When I'm with You (Because You Are Mine 2)

. . . like Elise herself.

He couldn’t help but be curious about what sort of a woman that smart, funny, sad girl had become.

Still, his curiosity hadn’t been so great that he’d sought her out when he’d moved permanently to Paris to open his first hotel and restaurant. It’d been completely by accident that he’d glimpsed her at the opera. Their boxes were almost directly across from each other. The curtain was about to go up when he noticed several faces in the audience flicker to the left of the stage. He’d followed their gazes idly, wondering what was causing the stir. His body sprung into instant alertness.

She’d stood and was making her way to the back of the box. The gown she wore was jaw-dropping. No, not the dress itself, but Elise in it. It was made of a pale ivory metallic material that clung to her ripe, svelte curves, the material giving off a pearl-like sheen that nowhere near rivaled the luminosity of her pale skin. She was completely covered, but the clinging fabric and its similarity to her coloring gave the impression of nudity. Her hair had been long back then. Lucien recalled that during that summer five years before, she’d forever worn her hair in a thick ponytail, tendrils increasingly escaping the band as the day wore on until by nightfall, her delicate face was surrounded by a riot of golden waves and curls. That night, she wore it up, but the casual twist gave a man the impression he could have the glory of it spilling down her shoulders and into his greedy hands with just a gentle tug.

He’d jerked up out of his chair, making a quick excuse to his companion.

Five minutes of searching later, he’d finally found the sweet, gawky girl he recalled, but that girl was no more.

She’d been on her knees in a velvet-draped alcove before an ecstatic-looking Hugh Langier.

The image haunted him to this day . . . killed him a little . . . aroused him a lot. When he’d whipped back the heavy drapery, Elise’s lips had been clamped tightly around the base of Langier’s cock. She’d slid her mouth back, revealing inches of slick, thick penis—not to mention the full extent of her talent for fellatio.

No wonder the senator had looked so ecstatic.

It had infuriated him that Langier had taken advantage of a young girl like that while his wife sat out in his choice box watching Tosca, unaware of her husband’s lechery. The entire experience had infuriated him, period, when it should have been an eye-opening moment that he later considered with amusement.

Lucien shut his eyes, trying to vanquish the memory even though he knew by now it was an utter impossibility.

Take control of Elise Martin? Gain her trust? It was a challenge most men would fail. It was a dare the dominant in him could no longer resist, a trial he was anticipating unlike any other before in his life.

He’d have to willingly walk into the flames in order to control the fire.

She spotted him immediately from a block away, leaning against a limestone abutment of the super-sleek, modern-gothic Noble Tower. Her stomach fluttered. She hadn’t been familiar with the sensation for most of her life, but had experienced it far too much recently. She’d assumed since running into Lucien again that the uncomfortable feeling was anxiety due to his intimidating presence. No other man affected her like Lucien did. Maybe it was because of that idyllic summer he’d given her as a child. It might have been because of the way he kissed. Or perhaps it was simply because she knew he had no reason to manipulate her for her fortune.

Or maybe it was that he was the most powerful, sexiest man she’d ever met. By far.

Tonight, she had a sneaking suspicion the fluttery feeling was akin to that of a first date with a very attractive man.

Which was ridiculous. This wasn’t a date. Hadn’t he said he just wanted to be with her because he didn’t trust her? She frowned, even though her gaze traveled over him covetously. Still . . . he’d said he was attracted to her, that he planned to have sex with her. They’d both dressed up and they were meeting at an assigned spot. The similarities to a date were not insignificant. Now that an official chef had been hired, how would he go about advancing this unorthodox relationship he’d proposed?

He drew glances from nearly every passerby, man or woman, even though he seemed completely unaware. His arms were crossed loosely beneath his chest. His looks were such a striking, unique combination of effortless elegance and raw male sexuality. He wore black pants that fit his long legs to eye-catching perfection, a starkly white shirt open at the collar and a handsome tan and black herringbone blazer. He stared fixedly in the direction of the Chicago River. She admired his ability to stay so completely still, and yet remain so calm. Rarely had she observed such complete focus in a man. She recalled he used to quietly chastise her when they fished and she would fidget and sigh.

“You will scare the fish away.”

“But it’s so boring,” she’d complained.

“If you can learn to handle your boredom, you will have truly mastered yourself.”

“What’s that mean?” she’d queried, puzzled but curious.

He hadn’t answered her at the time, but she’d studied his calm, patient attitude while fishing or soothing an anxious horse or handling his drama-queen mother, and strived to follow his example. She’d failed for the most part, but she’d learned to respect that calm, steely strength in him.

“I hope I’m not too late,” she said breathlessly when she approached him. “The bus broke down on the inner drive and I had to walk the rest of the way.”

He straightened from his leaning position, his light eyes moving over her deliberately and making her skin prickle in awareness. “In those shoes?” he asked, the hint of a smile on his well-shaped lips.