gaze returned to the screen. “Where’s the ring?”

“What ring?”

“Duh...your engagement ring?”

Jasmine’s gaze automatically searched her ring finger only to find it bare. Her purse! She reached inside, found the cold platinum and held it in front of the phone for Ashley to see.

“Get rid of it.”

“Like, chuck it?”

“No! That thing cost Parker a fortune. Go sell it. Use the money to do something wild and crazy. And whatever’s left? That’s what you use to start over.”

Jazz held the ring up, seeing it in a new light. Could she do that?

Hell, yes, she could. The ring was hers. Parker had given it to her when he said he’d love her forever. Now she was heartbroken, fucked over and desperately in need of a break. Parker probably wouldn’t even care.

Jazz bit her lip. “I’ll sell the ring, but I don’t know how to do ‘wild and crazy’.”

“Oh, my God.” Ashley slapped her forehead. “I’ve known you most of my life and if there is anyone who knows how to be wild, it’s you.”

“Ash...”

“Don’t Ash me. You know what you need?”

“A drink?” Jazz held the champagne bottle aloft.

“I think you’ve self-medicated enough,” Ash replied with pursed lips. “No. Here’s what you need. Go find yourself some smoking-hot Frenchman who knows how to treat a woman. And then you need to have a month of raunchy, nasty, awesome sex.” She snapped her fingers. “A sex-venture.”

“A sex-what?” Jasmine rolled her eyes.

“I’m not kidding. You need a release from all this tension—what better way than good sex? You’re totally single now.”

Jasmine groaned.

“I’m sorry, hon. But that’s why you need a passionate, torrid, love affair. Feed some romantic French dude chocolate-covered strawberries. Let him lick champagne off your body...”

“Seriously?”

“Go to one of those sex districts and buy awesome European sex toys...or...” Ashley’s eyes lit up. “No, wait! Buy yourself a gigolo. A super-hot one!”

Jazz couldn’t help laughing at Ashley’s suggestion. It felt good to laugh. “You are insane.” She blew her bangs out of her eyes. “And you should be here,” she finished softly.

“Yeah, well...” Ashley stood and patted her rounded belly. Her friend was tiny, so her third trimester of pregnancy made her look like she had a basketball tucked up under her shirt. “I’m not exactly in the best form for sex-ventures. Plus, I’m pretty sure I would scare off any potential hotties.”

Jasmine touched her finger to the screen as if touching Ashley’s belly. “That is one lucky kid to have you for her mother.”

Ashley’s lips twisted. Her friend had worries of her own with her first child due in under a month.

“Thanks, Ash.”

“Hey. What are friends for? You know I’m here for you. Anytime. I’m just a FaceTime away.”

Jazz nodded.

“Oh, and Jazz?”

“Yeah?”

“Let me be your cautionary tale...” Ash rubbed her belly. “As soon as you sell that ring and before you embark on your sexy time?”

Jazz groaned. “Uh-huh?”

“Buy condoms. Lots and lots of condoms.”

* * *

Two weeks had passed since Luca had been released on bail. The agreement he’d made with François was that he’d not only stay out of the limelight, but that he’d disappear completely while François worked behind the scenes to change the board’s mind. He had hired Myra Monte, publicity guru to the stars, to try to salvage the Legrand brand—promos, charity donations and the like.

“Give me a month,” François had said. “During that time, I don’t want to hear about you, read about you or have to bail you out.”

“But wouldn’t it be better if I talk to the board? Prove to them I’m competent?”

“No. You have to trust me.”

Luca did trust him. Thus he was lying low, as requested, staying out of the press, staying out of trouble. The problem was, scandal had followed him for the last year like a stray dog he’d fed on a whim, a dog that wouldn’t leave him alone. It was that feral beast he didn’t trust.

Bad luck? Luca wasn’t so sure anymore.

He stopped his Ducati Diavel Cruiser at the red light, considering for the thousandth time the information François had revealed.

What if he was being sabotaged? If he was, Luca knew exactly who was behind it.

Marcel Durand. His half brother.

Luca still had a hard time processing the news. Marcel was blond, but with blue eyes—like Luca’s. He had shown a real interest and talent for running the exclusive champagne empire. Yet, his father had left the estate to him. Not Marcel. Did that mean he wanted Luca to run it? That he’d forgiven Luca for his mother’s death?

Something tightened in his chest.

His father had died before Luca had the chance to ask if he’d forgiven him. He’d also died before telling Luca about Marcel. Had he wanted Marcel to inherit and run the Legrand estate?

Luca revved the engine.

He’d never know what his father wanted, but whatever it was, it didn’t change the fact that what Marcel was doing was shitty. He’d almost confided his suspicions to François but decided against it. Since his mother’s death, Luca had always taken care of his affairs himself. This was no different, and if he was right, if Marcel was manufacturing these “incidents”—which only required an anonymous call to a tabloid divulging Luca’s whereabouts, readily available on Google Calendar—then Luca would figure out a way to take care of Marcel himself.

The first step was to take a hiatus from his high-profile life, making sure no one would know where he was. So he’d rented a flat in a quiet part of town through a discreet agency, he’d started growing a beard—which itched like mad—and he’d been driving his Ducati around Paris. No one would suspect Luca Legrand, professional driver, to be on a Ducati, a make driven by an opposing team. He’d even bought himself a new phone with a new number so he wouldn’t be contacted by friends...or tracked by Anika.

Only one problem.

He was bored stiff and had no idea if this hiatus would help with the mess he’d created.

No. The mess Marcel has created.

Grinding his teeth, Luca revved the engine again, released the clutch and sprang forward just as the light changed to green. The thing was, before he’d known who Marcel was, he’d liked him. The man was smart, competent and had seemed like Luca’s only ally when every other employee of the Legrand estate—they aren’t employees, they’re family, his father had always said—had shown him little more than polite but cold deference. Something else his father had always said was that trust takes time. Then there was forgiveness...

Luca took the next corner hard and when he spotted a police car at the other end of the street, he reminded himself to slow down. “You don’t need to break any more fucking laws,” he muttered to himself.

Just to be safe, he turned down a narrow side street—the kind that drove tourists crazy because they went unmarked on tourist maps—and then turned down another, which was narrow and deserted.

No, it wasn’t deserted; there was a motorcycle—a Honda Shadow—parked at the side of the road beside an antique shop. The man astride it glanced Luca’s way, watching him as Luca drove past. At the corner, Luca checked his rearview mirror.

Something was off. He could feel it by the way the man’s helmeted head followed his departure. After Luca turned the corner, he stopped the bike by an empty storefront and parked. Leaving his helmet with the shaded visor on, he walked back to the corner and peered down the street.

The man was in the process of pulling off his helmet, and under that he wore a balaclava. With a final surreptitious glance up and down the street, the man strode into the shop with a crowbar hanging from his fingertips.

Fuck.

It was just his luck.

Luca’s one goal was to avoid trouble and here he’d stumbled across a robbery in the middle of the goddamn day.

* * *

For the first time in two days, Jasmine forgot everything that had happened and wandered with delight through the shop she’d found using Google maps. It was off the beaten track, down some lonely little cobblestone street. And it was full of treasures.

This was not the type of pawnshop she was familiar with from the United States—a seedy place with bars on the windows where a greasy man wearing an undershirt picked his teeth behind an enclosed counter. This was a delightful boutique with beautiful items carefully displayed, everything from lamps and pots to clothing and jewelry.

“This is so...Paris,” she said quietly to herself as she gazed about the tiny space.

There were so many exquisite pieces in the shop to choose from: necklaces, bracelets, earrings. There were also hand-embroidered silk scarves, funky original hats and handbags. There were antiques and what had to be one-of-a-kind items, like the silver oil lamp that reminded her of the stories Auntie Bibi used to whisper at bedtime when she slept over at her cousins as a young girl. Adventures and genies from Arabian Nights. She picked up the lamp, considering. Maybe this lamp was a sign that she should have her own adventure, just like Ash encouraged.

Though, a sex-venture?

Jazz smiled to herself. Crazy.

“Est-ce que je peux vous aider?” the man behind the counter asked.

“I’m sorry,” Jasmine said, making her way toward him, the lamp, a silk scarf and a necklace clutched in her hands. Not that she needed any of the items but the prices were so good and Jazz was a sucker for a good deal. “I don’t speak French. Do you speak English?” She leaned on the display case, her gaze drawn to the gorgeous jewelry inside.

“Yes, a little.”

“Those are so pretty,” she said, pointing to a pair of emerald-drop earrings.

“Would you like to take a look?”

Oh, yes please, she nearly gushed before she remembered her reason for being there. She absently rubbed the polished silver of the lamp and said, “I have a ring I’d like to sell.”

“To sell? May I see?”

She set the lamp down on the counter and reached into her purse. Room key. Wallet. Cell phone. Passport. Hmm...where had she put that ring?

“It’s in here somewhere.” She dug around. Seriously, where the hell was the ring and what would she do if she’d lost it? She was sure Parker had paid about twenty grand for it. Not that she’d looked it up online or anything.

Okay. Maybe she had.

She located the ring at the bottom of her bag and placed it on the counter for the man to inspect, straightening her shoulders as he picked it up and scrutinized it through the lens of a loupe.

“C’est belle,” the man murmured as he checked the ring from all angles.

The bells over the door tinkled but she didn’t bother to look because something inside of her had shifted. An unknown weight lifted from Jasmine’s shoulders, making her feel like a brand-new person. Could she really put her broken engagement behind her and be the woman Ash had described—carefree and adventurous? A woman who lived in the moment and was on the lookout for a sex-venture...

“Mettez-vous par terre!” a deep male voice shouted.

She turned toward the voice but nothing about the man behind her made sense. It was like she’d stumbled upon the set of a movie and her already muddled brain was having a hard time computing why a man would be wearing a ski mask in spring and brandishing a crowbar.

To her bewilderment, he strode forward and smashed the display case she’d been leaning on with one massive blow.

What the...?

“Écoutez-moi!” He shouted right in her face.

So weird. Was she dreaming? Because this whole thing had an otherworldly quality to it and it just got worse when the dude reached into his beat-up jacket, pulled out a gun and pointed it at her.

“Par terre!”

Before Jasmine had time to consider what the man was shouting, he grasped the back of her neck and shoved her to the floor.

Oomph!

That hurt.

But now that she was on the ground, the thief ignored her and she lifted her head to find him swiping handfuls of jewelry and dumping the items into a leather satchel. Her ring was among the things he took.

Something inside of her gut, something hot and heavy and furious, was not about to lie benignly on the floor while some petty criminal robbed this delightful shop.

And her.

After all she’d been through? She deserved that fucking ring. Or, rather, she deserved the money from that fucking ring so she could move on from the disaster that was her life.

With energy she had no idea she possessed, Jasmine sprang to her feet, grabbed the outstretched arm of the thug and clung to it like her life depended on it.

“You fucker!” Jasmine growled, twisting his arm in a move she’d learned in a self-defense class, forcing the man to drop the gun. She grabbed the strap of the satchel, pulling it off his shoulder.

“Salope!” The man swung the crowbar catching the side of her head.

The pain in her temple was so sharp and stinging, that warrior-Jasmine drained out of her system as she curled on the ground, gripping the satchel like a beloved teddy bear, feeling like she might vomit from the pain. What happened next would have confused her at the best of times, but her head was still spinning from being clocked and her body was still pumping with adrenaline, lack of sleep and jet leg...

There was a crash.

Followed by a wet thunk and a man cried out in pain.

A body crumpled heavily half on, half off her.

A hand appeared in front of her face, gesturing for her to take it in order to help her to her feet. “Ça va?”

And then Jasmine was standing on noodle-y legs, gazing into the face of a stranger. The man wore a black leather jacket and a black helmet with the visor raised, revealing a face with a scruffy beard, dark brows and...the clearest, bluest, most amazing eyes she’d ever seen.

And then there were four eyes, then six...

“Mademoiselle?” He snapped his fingers in front of her face.

She shook her head, and then wished she hadn’t as stars appeared, dancing in front of her open eyes. She would have fallen if not for the strong hands gripping her arms, holding her up.

However, there were equally strong hands tugging on the strap of the satchel she was still clutching. The thug on the floor grappled for the bag and two things happened simultaneously. The bag slipped from her hands, spilling the contents on the tile floor just as a black leather boot swished past her line of vision, kicking the thief in the face and knocking him out. The rest happened in slow motion. Rings, earrings and necklaces scattered, jumping and skittering across the polished tile floor like live things freed from captivity. Jasmine caught sight of her ring bouncing along the hard floor, ricocheting off the bottom corner of the counter and landing—plunk—inside the passing boot of the stranger.

Without thinking, Jasmine lunged for the man’s leg, reaching into the top of his boot for her ring, but he shook her off, glaring down at her and speaking harshly—probably cursing—in French. Then the man stilled, his head jerked toward the door and the street and Jasmine became aware of the sound of sirens approaching.

“Merde!”

With one powerful shake, the six-eyed man dislodged Jasmine from his leg and strode toward the door.

“Wait!” Jasmine scrambled to her feet and hurried out after the stranger in black. Once on the street, she saw him jogging toward a corner and Jasmine took off after him, calling, “Please, wait! You’ve got my ring!”

However, running in high heels was nearly impossible on the cobblestone street, so Jasmine paused to pull off her sling-back sandals and hurl them away—she’d grab them later. Then she ran the rest of the distance in bare feet. Her head pounded like a drummer was between her ears, playing a solo at a heavy metal concert.

When she got to the corner, her legs wobbled and she could barely see straight.

There.

The man with her ring was straddling a motorcycle, the engine roaring to life as she stumbled toward him, stepping onto the road, holding her hand up to stop him.

Her brain must not have been functioning, because just as the man revved the engine of the motorcycle the world went sideways, and where once there was a street, a man and a motorcycle, there were now only quaint French rooftops, an impossibly blue sky and a bird flying at an odd angle.

Then everything went black.

CHAPTER THREE

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.

Why couldn’t Luca mind his own damn business? Not only had he found himself caught in a robbery, the police were only a block away and now a foreign woman—based on the fact she was shouting in English—had fainted right in front of his bike.

“Non. Non, non, non.” Luca put the bike in neutral, jumped off and bent down beside the crumpled woman. He shook her shoulder. “Reveillez-vous.” Wake up.

The woman moaned, her lids fluttered and then she passed out again. He could see the beginnings of a bruise blossoming along her hairline.

“La vache!” The words scraped the back of his throat. Glancing up and down the street, Luca weighed his options. What if he propped her unconscious body in a doorway...

A quick survey of the street revealed that the two closest doors were covered in paper with signs in the window advertising space for rent.

Not good.

The sirens were loud and close.

Dammit. He couldn’t leave her. And he definitely couldn’t get caught at the scene of a crime. He’d wind up in another media shitstorm.

Luca fit his hands beneath the woman’s arms and lifted her to her feet. She briefly came to, giving him just enough time to instruct her to straddle the bike. However, once she was astride, she slumped forward.

The sound of more sirens approaching from another direction got Luca’s pulse racing. He scooted the woman’s body forward on the seat—God, she wasn’t very big, was she?—and then straddled the seat behind her. He shifted into first and then wrapped his left arm around the woman’s waist to hold her steady while he slowly drove the seven blocks, down side streets and alleys, to his rented flat. The ride only took ten minutes and would have been faster if he could have shifted into a higher gear, but that was impossible to do while holding on to an unconscious woman.

The fact she was still out cold was not a good sign.

She better not die.

What the hell was he doing, bringing an unconscious foreigner back to his flat? He must be out of his mind. Luca could see the headlines smeared across the papers and news channels: Dead Foreigner Found in Luca Legrand’s Secret Residence. Foul Play Suspected.

But what choice did he have?

Luca parked his motorcycle in the underground lot, carefully scooped the woman up into his arms and carried her to the elevator that would take him to the fifth floor.

Once inside the flat, he laid her on his bed, got an ice pack out of the freezer—one he kept for when his leg ached—wrapped it in a towel and placed it on the woman’s temple.

“Ne me quitte pas,” he whispered, brushing hair off her forehead and temple so he could press the cold pack against her wound.

“What does that mean?” she asked softly, her eyes still closed.

Oh, thank God. “I’m asking you not to die. Please.”

A small smile touched her lips and she covered his hand with hers. Her touch was light and cool, and Luca felt a stirring of tenderness toward this complete stranger.

“Okay,” she murmured. “I’ll try.”

Then she passed out again.

Rubbing his temples, he gazed down at the slight woman who took up less than a third of his bed. She was showing all of the signs of a concussion; he’d seen it too many times to count on the racing circuit, and although he couldn’t risk taking her to a hospital or calling an ambulance, he had to get her medical help.

Back in the bedroom, in the drawer of the small bedside table, was his old phone, the one he hadn’t turned on in two weeks. He grabbed it, booted it up and typed a name into his contact list. Then he pressed the call button. As the phone rang, his heart beat fiercely in his chest.

It wasn’t anxiety, nor was it adrenaline. This was something else, like he was teetering on the edge of a precipice, vertigo pulling at him, forcing him to jump, and just as he felt himself fall...he noticed the rocks below.

* * *

Jasmine woke up to the sound of her own groans. She lay there for a few minutes, listening to the pounding cymbals inside her head, each clash punctuated with a sharp pain that lanced the side of her skull and reverberated through her temples down to her jaw.

Random images from the last few days flashed through her brain. Her wedding had been cancelled, she’d boarded a plane to Paris...

Jasmine’s stomach heaved dryly as she recalled nearly getting kicked off the plane. But she hadn’t, had she? She’d made it to Paris, right?

Then what...?

Hmm...? Why was it so hard to remember? Was she hungover? She sat up and her head swam like she was wearing glasses with the wrong prescription. Wait a second, she didn’t wear glasses, did she?

She touched her face. No glasses. Then Jasmine rubbed her eyes, and when her vision cleared, she took in her surroundings. She didn’t recognize a thing.

Where the hell was she?

“Ah, our patient is awake.”

Jasmine turned her head—too quickly—causing her to squeeze her lids shut in pain. When she opened her eyes, she saw a man she’d never seen before. He was tall and thin, wearing a tailored shirt and pants. His face was all angles with sunken eyes and cheeks that made his cheekbones prominent. He had close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and smiled kindly.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Hugo Caron. I am a doctor.” The man spoke English slowly, with a French accent.

“Where am I?”

“You are in a private residence in Paris.”

“In Paris?”

“Yes. You have bumped your head and I believe you have sustained a concussion. I need to perform some tests to see how serious it is.”

When the man stepped to the side of the bed, Jasmine realized there was someone else in the room. Another man who stood in the shadows.

“Who’s that?” she asked, pointing.

The doctor turned, as if he also hadn’t realized there was someone there. “That is...” he began slowly, “the man who found you. You were unconscious on the street. He brought you here and called me.”

“Oh.”

Why was everything so foggy? Why did none of this make sense? What had happened to her once she’d arrived in Paris?

“Oh!” She put her hand to her mouth, a snippet of a memory returning.

Have yourself a sex-venture. It was Ashley’s voice in her head.

Slowly this time, Jazz took in her surroundings. The queen-sized bed with the dark sheets and comforter. A masculine choice. The room, a foil to the suite at the hotel—oh, wait, she remembered the hotel! It was airy and light and decorated with antiques—this room was painted taupe and had modern furnishings.

“I’m going to do some tests and then ask you some questions, okay?”

Jazz nodded but stopped herself when the motion caused instant nausea. “Okay,” she whispered.

The doctor shone a light in each of her eyes and then asked her to follow his finger as he moved it from side to side in front of her face. He checked her ears with a scope, and her hearing by speaking quietly into each one. With gentle fingers, he touched a tender spot on the side of her head.

“Ouch.”

“I’m sorry.” He tilted her head up and to the side to get a better look at whatever injury she’d sustained and he hmmed.

“Okay. Straighten your arm out to the side,” the doctor instructed. “Now I’m going to push down, try to resist. Good.” He changed his grip so that he held the underside of her arm and asked her to push down against his hold and then he did the same on the other side.

Following that, he helped her to stand and asked her to balance on one leg and then the other, and each time he instructed her to touch her finger to her nose while balancing on one foot. There were some more balance and coordination tests before he helped her back onto the bed. He pulled up a chair right beside it and leaned forward.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, okay? You might not know the answers to some but don’t worry. It’s normal to experience some short-term memory loss after a head injury.”

“Okay.” Jasmine touched the side of her head gingerly.

The doctor proceeded to ask her full name, where she lived, what she did for a living. All of those were easy to answer. She may have fibbed that she was still employed.

“How long have you been in Paris?”

“Just a day. I think. What day is it? The twenty-fifth?”

“Yes, June twenty-fifth. Good. Where are you staying in Paris?”

“Um...a hotel. It’s very pretty, very posh.”

“Do you remember the name?”

“Ahh...l’hotel...d’something?” Jasmine bit her lip. “I can’t remember, but it’s near the Eiffel Tower.”

The doctor raised a single brow. “I see. So, what brought you to Paris?”

“It’s my honeymoon.”

The man straightened. “And where is your husband, madame?”

“My husband?” Jasmine put a hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry. No. It’s not my honeymoon.” She shook her head and then wished she hadn’t. “I’m not married. I just always wanted to come to Paris on my honeymoon.” The words came out in a flurry.

“So, are you here with anyone?”

“Um...no. Just me. By myself.” Jasmine was vaguely aware of the doctor getting up and going to speak quietly to the man who had been observing from the corner of the room.

“What happened to me?” Jasmine asked.

The doctor didn’t answer as the conversation between the two men increased in volume. Were they arguing? Over what? Surely not her?

“Excuse me?” She waved. “Hello?”

Still the men did not respond. The doctor was gesturing at her and speaking rapidly in French. The other man made some guttural remarks and then threw his hands in the air.

“Hey,” Jasmine called. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

“Oui, bien sûr.” The doctor turned toward her. “We were just discussing your situation. You have a mild concussion. It’s nothing to worry about. However, you must be observed for twenty-four hours.” He glanced back at the man in the corner. “I can take you to the hospital—but you have no passport.”

“Oh, yes I do,” Jasmine said. “It’s in my bag.”

“And where is your bag, mademoiselle?”

“It’s—” She bit her lip. Blinked. “Isn’t it here?”

The doctor turned to speak quietly to the other man who answered quickly. “Non. You have nothing here except for what you are wearing.”

“Really?” Where the hell was her bag? It would have everything. Her phone, her hotel key, her ID, Parker’s credit cards!

Dammit!

“So,” Jasmine said slowly, “what will happen to me if I go to the hospital?”

“You will be asked to show identification and because you don’t have any, they will have to contact the embassy and your next of kin.”

Jasmine held up her hand. “No.” The last thing she needed was to have to contact her parents, or worse, Parker, and ask for help after being in Paris only one day. She wasn’t ready to face him yet. Absolutely not an option.

“What are my other choices?”

“That you stay here. My friend has kindly offered to observe you for twenty-four hours.”

The man standing in shadows muttered something beneath his breath. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound like he was thrilled with the idea of observing her. Well, Jasmine was not overly keen on being watched by a complete stranger, either, thank you very much.

“There must be some other option.”

“You don’t know where you’re staying. You are here alone and have no identification or money. Unless you know someone in Paris, you do not have many choices, mademoiselle.”

Slowly—very slowly—Jasmine tilted her head to the side. “What about you? Can’t I stay with you?” She pointed at the doctor.

“Je suis désolé. I’m sorry but it is impossible. My work has me flying to Italy this evening.” The doctor turned toward the other man and gestured him forward. “Luca is a good man.” The doctor coughed as if to cover up a chuckle. “He will take excellent care of you until you remember where you are staying.”

“What if I can’t remember?”

“Your memory should return soon. But if it doesn’t, I’m sure the two of you can figure things out.” The man’s lips twisted as if to repress a grin. “Now,” he glanced at the watch on his wrist. “I really must go before I miss my flight.” He nodded to Jasmine. “Au revoir, mademoiselle.”

The doctor exited the bedroom and the other man—Luca—followed. Jasmine could hear the two of them continuing their heated discussion outside the door, though it became more muted as they moved farther down the hallway.

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyelids, willing herself to remember what had happened. Something.

Anything.

But for the life of her, the last thing Jasmine remembered was Ashley saying, Buy condoms, lots and lots of condoms.

* * *

“She can’t stay here,” Luca insisted once the bedroom door was closed.

Hugo, who was the team physician for Luca’s racing team, had not only treated Luca after various wipeouts—including the shattered leg that had ended his career—he’d been a close friend ever since Luca joined the team five years ago. While he’d briefly explained his predicament with the family estate, and Hugo understood his need for discretion, Luca had kept most of the details to himself. Including the robbery.

“I’m sure she’ll remember the name of her hotel by the morning. Anyway, you know how important observation is in these first twenty-four hours. This woman has no one to watch her.” Hugo smiled gently. “Except you.”

“Isn’t there another way? I am supposed to be lying low. Not harboring an amnesiac tourist.”

“It’s only for one night.”

Luca groaned in defeat.

Hugo patted his arm. “Everything will be fine.” Just then, Hugo’s phone dinged and he tapped on it. “My cab is here.” He tucked his phone into his pocket and headed for the front door.

“Hugo, wait.” Luca exhaled. He hated the fact that he had to say this. “You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone, do you understand?”

“Of course.” The expression Hugo wore was kind. And most welcome after the way others had treated him since the sex scandal. “Give her acetaminophen for the pain. You know the drill. Rest. No TV.” Hugo reached for the door handle. “Bonne chance, mon ami.”

Luca banged his head—once, twice, three times—against the closed door after Hugo left, and then a noise from down the hall had him spinning around. The woman stood there, eyes wide, her feet bare, thick waves of dark hair shadowing half her face.

“I’m sorry.”

Her soft apology did more to diffuse Luca’s anger than he would have expected. “Why are you sorry?”

“For putting you out.” She gestured to his flat in general. “It’s obvious you don’t want me here.” She walked toward him, taking careful steps. Whether it was because her head hurt or because she was scared of him, Luca couldn’t tell. “It’s just...” She seemed to be weighing her words. “I don’t think I could deal with a hospital waiting room or the embassy right now. I’m still feeling a bit dizzy.”

Hugo was right...whoever this woman was, she needed to be taken care of. “It’s okay,” he said eventually, forcing a smile. “I’ve changed my plans for this evening.” Plans? What plans, Luc?

“Oh.” A little wrinkle formed between her brows.

“Please. You are welcome to stay the night.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She took a tentative step forward and then another until she stood right in front of him. The top of her head came to just below his chin, her face was tilted up so she could meet his gaze. Her lips were pink and full—the kind of lips Anika would have paid a fortune for—but it was her eyes that captivated him. Liquid brown, like melted chocolate, with smudged mascara that rimmed her wide eyes, only making them appear larger.

There was no fucking way he could say no to those eyes.

“My name is Jasmine. Jasmine Sweet.” Her lips trembled with an uncertain smile as she extended her hand. “And you are Luca...?”

“Luca. Luca Deschamps,” he lied.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE MAN UNNERVED HER.

There was an intensity to those blue eyes—so dramatic against his dark brows, dark hair and olive skin—that made her feel as if his gaze was boring inside of her, seeking something. But what? It left her feeling shaky and...tingly.

Could be the concussion.

Still...somehow, she felt comfortable here. She’d only half lied when she’d told him why she wanted to stay. The truth was, he was doing her a favor. Now she could put off dealing with Parker and her family until later. Plus, it was one thing to be traveling solo when she knew where she was staying. It was another when she was concussed, confused and without any identification.

“Are you hungry?” the man asked.

“What time is it?”

He flipped his wrist to check his watch. “Seven thirty.”

As if on cue, her stomach rumbled and she laughed, though it sounded false to her ears. “I guess so.”

“Come. Sit.”

She followed him into the open-concept kitchen, dining room and living room. Like the bedroom, the space was stark. Wood floors, a plain gray leather couch, white walls with dark beams overhead and the floor-to-ceiling windows that seemed to be the norm in Paris.

Jasmine sat on a gray leather barstool at the breakfast counter, leaning her elbows on the granite surface, her hand going automatically to her aching temple.

“Un moment.” The man—Luca—strode back down the hall, returning a moment later with the ice pack and two tablets. He first placed the pack against his cheek, murmuring something in French before passing it to her. “It’s still cold. It’ll help with swelling and bruising.”

“Thank you.”

Then he dropped the tablets into her upturned hand, his fingers accidentally grazing her palm.

There were those damn tingles again.

She frowned, which hurt. Still, her gaze followed him as he opened a small refrigerator, removed a glass jug of clear bubbling liquid, poured it into a tumbler and handed it to her. She took a sip of the sparkling water, which burned quite pleasantly as she swallowed the pills.

“Are you okay to sit? Do you need to lie down?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

His lips turned up at the ends—not a real smile—as he prompted her to apply the ice pack by taking her hand and placing it against her head.

“It will help.”

Jasmine closed her eyes as she iced, ignoring the tingles—and certainly not thinking about the source of the tingles. Once again, she willed herself to remember what had happened after her arrival in Paris, but there was nothing behind her lids but blackness interspersed by shards of light that flashed with each beat of her pulse. For some reason, trying to remember made her head hurt more, so instead, she simply listened to Luca work in the kitchen.

Cupboards opened and closed. The sound of a nearby drawer as it was sliding open and closed on its runners. A knife against a cutting board. Slicing. Another drawer and the sound of cutlery. The clink of glass against the granite countertop followed by the pop of a cork and the gurgling of liquid being poured.

When she opened her eyes, a glass of red wine sat in front of her, as did a plate of various cheeses, finely sliced meats, nuts and olives that he’d placed in the middle of the counter between them.

Luca was tipping his own wine glass back and Jasmine noticed the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. He had a strong neck. Lots of tendons and muscles that worked in harmony.

And then he caught her staring. “Yes?”

She cleared her throat and pointed at her glass. “Should I be drinking?”

“Just a glass. It’s good for you. But then water.” He gestured to the platter of food. “Please.”

Hesitantly, Jasmine reached for a piece of cheese. Oh, it was good, and the more she ate, the more hungry she felt.

When was the last time she’d eaten?

Glancing down, she noticed her dirt-smeared blouse. When was the last time she’d changed? Showered? Turning and tilting her chin in a way she hoped was inconspicuous, Jasmine gave her pits a sniff.

Ugh. Not the freshest.

“Um...” Jasmine began after eating a handful of nuts and three slices of meat. “I hate to trouble you, but would I be able to take a shower?”

The man turned from where he’d been pulling items out of the small refrigerator. “It’s not a good idea.”

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