I'd Rather be in Paris Page 17

  "You're attracted to him because he makes you feel safe."

  "Sort of."

  Doubt was clear in Christian's voice. “How interesting."

  She turned to face him and saw his get real look.

  "Okay, okay,” she admitted. “That's crap and we both know it. The farmhouse incident left me questioning myself and feeling some guilt, but overall, the worst I suffered from my confrontation with Dmitri was a few bad dreams. Before this mission, Lawson's irritated me more than anything else. Everyone at the Agency thinks he rescued me."

  "He did, my dear."

  "No.” Zara shook her head. “He helped, but I rescued myself. And I kept Tim from getting killed. I'd like just a little acknowledgement for what I did.” She let her head fall back. “I was not rescued."

  "Why did you agree to be Lawson's partner?"

  "We were assigned to each other. Flynn gave me no choice in the matter."

  "No choice?"

  She faced him. “Why are you looking at me like that?"

  Christian waved her off. “Your confidence is one of the things I love about you. I believe Commander Vaughn admires it as well."

  She snorted. Paced the room. “The last few days I've gotten to know him—the man, not the hero everyone makes him out to be. He's not exactly what I expected.” She walked back over to the barre, leaning her back against it. “I've never met anyone like him before. He's demanding, he's rude and he's competitive beyond words, and yet he seems to genuinely care what happens to me."

  "Ah, he's your fantasy man."

  It was Zara's turn to give Christian a get real look.

  He leaned his back against the barre next to her. “Does he ever smile?"

  "Smile?"

  He shrugged. “He's very good looking. Sort of Bear Grylls only with more of a Mad Max edge."

  "Bear Grylls? From the adventure reality show?"

  "Man vs. Wild.” Christian gazed into space. “Think what I could do with Lawson in a black Dolce and Gabbana suit, a pair of Italian shoes, a little hair gel...” He pushed off the barre, his eyebrows shooting straight up to his hairline. “My God, he's my fantasy man too."

  She threw her head back and laughed. “He's straight, Christian. Very, very straight."

  "You don't think I noticed?” He grunted. “I mean, what am I? Instant oatmeal? I even did my serious, no-nonsense approach at breakfast this morning and I couldn't get a twinkle out of him. It appears he only has eyes for you."

  Zara thought about that for all of two seconds before she blurted out, “That's silly."

  But her heart thudded in her rib cage as she thought about Christian's description of her partner. Bear Grylls crossed with Mad Max. Oh that was so Lawson. She giggled low in her throat. Wouldn't it be fun to sic Christian on him? Just to make him sweat a little?

  "You know,” she said, taking Christian's arm and guiding him toward the open studio doors, “I'm sure Lawson has no clue how to dress for dinner tonight. Maybe you could pull something together for him out of your den of clothes. What do you think?"

  Christian smiled down at her and waggled his eyebrows. “I think this is going to be absolute fun."

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  Chapter Twenty-One

  A knock on the door brought Lawson instantly awake. His hand snagged the Beretta before his feet hit the floor. The room was dark. He wasn't sure how long he'd slept or where he was.

  Christian Bernier's voice on the other side of the door brought things into sharp focus. “Commander Vaughn? A word, please."

  He lowered his gun, rolled his head from side to side to loosen up his stiff neck and ran his hand through his hair. Before opening the door, he flicked on the bedside lamp. The clock read seven thirty.

  In the doorway, Christian's intense focus swept over Lawson's disheveled hair and rumpled clothes. His gaze lingered a moment on Lawson's gun, and Lawson tucked it into his jeans at the small of his back.

  "Will you be joining us for dinner?” Christian asked.

  His stomach growled at the mention of food. He looked at his host, standing there in a dark purple smoking jacket and black cuffed trousers and wondered if he was already late for the meal. “Yeah, I'm coming. Give me a minute to clean up."

  Christian gave a curt nod and once again sized up Lawson's appearance. “You'll find a package of knickers in the top drawer of the bureau.” He pointed to a huge dresser in the corner. “After you shower, meet me at the other end of the hallway in the last room on the right. We'll dress you in appropriate eveningwear."

  As Christian walked away, Lawson stared at the man's smoking jacket and gave an involuntary shudder. He could static-line jump from helicopters into enemy territory and not feel an ounce of fear. He could face gun-wielding terrorists and keep a level head. He could even endure his mother's and sisters’ constant looks of pity and their interrogations about when he was going to settle down and get married without blinking an eye.

  But the thought of Christian Bernier dressing him in anything, much less eveningwear, scared the shit out of him.

  Ten minutes later, Lawson hesitated at the open door of the room as Christian bustled between a rack of suits and a built-in set of shelves nearby that held rows of black dress shoes. A man in a butler's uniform stood quietly next to a full-length mirror in the center of the room.

  Lawson cleared his throat and Christian turned to look at him. A smile broke over his face. “Ah, yes. There you are. Come in, come in."

  Shuffling his feet, he stepped into the room and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. It wasn't that he was opposed to changing his clothes—his jeans and T-shirt were starting to smell pretty ripe—he just didn't want to end up looking like the cover of GQ magazine.

  Or worse, like a bisexual European ballet instructor's bitch.

  "Neck size?” Christian asked over his shoulder as he sorted through several neat stacks of white and black dress shirts.

  The last time he'd worn a shirt that didn't come marked XL, he'd been a groomsman in his sister Angie's wedding. That had taken place almost nine years ago. “A T-shirt would be good. Extra large."

  It was hard to believe Christian could convey a look of evil, but then again, the ballet instructor was a chameleon. He glared at Lawson, threatening dire harm.

  "Seventeen, I think,” he said, relenting.

  Christian pulled a black shirt from one of the stacks. “You think?” The hint of disapproval in his voice reminded Lawson of his mother.

  "It's been awhile since I've worn a dress shirt.” He didn't like the defensive tone his voice was taking on. “Most of the time I'm lucky if my shirt isn't stained and my jeans aren't ripped in the crotch."

  Christian made a disgusted noise. “See bear not score."

  "What?"

  "Never mind. We won't be doing any ragamuffin impressions tonight, Lawson."

  Huh? “Look, I appreciate you loaning me some clean clothes, but I'm not the kind of guy who wears...” he pointed at the suits, “...that. How about khakis and a polo?"

  Ignoring his protests, Christian held the shirt up to Lawson's chest and eyed his neck. “Seventeen and a half will do.” He tossed the shirt to the butler who disappeared behind the mirror with it. “Jacket size?"

  Lawson shrugged.

  "You're broad through the shoulders but narrow in the waist.” He pulled a black pinstriped suit coat off the rack and held it out for Lawson to try on. “This is European cut. It will accentuate your assets."

  "I don't do jackets."

  Again, Christian glared at him. “Is that right?"

  Reluctantly, Lawson sank his arms into the armholes and hefted the jacket up over his shoulders. It fit him perfectly but he itched wearing it all the same.

  Christian tugged at the shoulders and smoothed his hands down the lapels, stopping to button the top button of the jacket. He tilted his head back and forth a couple of times and then unbuttoned it again, taking a step back to get a better view. “Do you kn
ow anything about women?"

  Lawson knew a lot about women, but he couldn't fathom where Christian was going with this change of subject. He motioned for Lawson to take off the jacket. “Women are a mystery to those of us of the male species. But, my friend, I have worked with and studied them for years and there is one thing I know. There are women who will indulge your crotchless jeans and stained shirts because they are only interested in the physical attributes underneath them. And then"—he put his hands on his hips—"there are women like Zara."

  Like Zara. Lawson let the words churn in his brain. Rich? Beautiful? Free spirited? Totally, one-hundred-and-ten percent out of his league? “We're partners on a mission. That's all."

  Christian dropped the jacket on a sofa and walked to the mirror to examine his image in it. “Yes, so she claims as well. But let me tell you, my Zara is right now pouring herself into a white silk dress that will make your eyeballs pop out of your head. Her hair is perfectly coiffed and her face is flawless. Do you think you'll feel comfortable sitting across from her at dinner tonight in your jeans and T-shirt?"

  The image of Zara in silk shot a jolt of heat straight through Lawson's stomach. She looked good no matter what she put on for clothes, but he remembered the red dress she'd worn to the airport and his reaction to that had been less than subtle. Tonight she was in her element. The expensive house, the servants, the sophisticated clothes. The last thing he wanted to do was wreck his chances of getting laid because of his attire.

  The butler returned with the black shirt, freshly pressed. He handed it to Christian, who laid it on the sofa beside the jacket. Christian attacked the rack of suits, flicking the hangered items past his nose. “Waist?"

  Lawson sighed. “Thirty-two."

  Christian pulled a pair of cuffed pants which matched the jacket off the rack and laid them next to the shirt. Before he was all done, a vest with matching pinstripes was on the couch along with black socks, a bow tie and a black belt. It looked like a freakin’ tux. On the floor was a pair of dress shoes. Black.

  "There.” Christian surveyed his handiwork. “I'll give you five minutes and then I'll check on you. After dinner, we'll discuss what I found out about the names you gave me this morning."

  "I'd rather talk about that now.” Anything to delay putting on the monkey suit.

  "Americans!” The word sounded like a particularly disgusting plague. “Abrupt and always putting business before pleasure.” He strode up to Lawson and wagged a finger in his face. “A healthy tip for you, Commander—no matter your age or occupation, no matter what country you find yourself in or what matters are pressing on your mind, never, ever, keep a beautiful woman waiting. It's the rudest of moves."

  Christian had officially turned into Mama Vaughn. Lawson dropped his head in resignation, knowing he didn't stand a chance. “Right,” he said. “Dinner first."

  Christian patted Lawson's cheek. “Trés bien. See bear score."

  Lawson waited until the door closed behind him before he looked at himself in the mirror. Feeling suddenly self-conscious of his appearance, he ran a hand over his stubbly beard and brushed the hair off his forehead. He hadn't shaved in two days and his hair was a week past due for a trim. His eyes didn't look as tired as they felt, but he still looked like he'd been on a week-long bender.

  He would put on the clothes, at least some of what Christian had laid out for him, but it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't change the way Zara saw him or the way he saw himself. He'd still be Lawson Vaughn underneath the expensive clothes, and, while he hoped he might indeed score tonight, he wasn't part of Zara's world and he never would be. He wasn't going to change and become someone he wasn't for anybody, not even her.

  Pulling off his shirt, he dropped it on the floor but kept his jeans on. He looked over the clothing on the couch and reached for the shirt. He'd wear a clean shirt to make Zara happy, but just the shirt and just for tonight. Maybe it would even be fun. He could turn it into a mental game he played with himself. He'd see how many times he could get her to smile over the next hour or so.

  And then later, when she took him to the Tower Room, he'd do more than make her smile. He'd see how many times he could push her over the edge and get her to scream his name.

  Before he left the room, he snagged the jacket for insurance.

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  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was a rare occurrence Zara found herself speechless, but speechless she was. Her mouth fell open as Lawson sauntered across the dining room toward her looking for all the world like he'd just stepped off a Paris runway.

  A piece of his hair hung over his forehead and he'd left the suit jacket unbuttoned as well as the neck of his shirt, going sans tie. The frayed hems of his jean legs covered the black leather of the loafers he wore. The effect on the otherwise impeccable image was tauntingly sexy, as if he were as dégagé walking around in a three-thousand-dollar jacket as he was in his Levi's.

  She grabbed her Waterford goblet off the table and took a long sip of water. Candlelight flickered over the Ceralene Laurier china, mimicking the flutter in her chest. Setting the crystal glass down, she forced her mouth closed and took a deep breath to try and slow her heart rate.

  It didn't do any good. As Lawson crossed the Persian rug, his gaze trailed from her mouth, across her breasts and down her stomach and legs before coming back up. He offered her a casual smile, as if her appearance had no effect on him.

  Liar. She saw the spark in his eyes.

  Refusing to give in to her fluttering heart and dry mouth, she smiled as he stopped in front of her. She kept her voice matter-of-fact even though he was purposely invading her space. “Who are you and what did you do with my partner?"

  He opened the jacket and looked down. “Clean up good, don't I?” As he leaned toward her in a conspiratorial manner, he whispered, “Not exactly my style, but I was hoping to impress you."

  His clean smell wafted past her nose and she sucked in a breath. Her gaze dropped to the tantalizing triangle of skin above his open shirt. The four-inch heels of her shoes put her at the perfect level to see the pulse beating in the hollow of his neck. Checking herself, she bit the inside of her cheek and pretended to give him a critical once-over. “You look very ... distinguished."

  "I've been called a lot of things in my thirty-two years, but never distinguished."

  "Clothes make the man they say."

  "Clothes have nothing to do with what makes me a man."

  Heat flooded her cheeks. A man's flirtatious conversation hadn't made her blush since she was in her teens. This wasn't just any man, though. This was Lawson. And discussing what made him a man was dangerous territory. Probably she should change the subject.

  But she didn't. “Is that so?"

  He touched her chin with one of his knuckles. “Yes."

  Christian cleared his throat as he passed by them to take the chair at the head of the table. “You both look quite presentable. Now, may we move onto the food?"

  Zara broke eye contact with Lawson, grateful to be saved from his penetrating stare and the unspoken challenge he'd just given her. Always the gentleman, he pulled out her chair and she sat.

  As she unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap, she absently listened to Christian describe the evening's menu. Sipping her Lillet aperitif, she felt Lawson's gaze on her from across the table and looked up to meet it. He flashed an insouciant grin at her, and the cool vermouth liqueur turned hot in her stomach.

  Like the French women she'd studied for years, she took the art of seduction seriously. He wanted to flirt? Fine, she could flirt. Just so he understood she wasn't going to go gaga because he looked like a D&G ad come to life.

  The man sitting across from her enjoyed the sport of competition. No matter what the game or how high the stakes, competition made him tick. However, in the game of seduction, Zara could flirt, tease and seduce with the best of them. She had no doubt she could wipe away Lawson's apparent indifferenc
e before the dinner progressed past the first course. It's just for fun. Just another test. Let the seduction begin.

  Seduction started in the mind. Sipping her Lillet, she turned her imagination loose and sent images of Lawson's lips, his bare chest, his strong hands floating through her brain.

  As she licked moisture off her bottom lip, she shifted her gaze to look at him from under lowered lids. He felt her stare and glanced her way. Keeping her lips parted, she sucked a corner of the bottom one between her teeth.

  He stilled completely, her message received loud and clear. Not a muscle twitched in his face or body, but the blasé persona morphed into something so hot, so carnal, Zara's breath caught in her chest.

  Point one to the spook, she congratulated herself.

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  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lawson could not tear his attention away from Zara as the waitstaff entered and began setting trays of food on the table. When she gave him a coy smile, he knew he'd been had. Again.

  Christian waved the staff off once the food was assembled. He passed a quiche to Zara. “To the French, cuisine is an art, not a science like Americans and Brits make it out to be."

  Zara served herself and passed the quiche to Lawson. He mimicked her and watched to see which fork she picked up to eat it with.

  The long mahogany table could seat twenty-five, but the three of them were contained at one end near the stone fireplace. A low fire burned behind the fireplace's iron grate, more for ambience, Lawson guessed, than for warmth. Ceiling fans oscillated in lazy circles high above their heads, creating a nice flow of air and making the tall candles on the table flicker. Along with the plates, wineglasses and assorted bowls between him and Zara, there were a variety of breads, spreads and a tureen of soup.

  Zara took a bite of the quiche and a look of pleasure passed over her features. “The French have always enjoyed a predilection for fine food,” she said, licking her lips. “During the Middle Ages, spices were favored, but during the Renaissance, the French replaced heavy seasonings with indigenous herbs."