just a maid.”
She got ready for bed quickly, pulling the confection of lace and silk over her head. If she had any sense at all she’d go straight to bed, but her encounter with Hakim had driven sleep right out of her mind. A snifter of brandy wouldn’t hurt.
She might not have made it as a chef, but her sense of taste was excellent, and the cognac was slightly unusual. Some faint undernote that she couldn’t quite recognize. Almost metallic, she would have said, but a place like Château Mirabel would never serve an inferior cognac. It must have been her imagination. It was quite deliciously warming, and she could already feel her eyes drooping. She’d sleep soundly tonight, and she wouldn’t dream of anyone, certainly not Bastien Toussaint.
It was then that she recognized the barest trace of scent in the air. A subtle, distinctive cologne that brought an instinctive, warm response. Until she remembered where it had come from. The silken folds of Bastien’s Armani suit. Why…
She tried to set the snifter of brandy back on the tray, but it was much farther away than she had thought, way of out her reach, and it fell on the floor with the faint tinkle of shattering glass, and she followed it, sprawling out on the carpet.
She hadn’t had that much to drink, she thought, trying to sit up. Surely that one sip of cognac wasn’t enough to send her over the edge.
But apparently it was, and the bed was much too high to climb into. The Aubusson rug underneath her was very beautiful, and if she was careful she could avoid the broken glass, curl up into a nice little ball, and fall into a deep, blissful sleep.
Bastien stepped into her room, closing the door quietly behind him. He didn’t have to be particularly discreet—he knew where the cameras were located, and he could manage his way around them without giving anything away. Besides, he was known as a dedicated womanizer, and it wouldn’t be surprising if he’d managed to do every beautiful female in the area.
Except that the girl wasn’t particularly beautiful. He stood over her, staring down at her curled-up body for a moment. She was pretty. Not a word he tended to use. She had good bone structure, even features, a sweet, full mouth.
Sweet? Pretty? Maybe she was better than he thought. She certainly managed to exude an essentially harmless persona.
He slid his arms under her and laid her out on the bed. She’d washed her makeup off—maybe that was why she was looking so innocent. The nightgown she was wearing was very expensive, with tiny little satin ties down the front. He undid them, one by one, until the gown fell open around her.
A good body as well. A little more butt than manyyoung Frenchwomen, a little more breast as well, but basically young and strong and nicely formed. No sign of the rigorous training she should have gone through. Just enough softness through the arms and belly to tell him she would be warm and welcoming in bed.
Who was he kidding? She’d cut his throat in bed, if he happened to get distracted. And fucking was marginally distracting.
There were marks on her body, beneath her breasts. Red lines, and he ran a finger along them, wondering what kind of torture she’d endured in the distant past.
And then he smiled. Not so distant past—she’d simply been wearing a bra that was too tight.
No woman he’d ever known would wear a constricting bra unless she had no choice. He glanced down her long legs to her feet. The lines were even more pronounced—she’d been wearing the wrong shoes as well.
The drug he put in her cognac was good stuff—she’d sleep for six to eight hours and wake without a hangover, even though she deserved one after all the wine she’d drunk at dinner. His little gift to her.
He searched the room methodically, from top to bottom. She had three more pairs of shoes, all the same size, all slender high heels. She was going to be hobbling in a couple days. If she was still here.
There were no
She got ready for bed quickly, pulling the confection of lace and silk over her head. If she had any sense at all she’d go straight to bed, but her encounter with Hakim had driven sleep right out of her mind. A snifter of brandy wouldn’t hurt.
She might not have made it as a chef, but her sense of taste was excellent, and the cognac was slightly unusual. Some faint undernote that she couldn’t quite recognize. Almost metallic, she would have said, but a place like Château Mirabel would never serve an inferior cognac. It must have been her imagination. It was quite deliciously warming, and she could already feel her eyes drooping. She’d sleep soundly tonight, and she wouldn’t dream of anyone, certainly not Bastien Toussaint.
It was then that she recognized the barest trace of scent in the air. A subtle, distinctive cologne that brought an instinctive, warm response. Until she remembered where it had come from. The silken folds of Bastien’s Armani suit. Why…
She tried to set the snifter of brandy back on the tray, but it was much farther away than she had thought, way of out her reach, and it fell on the floor with the faint tinkle of shattering glass, and she followed it, sprawling out on the carpet.
She hadn’t had that much to drink, she thought, trying to sit up. Surely that one sip of cognac wasn’t enough to send her over the edge.
But apparently it was, and the bed was much too high to climb into. The Aubusson rug underneath her was very beautiful, and if she was careful she could avoid the broken glass, curl up into a nice little ball, and fall into a deep, blissful sleep.
Bastien stepped into her room, closing the door quietly behind him. He didn’t have to be particularly discreet—he knew where the cameras were located, and he could manage his way around them without giving anything away. Besides, he was known as a dedicated womanizer, and it wouldn’t be surprising if he’d managed to do every beautiful female in the area.
Except that the girl wasn’t particularly beautiful. He stood over her, staring down at her curled-up body for a moment. She was pretty. Not a word he tended to use. She had good bone structure, even features, a sweet, full mouth.
Sweet? Pretty? Maybe she was better than he thought. She certainly managed to exude an essentially harmless persona.
He slid his arms under her and laid her out on the bed. She’d washed her makeup off—maybe that was why she was looking so innocent. The nightgown she was wearing was very expensive, with tiny little satin ties down the front. He undid them, one by one, until the gown fell open around her.
A good body as well. A little more butt than manyyoung Frenchwomen, a little more breast as well, but basically young and strong and nicely formed. No sign of the rigorous training she should have gone through. Just enough softness through the arms and belly to tell him she would be warm and welcoming in bed.
Who was he kidding? She’d cut his throat in bed, if he happened to get distracted. And fucking was marginally distracting.
There were marks on her body, beneath her breasts. Red lines, and he ran a finger along them, wondering what kind of torture she’d endured in the distant past.
And then he smiled. Not so distant past—she’d simply been wearing a bra that was too tight.
No woman he’d ever known would wear a constricting bra unless she had no choice. He glanced down her long legs to her feet. The lines were even more pronounced—she’d been wearing the wrong shoes as well.
The drug he put in her cognac was good stuff—she’d sleep for six to eight hours and wake without a hangover, even though she deserved one after all the wine she’d drunk at dinner. His little gift to her.
He searched the room methodically, from top to bottom. She had three more pairs of shoes, all the same size, all slender high heels. She was going to be hobbling in a couple days. If she was still here.
There were no
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