burned right into her skin like a laser beam.
“Welcome to Paris,” the gorgeous Frenchman murmured, smiling up at her.
Chapter Four
He straightened up, still holding her fingers in his warm clasp. “Please tell me,” he murmured, “that I have not embarrassed you, doing this.”
Sam stared at him. If Alain des Baux had cut off her hand at the wrist with a chain saw, she wouldn’t have been able to protest. “Oh, no,” she whispered. What did she say? Thank you? I’m stunned? Do it again?
He was even handsomer than Jack, if that were possible, though he was not as tall, not as broad-shouldered, and instead of Jack’s famous platinum hair, his was sun-streaked brown. But Alain des Baux was positively breathtaking. His face was very European, somewhat narrow, with high cheekbones and a thin, elegant nose that ended in slightly flaring nostrils, and his skin was satiny gold. In fact, this marvelous Frenchman seemed to be shades of gold and brown with his olive complexion, gilded chestnut hair and slightly tilted, gold-flecked eyes. There was a strength and sweetness, an easygoing, teasing charm about him that hinted of sensuous fires that lay below the surface. He was just plain gorgeous.
It was some seconds before Sam realized he was looking at her expectantly. He was waiting for her to introduce herself.
“I’m Samantha—” She stopped. “No, really, I’m Sam Laredo,” she said, blushing. “From Jackson Storm in New York.”
If he thought it odd that she couldn’t decide on her right name, he didn’t show it. His eyes passed over her quickly to take in the swell of her breasts under the orange silk tank top, her slender hips, the remarkable length of her legs in the tight-fitting Sam Laredo jeans and back up again. Sam couldn’t remember being looked over so thoroughly and yet so pleasurably. Her whole body responded with a slightly unexpected tingle.
He’s sexy, too, she thought. He has everything.
“I would recognize you at once.” The enchanting smile broadened to a grin. “My business takes me to New York often, so I had the opportunity in American hotels to see you on television. Ah, don’t look like that,” he said hastily, “it was meant as a compliment. I must say I vastly prefer your commercials to those of Brooke Shields.”
Last year’s TV spots, she realized, staring at him. Jackson Storm’s multimillion-dollar launching of the Sam Laredo jeans. A line that now might very well be this year’s major disaster. But Alain des Baux in Paris had remembered them.
Slowly, Sam pulled her fingers from his hand. “They aren’t running anymore, the commercials.” She was aware that the group on the stairs behind her was listening to every word, no matter whether they understood. She turned abruptly and bumped into Sophie, who was right behind her. “The—ah, staff was just showing me around, but we couldn’t see the storerooms in the attic.” What else should she say? she wondered. She was feeling like a tongue-tied moron. “We can’t get into the storerooms up there because—ah, the key is lost.”
“Yes, so much is lost here,” he agreed, gravely. He lifted his gaze to the stairwell going up through the interior of the building. “It should be an interesting experience for you, someone from America, finding an old couture house like this. It is one of the last of its kind. My grandmother had her clothes made by old Madame Louvel. Then my mother came here when the house was owned by the niece, Mademoiselle Claude.” He reached to take her arm as Sam stepped off the last step. “May I accompany you? I have been here many times. Perhaps I can be helpful. Perhaps there are even questions I can answer.”
Sam gave him a slightly dazed look. The way this man spoke, the way he looked, his lovely manners, all overwhelmed her. How could she say no? How could she even want to? They walked through the doors of the salon with
“Welcome to Paris,” the gorgeous Frenchman murmured, smiling up at her.
Chapter Four
He straightened up, still holding her fingers in his warm clasp. “Please tell me,” he murmured, “that I have not embarrassed you, doing this.”
Sam stared at him. If Alain des Baux had cut off her hand at the wrist with a chain saw, she wouldn’t have been able to protest. “Oh, no,” she whispered. What did she say? Thank you? I’m stunned? Do it again?
He was even handsomer than Jack, if that were possible, though he was not as tall, not as broad-shouldered, and instead of Jack’s famous platinum hair, his was sun-streaked brown. But Alain des Baux was positively breathtaking. His face was very European, somewhat narrow, with high cheekbones and a thin, elegant nose that ended in slightly flaring nostrils, and his skin was satiny gold. In fact, this marvelous Frenchman seemed to be shades of gold and brown with his olive complexion, gilded chestnut hair and slightly tilted, gold-flecked eyes. There was a strength and sweetness, an easygoing, teasing charm about him that hinted of sensuous fires that lay below the surface. He was just plain gorgeous.
It was some seconds before Sam realized he was looking at her expectantly. He was waiting for her to introduce herself.
“I’m Samantha—” She stopped. “No, really, I’m Sam Laredo,” she said, blushing. “From Jackson Storm in New York.”
If he thought it odd that she couldn’t decide on her right name, he didn’t show it. His eyes passed over her quickly to take in the swell of her breasts under the orange silk tank top, her slender hips, the remarkable length of her legs in the tight-fitting Sam Laredo jeans and back up again. Sam couldn’t remember being looked over so thoroughly and yet so pleasurably. Her whole body responded with a slightly unexpected tingle.
He’s sexy, too, she thought. He has everything.
“I would recognize you at once.” The enchanting smile broadened to a grin. “My business takes me to New York often, so I had the opportunity in American hotels to see you on television. Ah, don’t look like that,” he said hastily, “it was meant as a compliment. I must say I vastly prefer your commercials to those of Brooke Shields.”
Last year’s TV spots, she realized, staring at him. Jackson Storm’s multimillion-dollar launching of the Sam Laredo jeans. A line that now might very well be this year’s major disaster. But Alain des Baux in Paris had remembered them.
Slowly, Sam pulled her fingers from his hand. “They aren’t running anymore, the commercials.” She was aware that the group on the stairs behind her was listening to every word, no matter whether they understood. She turned abruptly and bumped into Sophie, who was right behind her. “The—ah, staff was just showing me around, but we couldn’t see the storerooms in the attic.” What else should she say? she wondered. She was feeling like a tongue-tied moron. “We can’t get into the storerooms up there because—ah, the key is lost.”
“Yes, so much is lost here,” he agreed, gravely. He lifted his gaze to the stairwell going up through the interior of the building. “It should be an interesting experience for you, someone from America, finding an old couture house like this. It is one of the last of its kind. My grandmother had her clothes made by old Madame Louvel. Then my mother came here when the house was owned by the niece, Mademoiselle Claude.” He reached to take her arm as Sam stepped off the last step. “May I accompany you? I have been here many times. Perhaps I can be helpful. Perhaps there are even questions I can answer.”
Sam gave him a slightly dazed look. The way this man spoke, the way he looked, his lovely manners, all overwhelmed her. How could she say no? How could she even want to? They walked through the doors of the salon with
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