Page 29 of All Mixed Up

He really had to be hiding something. Every man had a few warts. Every human had a few. I just had to stop swooning and start searching.

“So how’d you get to be so Dalai Llama before hitting thirty?”

His eyebrows jumped a little. “You have been doing a little sleuthing, have you?”

“Not moi.” I batted innocent eyes but teased out a giggle. “Leese and Greer did the dirty work.”

“And what did they tell you?” Once more, his tone was mild but his eyes…they traveled everywhere. Missed nothing.

“The essential basics, according to the girl posse out to fix me up for a hot French fling.”

“In which you are not interested.”

I hummed in approval. “Oh, you learn fast, mister.”

His gaze heated. “Indeed I do.” His fingers tightened around mine. “But I also like teaching.”

Shots of hot awareness blasted my system. I shifted, needing to part my legs a little, giving everything down there some relief. But damn it, Lucien felt me go there. With a self-sure smile, his slid a thigh right into the gap. Another deft spin and I was gasping against new surges of arousal, toppling my balance…dampening my panties.

Focus! Warts! He has warts somewhere. Remember?

“S-s-s-o…” I cleared my throat. Yanked on his hair in retaliation for his knowing snicker. “The girls also told me you’re a little bit Italian.”

The man smiled like a silky Sinatra—as if his hard-on wasn’t growing with every inch we moved. Bastard. “Oui,” he murmured. “From my father. He is half-Italian and half-French. He met my maman when visiting the French mountains as a teenager. They had what they both thought would be—how do you say it?—a ‘hot French fling.’ Thirty-five years later, they are still passionately in love.”

I wanted to pull his hair again. And this time, to make it hurt. One, for the cocky flick of his lips upon driving in the end of the story with knowing emphasis. Two, because I loved the story too damn much. And three—

Well, shit.

Three almost went without saying.

The man was still wartless.

How many layers was he really hiding them under, anyway? The question, and the endless blank space I still had for an answer, was moving beyond frustrating and into infuriating. He was a tall, gorgeous, intelligent, athlete-turned-billionaire who moved like a dancer, commanded rooms like a pharaoh, and seduced like a trained gigolo. Now he was referring to his parents with devotion in his smile and affection on his lips.

Ugh. Just ugh.

And yet…sigh. Just freaking sigh.

“That’s…really cool,” I got out at last.

“They are wonderful people.” His smile softened a little more, ensuring the flips in my heart were quadrupled now.

“Did you get your love of bicycling from them?”

“Mostly from my father,” he explained. “He also rode professionally for a while, but got into a bad crash one year during Le Tour, and never quite recovered.” He pulled in a long breath and blinked, as if accepting a huge piece of good or bad news. I couldn’t figure out which. “Crashes can be disastrous in a professional bicycle race, especially on steep mountains.”

I nodded, finally understanding. “Like our professional football players, if they take a tough hit.”

“Exactment.”

“But you never took a crash that bad.”

The look across his face was definitely pleasure this time. It emanated from him like heatwaves from a sunrise. “You have been doing your research.”

A sunrise pushed up through my center, as well. It bloomed across my cheeks and spread my lips up. “Again, I blame Greer and Leese.”

“Hmmm.”