Forbidden Fantasy Read online

  The pupils of her green eyes were soft and dilated as she stepped back from the mirror. She was breathing shallowly as she wrapped the bustier around her backward, catching the zipper and starting it up before tugging the garment around to shelter her breasts.

  Reaching one arm over her shoulder to her back, she pulled at the zipper, edging it up until it stuck.

  She tugged harder, but to no avail.

  “Can I help you with that?”

  Zoe jumped and whirled to the doorway—to see him lounging there.

  “Are you crazy? How long have you been standing there?”

  His eyes touched her body in a silent caress while he remained in the doorway as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “You… you… can’t… you must leave,” Zoe stammered nervously. “Quick, before someone discovers you. What were you thinking?”

  His eyes glittered with desire. “You really don’t want to know what I was thinking… or perhaps I should show you….”

  “No!” Zoe stepped back. “You must leave. Now.”

  He began walking toward her. “Don’t worry, chérie. It’s okay. I told the saleslady I was your husband.” His cocky grin could have sold Yankee blue in Dixie.

  “You didn’t—”

  “I surely did.” He nodded, plainly unrepentant. “Any chance I could talk you into showing me some wifely affection… not that you look all that wifely in that… Well, whatever it is, iťs hot,” he said, his body tense. “How do you feel about temptation? Ever give in to it?”

  She swallowed dryly, watching him warily.

  His lips were a whisper away. “Come, chérie, wouldn’t you like to press your sweet body as close to me as you just did to that cold mirror? I can assure you I’m much hotter.”

  She slowly shook her head, but knew she lied.

  His hands went under her chin and he pulled her out to the middle of the room, turning her to face the mirror. “Let’s see how we look together.”

  He stood behind her, slipping his fingertips just beneath the lace-trimmed edge of her bodysuit’s high-cut legs, causing her to moan softly as desire began to burn inside her.

  Her breath came in quick pants when he placed his warm hands flat against her hipbones and pulled her back against him. He was firm and hard as he moved her in slow, sensuous circles against him.

  She had no will of her own as she waited in fascination for his next command.

  “Turn around.”

  She faced him. He reached inside the gold-studded bustier and palmed her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple.

  His lips lowered onto hers as he uttered a fierce growl and she allowed his tongue to bury itself in the damp cavern of her mouth.

  His left hand tangled in her cascade of golden brown hair and anchored his ravenous kiss, while his right hand withdrew from her bustier to slide itself over her bottom.

  Caressing the back of her thigh, he lifted her leg and brought it around to rest on his hip. Her head began to spin when he rubbed himself against her, fitting the proof of his need into the cleft between her thighs.

  She felt him lift his head to look into the mirror at their reflection as she melted against him.

  “How are we doing back here?” the saleslady called out cheerily.

  Zoe sprang away from him.

  “By the way, the lipstick was a perfect match…when you still had it on…” he said with a sexy wink as he turned and left the cubicle.

  Seconds later she heard him say to the saleslady, “A perfect fit.”

  3

  AS ZOE SAT WAITING to order her dinner at the new bistro Lauren-Claire had recommended, she glanced furtively around the tables. She was being stalked.

  What she didn’t know was how she felt about it.

  Was she being lured into the dangerous liaison of her wildest fantasies? And if so, was she going to allow it to happen, or was she just playing with the idea and nothing more? Had her fantasies brought him to her? Perhaps it was he who had sensed her thoughts and sought to bring her fantasies to life.

  Why was she thinking such reckless thoughts… thinking of taking such a risk? He was sexy, enticing… temptation itself. How could she not yield when it…he was what she wanted.

  She’d barely slept at all last night.

  And when she had, she’d thrashed about in the throes of dreams full of dark, erotic images. Unfulfilled longings she’d kept suppressed during her marriage.

  The waiter interrupted her thoughts, setting her drink before her. “I will be back shortly to take your order for dinner,” he promised, going off to deliver the rest of the orders on his tray.

  Zoe took a sip, letting the soothing drink work its magic. Was it Paris that was freeing her inhibitions? she wondered. Or was it him ? This man she didn’t know at all—but in whom she recognized a matching wildness.

  A wildness she felt at his every touch… at his glance.

  A matching desperation.

  Looking down, she fiddled with the napkin. She was wearing Lauren-Claire’s gift beneath her jean jacket. And the Chanel lipstick. He’d been right—it was a perfect match. Restlessly she crossed her legs, hearing the whisper of the essential black hose she wore with her short black skirt and flat black shoes.

  She almost looked French—except for her hair. Unlike the short cuts on almost every woman in the bistro, her hair was a thick mane of soft, golden brown. Her manicured fingers twirled a luxuriant strand as she wondered where he was.

  Maybe the flirtation was already over.

  “Mademoiselle, this gentleman’s name is Grey—”

  “Don’t bother with introductions, André, the lady knows I’m no gentleman.” The words, uttered in a low, raspy drawl from an aggressively sensual mouth, resonated with confidence.

  The waiter gave a Gallic shrug and moved off.

  Zoe looked up at the man who’d arrogantly cut off the waiter’s attempt at an introduction. It was him lean and lithe, his stance that of a street fighter with ballet training.

  His clothes reflected the same dichotomy; the aviator jacket new, the jeans ancient and ripped in scandalous places.

  “So you got up the nerve to wear it. But not without a jacket, eh?” he said, slouching into the seat opposite her, assessing her openly as he set his beer upon the small table between them.

  She didn’t flinch at his leisurely perusal. Instead she took a sip of her drink and glanced again around the trendy bistro, making a pretense of ignoring him.

  She’d been expecting him, yet he’d surprised her by boldly joining her without invitation. She was feeling several emotions all at once, fear, anger, excitement and danger.

  Lifting his beer to his lips, he continued to study her profile through half-shuttered eyes. His abrupt words cut into her pretense. “I thought we might eat together….”

  She studied him a moment, then turned her head to the entrance of the bistro, as if she expected someone to arrive.

  “I know you aren’t expecting anyone. Your friend is on holiday and… and there will be no other man.”

  The intensity of his burning blue gaze engulfed her. “What… what is it you want?” she challenged him.

  “I want… what you want,” he answered, his sexy voice crawling along her spine as he covered her slender hand with his sculptured, strong one.

  The act was intimate…dominant.

  “We’re total strangers,” she objected, pulling her hand away. “You don’t have the slightest idea about what I want.”

  He didn’t like the fact that she was going to be difficult, she knew as he tried to mask a scowl. He meant to have her, it was there in his eyes. He might slow the pace of intimacy by luring her throughout a leisurely meal. But when the meal was finished, he meant her to leave with him.

  Willing or not.

  “Roast chicken and steak pommes frites sound good, don’t you think?” he suggested, glancing at the menu written on the mirrored wall.<
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  She didn’t answer.

  The man called Grey signaled the waiter to return to their table. Placing their order, he nodded to her anise and licorice-flavored drink. “Would you like another?”

  She shook her head.

  “Nothing for the lady, but I’ll have another beer.”

  When the waiter nodded and moved off Grey turned his attention back to Zoe. “Why Paris?” He lighted a Gitane and the action drew her attention to his incredibly sexy mouth; the hard line of his upper lip softened by the plush sensuality of the lower one.

  “I’d rather you didn’t smoke.”

  “So would I,” he agreed, taking the cigarette from his lips and crushing it beneath his boot.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

  She shrugged.

  His eyes lingered on her a moment. “Perhaps with your artist’s eye for color you wanted only to capture the pale sunlight, the cool grays, the red-tiled roofs and the blue of Paris skies.”

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was lost in the blue of his eyes.

  “No? Well then maybe you’ve come to Paris to see the Cadre noir horsemen in their black uniforms and tricorne hats appear in public for the first time in three centuries….”

  She remained silent.

  To hell with slowing the pace of intimacy, he seemed to decide as he leaned in to reclaim her hand. Lifting it to his lips, he raked his straight white teeth back and forth across her knuckles, the act deliberate… intimate and provocative.

  “I have it… You’ve come to Paris to experience its intoxicating sensuality.” His voice threw down a velvety soft gauntlet.

  Simmering animal magnetism flared between them with all its raw power; their bodies communicated on a primal level.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” he said, compelling her to answer as he turned her hand in his, sliding the flat of his tongue across her palm.

  Her breath caught.

  “Tell me…” he coaxed, blowing the damp path his tongue had swept with his warm breath. “Tell me your…desires.”

  Swallowing with difficulty, she lowered her eyes to the table separating them, breaking the erotically charged moment.

  When she looked back up, she’d regained her composure. “I desire you to leave me alone.”

  “You’re lying. If not to me, then to yourself. Did you lie to your husband?” Awaiting her reply, he nibbled at the V between her thumb and forefinger.

  “I…I don’t have a husband. I left him.”

  “Why?”

  She avoided his eyes. “Because he didn’t love me enough.”

  He released her hand and tilted her chin with his forefinger so she would have to look at him. “Then he was a fool.”

  She looked away. “His career became his mistress.”

  “I wouldn’t make that mistake,” he assured her, his words a vow.

  The hot look he gave her robbed her of the power of speech.

  “Come on… You can’t tell me I haven’t been in your thoughts. That you aren’t wondering right now what I’d be like if I really wanted to stir you up… if I lost control…lost myself in you. Are you afraid that I might do everything right? With strangers there are no inhibitions….”

  “You aren’t serious,” she said. “No one takes those kinds of chances.”

  “They do if they live for love. If they go with their sexual longings. You want to, I can see it in your eyes. You want to tremble with wanting. Don’t you think I can bring you to such abandon… the freedom you felt when you were skating, the wind caressing your body?”

  “You don’t know….”

  “I can match you… follow wherever impulse and desire might take you.”

  Zoe picked up her drink and put it back down. She didn’t know what she wanted.

  And then he began stroking the inside of her wrist…slowly, significantly, his eyes never leaving her.

  She clenched her thighs, and her earlobes began to tingle with warmth. She could barely breathe.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “What are you thinking?” she countered.

  He smiled, a completely wicked quirk of his lips. “Truth?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “I was wondering what that sexy top of yours would feel like pressed up against my bare chest.” “Oh!”

  “Don’t you ever have such thoughts… even fleeting ones?”

  “I… I… maybe,” she admitted.

  “Tell me something wicked you’ve thought.”

  “I don’t… I couldn’t….”

  “Close your eyes if you’re embarrassed,” he said. “Or would you rather I closed mine?”

  “You,” she said, glancing around the crowded bistro.

  No one was paying the least bit of attention to them.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I can’t think of anything right now,” she told him at last.

  His eyes blinked open and he laughed heartily. “I believe you are a tease.”

  “I’m not. I just can’t think of anything at the moment.”

  “Perhaps I can help you. Hmm… What kind of naughty thoughts might cross your mind?” He fingered the cleft of his chin as his eyes danced.

  “I know.” He snapped his fingers. “Yesterday you were dancing in the dressing cubicle. I think you were removing your clothes to an unseen audience, weren’t you?”

  Zoe blushed. “An audience of one.”

  “Only one, really?”

  She nodded. “I was imagining I was undressing for one man.”

  “Who?”

  She took a deep breath with her admission. “You.”

  “Well, that makes your decision an easy one, doesn’t it?”

  “My decision?” Pushing her hair back, she played nervously with the sliver of gold hoop piercing her ear.

  “About being my mistress.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Your…mistress.”

  He nodded.

  “You are kidding.”

  “No. I am not.”

  “But…”

  “What is it you’re so afraid of? The idea of being my mistress? Or the fact that you’re considering the idea at all?”

  Zoe couldn’t believe what he was asking her. Or the fact that she was considering it. She ought to throw him as off balance as she was. “I haven’t said I was considering it.”

  “But you are.” His confidence was infuriating. He was infuriating. She felt her own confidence diminishing.

  “Have you had…lots of…ah…?”

  “No.”

  She said nothing, silence loud between them as they measured each other.

  “You are the only woman I have ever desired to keep.”

  “And you are mad. How could you think I’d ever listen to your outrageous proposal, much less agree to it?”

  “Because I can give you something no other man can. I can free you.” His long fingers drummed on the paper tablecloth as he watched her trying to deal with the situation, watched her trying not to be fascinated with the very idea of it.

  She closed her eyes, trying to calm her rapidly beating heart, thrilled with the very idea of his suggestion, her offense a pretense. Maybe she didn’t want to know who she really was… what she really wanted. Maybe she was toying with a puzzle that could never be put back together once taken apart and examined.

  Or maybe she’d found the missing pieces.

  The chemistry between them swirled with white-hot images and intimate longings. “Consider it,” he coaxed. “Consider what it would be like to share our hidden selves, to explore our intimate boundaries… our darkest, most private secrets.”

  His whispered plea grew urgent with the force of his impatient desire. “I must have… I want you. Desperately.”

  The waiter came with their order, set it before them, then moved off. The food issued a tantalizing invitation, though not hal
f as tantalizing as the invitation he had extended to her.

  He sat waiting, watching her. Hunger was etched on his face. Physical hunger that had nothing to do with food.

  Zoe glanced across the room.

  A woman dressed in a white cotton shirtdress and ivory linen jacket sat reading the latest bestseller about Coco Chanel while feeding tasty tidbits from her plate to the dog curled in her lap.

  Then Zoe returned her attention to the provocative invitation awaiting her refusal.

  Or acceptance.

  She watched his sculptured hands lift a bite of the crunchy, browned roast chicken to his lips, left-handed in the Continental fashion. His eyes closed as his lips slid the bite from his fork. She watched him savor the unique flavor of the chicken served in its own pan gravy. His lips were hard, sensual.

  She swallowed.

  And so did he, his eyes drifting open.

  Silence hovered between them like an uninvited guest at dinnertime.

  He continued eating, pretending not to notice her covert study of him. She’d lined her eyes with a smoky kohl. The brassy light of the bistro glinted off her red, red lips like a danger signal.

  Zoe finished as much of her meal as she could manage in the tensely erotic atmosphere. Finally laying aside her fork, she blotted her lips with a paper napkin and asked, “Isn’t what you’re suggesting highly irregular?”

  Pushing his plate away, he leaned back in his chair and smiled. “In the States, maybe. But in France…no.”

  She nodded on a small laugh. “You’re right. I’m such an American.”

  “So,” he said, taking a long swallow of beer and looking at her intently, his eyes questioning. “You are considering it, then.”

  “No, I merely meant the whole idea of a man taking a mistress. I thought it was traditionally a much older man who took a younger woman as his mistress. You and I, we are, after all…”

  “Yes?”

  “Contemporaries. Equals.”

  He shrugged. “So?”