should just ghost into my apartment before he noticed. Yeah, because that was so mature.
Jason exchanged a farewell with the driver, who gave us a cheeky grin before tearing off into the night. When he turned to me, there was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. Here it came, I suspected—either he was going to try to blow off our kiss on the Eiffel Tower as nothing, or he was going to take it as a green light and try to get into my bed. Men were so predictable . . . except Knightley did neither of those things.
As I stood on the curb, shivering, he walked toward me, looking like a big cat stalking its prey. He slid his hands under his coat and held my hips, the warmth of his palms heating my skin. He lowered his forehead to mine, our breath mingled, and he said, “I want to kiss you, just kiss you, for a few hours or possibly a few days.”
That sent a flash of pure heat rocketing through my body at the same time it surprised a laugh out of me. I leaned back to study his face. His gaze was tender with a slow-burning desire. Irresistible. To heck with work and its out-of-date policies. Kissing wasn’t that egregious of an offense.
“I think that’d be all right,” I said.
He grinned and pulled me close. While our earlier kiss had been a friendly exploration that revealed an unexpected connection, there was nothing friendly about this embrace. When his mouth met mine, it was raw with need and want. He kissed me with a ruthlessness that left me gasping. It felt as if he couldn’t get enough of me, and I felt the exact same way about him.
It was intoxicating, more potent than any champagne. I wanted to know the taste of his tongue as it twined with mine, the feel of his muscle-hardened body beneath my fingertips, and the scent of his hair and skin as I pressed closer to breathe him in. I wanted to know what made him sigh and moan, curse and grunt, and I wanted to know what he looked like when he went over the edge. Suddenly, I wanted Knightley. Desperately.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing heavily, and with unsteady fingers, he tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear. The gesture made me melt inside, but without his warmth, the chilly night air made me shiver.
“Come on—let’s get you warm,” he said.
He took my hand and pulled me toward the bright-blue door. He used his key to unlock it and then ushered me inside. He pulled the door shut behind us. I turned, took two steps, and faltered. Sitting on the floor in front of the mailboxes was Jean Claude.
chapter nineteen
JEAN CLAUDE LOOKED terrible. He smelled worse. The stench of stale cigarettes and alcohol surrounded him like a fog of sour stank. I blanched and put my hand over my mouth.
“Jean Claude, what are you doing here?” I asked.
“Mon chou!” he cried. He pushed up to standing. He was wearing the same suit he’d had on at the party, but it was untucked and wrinkled. His hair was disheveled, and his five-o’clock shadow was looking more like some serious past-midnight shade.
I held up my hands to ward him off when he reached for me. I felt Jason step up behind me. He put his hands on my hips and pulled me back against his chest. I didn’t have to look at him to know he was glaring at Jean Claude. I could feel the tension radiating out from him in waves.
Jean Claude glared right back. He looked at me with a frown and asked, “What is this? You are with him now?”
“No,” I said at the same time Jason said, “Yes.”
We looked at each other in surprise.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Jason asked.
“What do you mean, ‘yes’?” I countered.
“We were just kissing as if our lives depended upon it. I kind of figured the being-together thing was implied,” he said.
Jean Claude gasped and threw his arms up in outrage. “You kissed him? This, how do you say, tête de nœud!”
I gasped. “There is no need for that sort of language.”
“What did he call me?” Jason asked. He went to step around me, but I slid in front of him, halting his progress.
“The literal translation is ‘knot head,’” I said.
“All right, I’ve been called worse.” He visibly shrugged it off.
“But the slangy French meaning is more like,