Page 27 of All Mixed Up

But only if he wasn’t royally pissed about my “additions” to the dress.

Which I began to believe, with increasing squirms, as his silence shifted from contemplative to unnerving.

“Hi.”

He didn’t respond.

“I—”

Was stuck.

Was I supposed to offer to change into “more appropriate” things? He’d sent the “gift” and I’d “accepted” it, damn it. Now, he’d either accept what I’d done with it, or—

The thought was obliterated from my brain as my feet were swept out from under me—and my mouth was trapped in the same commanding manner. No…better. As if he’d heard every syllable of my self-doubt, he plunged his tongue in, determined to wipe it all away. If his kiss didn’t do the job, his grinning follow-up sure did. I had no idea a man like Lucien Paget could even do a smirk like that, cruel lips gone dopey with my pink lipstick all over them. Now I couldn’t imagine any man pulling it off with more breathtaking finesse.

“Mon dieu, mon reve. Tu prends ma respiration.”

I felt my lips quirking with matching goofball vibes, as my brain loosely translated his expression. Something about God and dreaming and breathing…or not. Did it really matter when a girl was the subject of a heated stare like his? When that same focused study made her bite her lip like a smitten teenager? When he added a gentle handclasp that made her blood zip like lightning and had her cheeks matching the blush of her dress?

When the power of his simple step forward had her quickly ducking her head, for fear he’d scoop out the rest of her truth?

That she was falling for him.

Yeah. Hard.

Without even one official date in.

But there it was. My silly, awful truth.

I just thanked God my dilemma had an easy out.

Infatuation was easily cured by enlightenment.

It was time to peel back the illusion, and start learning about Lucien Paget’s real warts.

So in a sense, this outing couldn’t have been better timed.

Not that I was going to let him know that.

Okay, so there was one tiny hitch to my whole route-out-the-warts plan.

I was having too much fun on this stupid date.

I had no idea what to expect when Lucien’s driver had dropped us beside the Seine, close to the Eiffel Tower. I’d possessed no desire in the world to see the city’s towering icon, even after a week of being here—but before Lucien tugged me toward the water, I did halt and stare. The structure really was magnificent, rising over the city like a sleek and serene mistress, and I started to understand why so many from around the world journeyed to Paris just to see her.

Her.

Shit.

I’d really just turned a mass of molded iron into a she.

Worse, it wouldn’t be my first stab at the anthropomorphic duties tonight, giving personality to the city’s stunning buildings and monuments, but at least Lucien matched me turn for turn during our dinner cruise on the river. Best of all, he infused his effort with both pride and humor, a mix that captivated me with every new swell we crossed and every ornate bridge we glided under. From him, I learned about how the Musée D’Orsay began existence as a Beaux-Arts railroad station, the importance of Notre Dame as the social center of Paris for centuries, and how Le Louvre was originally built to be a troops garrison, with its strategic position on what was once the city’s outskirts.

As the boat passed the sparkling glass domes of the Grand Palais, a small band started playing romantic standards clearly aimed at the tourist-heavy audience. Without hesitation, Lucien took my hand and tugged me to my feet. He guided me to the little wood dance floor and then pulled me in protectively. If I held a single aspiration about doing the leading, he doused it with his graceful, swaying steps. The man couldn’t settle with looking as great as Gene Kelly, could he?

“What is it?”

His prompt had me releasing a soft but incredulous laugh. “What isn’t it?” I gazed around, taking in the ornate dining room, the glittering river waters, and the grandeur of the uplighted buildings along the shore. Any second now, I was certain the blare of my New York alarm clock would blast in, and I’d know this last week had really been a dream. “This. All of this. Being here. In Paris.” I flashed him a self-conscious look. “And actually enjoying it.”