The Wealthy Frenchman's Proposition by Katherine Garbera

grabbed her handbag and made a beeline for the door. Enough of staying here. She was clearly not wanted.
    And she had experienced more than enough of that in her life. She needed to move. She checked for her hotel-room key and her passport. Both were in her handbag. She also had enough money to pay for a cab.
    She wondered if she should take the time to ask the housekeeper to call one for her or just take a chance at flagging one down on the street.
    She heard the rumble of Tristan’s and Gui’s voices and knew that hanging around wasn’t going to work for her. She was probably going to cry again, which was a stupid “girl” reaction to the situation, but she was tired. And she’d made love—no she’d had sex —with a man she’d been fantasizing about for too long. And now the entire world would know.
    The only silver lining she saw was that Aunt Millie was dead and wouldn’t see the picture.
    She walked down the stairs to the ground floor and paused in the kitchen, looking around and remembering how excited she’d been when she’d followed Tristan through this room.
    How very much she’d wanted that man.
    And he’d wanted her, she thought. At least for one night.
    She opened the kitchen door and stepped outside into a perfect February morning. Or at least, perfect on the island of Mykonos. It was a resort town. A place the trendy visited.
    She should have felt out of place all week but there had been something very welcoming in Tristan’s group of friends. Ava had made her feel so at ease, but then again the other woman was an American and had somehow recognized the attraction that Sheri felt for Tristan.
    “Mademoiselle?”
    “Miss?”
    “Hey, lady?”
    The cries came at her from every corner as a group of photographers moved closer to her. She scrambled backward, reaching for the handle on the kitchen door. She tried to open it but her hands were sweating and she couldn’t get a good grip.
    She covered her face with her hands, took a deep breath and then opened her mouth and screamed the way she’d been taught to in self-defense class. A deep-throated loud sound that actually stopped the questions that the photographers were throwing at her in every language imaginable.
    Asking her name. What kind of lover Tristan was. Did she think she’d finally snagged the elusive bachelor?
    The door opened behind her and she felt Tristan’s arm come around her waist as he drew her back into the kitchen and slammed the door closed.
    She glanced up, thinking to thank him, but he looked so angry. So…not in the mood to be teased. She’d had no idea he could ever look that mad.
    “What were you thinking? Why would you leave the house without my permission?” he asked.
    She backed away from him but he put his hands on her shoulders and held her in place.
    “I want answers, Sheri. This isn’t a game. The paparazzi are going to be all over you until this blows over.”
    “I needed to get away,” she said.
    “From me?”
    She nodded. “I…I like you way too much to be your plaything.”
    Tristan cursed under his breath, using the few French words she’d become very familiar with since he used them regularly in the office.
    “ Merde is right. I’m trying to be cool about this whole thing but…I’m not ready to this morning. I’m tired and my body still tingles from the last time we made love, and you were pushing me out the door this morning.”
    She tucked a strand of her curly hair behind her ear and looked up at him from under her eyelashes. His expression was unreadable.
    “So I was trying to leave,” she said, concluding as quickly as she could.
    Tristan turned away from her, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. “First of all, I’m not expecting you to be blasé about sleeping with me.”
    “Well, that’s good. Because I’m not.”
    He started to speak, but she held up her hand. She couldn’t bear to hear him say that she was one of many to him. “I don’t