Once in Paris. Diana Palmer
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rose. “Oh, would you, please?” she asked brightly. “I’ve never, you see, and I’ve always wondered what makes women take off their clothes for men. Looking at statues in the Louvre isn’t really the best method of sex education, and just between us, Madame Dubonne seems to feel that babies are brought by seabirds with big beaks.”
His own eyebrows rose. “You’re outrageous.”
“I hope so. I’ve worked hard enough to get that way.” She searched his dark face quietly. “Feeling better?”
He shrugged. “Somewhat. I’m not drunk enough, but I’m numb.”
She put her fingers over his big hand. It was warm and muscular, and there were thick black hairs curling into the cuff of his long-sleeved white shirt. His fingernails were wide and flat and immaculately cleaned and trimmed. She touched them, fascinated.
He looked down, studying her own long, elegant fingers with short nails. “No paint,” he mused. “How about on your toenails?”
She shook her head. “My feet are too stubby to be elegant. I have useful hands and feet, not pretty ones.”
His hand turned over and caught hers. “Thank you,” he said abruptly, as if it irritated him to speak the words.
She knew what he meant. She smiled. “Sometimes all we need is a little comfort. You’re no weakling. You’re a tough guy, you’ll get through it.”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Certainly,” she said firmly. “Shouldn’t you go home now?” she asked, glancing around. “There’s a very slinky-looking woman over there with platinum hair out of a bottle giving you the eye. She looks like she’d just love to lead you home and make love to you and steal your wallet.”
He leaned toward her. “I can’t make love,” he said confidentially. “I’m too drunk.”
“She wouldn’t care, I think.”
He smiled lazily. “Would you?” he mused. “Suppose you come home with me, and we’ll give it my best shot.”
“Oh, not when you’re soused, thanks,” she replied. “My first time is going to be fireworks and explosions and the 1812 Overture. How could I possibly get that from a drunk man?”
He threw his head back and burst out laughing. He had a nice laugh, deep and slow and robust. She wondered if he did everything as wholeheartedly as he grieved.
“Take me home, anyway,” he said after the laughter passed. “I’m safe enough with you.” He hesitated after he’d laid the bills on the table. “But you can’t seduce me, either.”
She put her hand on her heart. “I promise.”
“All right, then.” He stood up, weaving a little, and frowned. “I don’t even remember coming here. Good God, I think I walked out in the middle of negotiations for a new hotel!”
“They’ll still be going on when you get back,” she chuckled. “Heave ho, Mr. Hutton. Let’s find a cab.”
Chapter Two
Pierce Hutton lived in one of the newest, most exclusive hotels in Paris. He fished out his key for her as they passed the doorman, who looked suspicious. So did the desk clerk, who approached them at the elevator.
“Something is wrong, Monsieur Hutton?” he asked pointedly.
“Yes, Henri. I’m very drunk,” he replied unsteadily. His big arm tightened around Brianne. “Do you know my business associate’s daughter, Brianne? She’s in school in Paris. She found me at Chez Georges and brought me home.” He grinned. “She saved me from a femme du nuit who had her eye on my wallet.”
“Ah,” Henri said, nodding. He smiled at Brianne. “Do you require assistance, mademoiselle?”
“He’s rather heavy, but I think I can cope. Will you check on him later, just to make sure?” she added with genuine concern.
The last of Henri’s misgivings evaporated. “It will be my pleasure.”
She smiled shyly. “Merci beaucoup. And please don’t reply with more than il n’ya pas de quoi,” she added quickly, “because that’s the entire extent of my French vocabulary, despite Madame Dubonne’s most diligent efforts.”
“You are at La Belle Ecole?” he exclaimed. “Why, my cousin is there.” He named a girl whom Brianne knew just faintly.
“She has black hair,” Brianne recalled. “And she always wears a long sweater, however hot it is,” she added with a chuckle.
“Oui,” Henri said, shaking his head. “The enfant is always cold. Here, let me help you, mademoiselle,” he said, and assisted them to the elevator.
Henri helped them into the elevator, which was fortunately empty except for the operator, and instructed the man in rapid French to get Monsieur Hutton into his apartment.
“He will assist you,” he assured Brianne. “And we will take excellent care of monsieur,” he added gently.
She grinned at him. “Then I won’t worry.”
He nodded, thinking what a kind young woman she seemed. And such glorious blond hair!
She rode up in the elevator with Pierce and the operator, who helped her get him to the apartment, which she unlocked with his key. They maneuvered him into the huge bedroom, done in a black-and-white color scheme that seemed to suit him. The bed was king-size, with four posts that rose like slender wraiths toward the ceiling. They lowered him onto it, and he opened his eyes as he stretched on the black coverlet.
“I feel odd,” he murmured.
“I don’t doubt it,” Brianne mused, thanking the elevator operator, who smiled at her and closed the door behind him.
Pierce’s black eyes searched over Brianne’s flushed face. “Feel like helping me undress?” he asked.
She colored even more. “Well…”
“There’s a first time for everything,” he reminded her.
She hesitated. He wasn’t in any condition to do it himself. He was very drunk. Probably he wouldn’t remember what she looked like in the morning.
She untied his shoes and pulled them off, and his socks with them. He had nice feet. They were long and elegant, and very big. She smiled as she walked around the bed and eased him up into a sitting position. She took off the jacket and then unbuttoned the shirt. He smelled of expensive soap and cologne, and under that shirt was a broad, dark-skinned chest with thick black hair covering it. She touched it accidentally and her hand tingled.
“Margo was a virgin,” he said softly. “I had to coax her out of her clothes, and even though she loved me desperately, she fought me at first, because I had to hurt her.” He touched Brianne’s red face gently. “I don’t suppose there are any virgins left these days. Margo and I were always the odd ones out. Very traditional. I didn’t make love to her until we were married.”
“Can you move your arm…? Yes, that’s fine.” She didn’t want to hear this, but she was a captive audience. She pulled the shirt off and had to fight not to admire the tanned, muscular arms and chest. He didn’t look like a man who spent a lot of time behind a desk.
“You’re only nineteen,” he said on a rough breath. “If you were older, I think I could make love to you. You’re very pretty, little one. Your hair excites me. It’s so long, and there’s so much of it.” He took it in both hands and closed his fingers. “Sexy hair.”
“Yours is nice, too,” she said for the sake of conversation. “Now, I don’t think I can…” she added, her hands hesitating at his belt.
“Of course you can,” he said quietly. He coaxed her hands to the belt and held