One Night With a Billionaire (Novella): The Perfect Man by VickiLewis Thompson Page A

sense. You look out for those who can’t look out for themselves.”
    “I do, but I don’t put you in that category. I respect your resourcefulness and your optimism.”
    She smiled. “Drew, you’ve already told me that from the moment I was mugged you’ve felt in charge of my welfare. Which is it? Do you want to protect me or send me out to slay my own dragons?”
    “Both!” He groaned and shoved his fingers through his hair. “Both,” he said more quietly. “I never want to undermine your confidence. But if you need me . . .”
    The note of yearning in his voice touched her. Closing the gap between them, she stood on tiptoe and brushed her mouth against his.
    “Thank you,” she murmured.
    Then she hurried out of the room, because the wine-rich taste of his mouth lingered on her lips, and she wanted more. Much more. She just didn’t know what she’d be getting into if she took it.
    ***
    Drew balled his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her. Then she ran out of the room, which was a good thing. He could control himself as long as she kept her distance, but he needed to warn her that light fairy kisses from a woman in a T-shirt and jeans could be more tempting than a blatant display of cleavage, at least for him.
    He was a veteran of what he called the Titty Wars. There was a certain kind of woman, and thank God Melanie wasn’t of that tribe, who thought a man could be enslaved by generous breasts, temptingly showcased in tight shirts or plunging necklines and pressed against his arm as often as possible.
    Not one of those women would have honestly told him what they thought about anything, much less how they felt about having sex with him. He couldn’t really blame them. They’d bought the cultural stereotype, which had been perpetuated mostly by men, if you got right down to it. Powerful men had often molded the behavior of women. Maybe that was another thing about Melanie that attracted him. She wouldn’t be easily molded by anyone, least of all a guy like him.
    His phone chimed and he glanced at the number. Josette. He took the call.
    “André,
mon ami
, how are you on this lovely evening?” She had the husky voice of a lifelong smoker. And no matter how many times he’d coached her, she just couldn’t—or wouldn’t—pronounce his name the American way, so she just pretended he used the French version when he was in Paris.
    “Great, Josette. Were you able to find anything for my friend?”
    “Many things. Many lovely things. I could bring them over now, but if you’re having a little
tête-à-tête
with your lady, I can wait until tomorrow.”
    “She’s not really my lady, and she landed in Paris this morning. I’m sure by now she’s fast asleep, so if you’d like to come by, that would be just fine.”
    “Then I’ll do it. I’m so excited with the clothes. I want to show you.”
    “Good. I want to see them, too.
Merci
, Josette
.
” He disconnected and closed down his computer. Then he clicked the intercom on his desk, which was connected to the servants’ quarters downstairs. “Raoul, bring up a bottle of that Pinot Noir I had last night. Madame Theroux is due any minute and she’ll want some. And a sliced baguette and warm brie, too.”
    “Right away,
monsieur
.”
    Drew enjoyed the French way of doing business, which was often over a glass of wine. Some of his oldest friends gave him a hard time for preferring wine to whiskey or beer. He came from cowboy country, and cowboys don’t drink wine.
    Josette must not have been far away when she’d called, because the doorbell rang before Raoul had brought up the wine. Drew left his office to greet Josette, a brunette in her sixties who’d probably worn five-inch heels every day of her life since she’d turned eighteen. Even if he hadn’t needed a personal shopper, he would have pretended to so that he could have regular dealings with this feisty woman.
    She was loaded down with garment bags and boxes from the best