An Heir Fit For A King. Эбби Грин
should she even care, when he was probably lying?
Leila almost balked at that point, but as if sensing her trepidation, Alix pulled out a chair and looked at her pointedly. No escape. She moved forward and sat down, looking at the array of food laid out on the table. There was enough for a small army.
Alix must have seen something on her face, because he grimaced a little and said, ‘I wasn’t sure if you were vegetarian or not, so I ordered a selection.’
Leila couldn’t help a wry smile. ‘I am vegetarian, actually—mostly my mother’s influence. Though I do sometimes eat fish.’
Alix started to put some food on a plate for her: a mixture of tapas-type starters, including what looked like balls of rice infused with herbs and spices. The smells had her mouth watering, and she realised that she hadn’t eaten since earlier that day, her stomach having been too much in knots after seeing Alix Saint Croix again, and then thinking about him all afternoon as she’d worked on his fragrance.
She could smell it now, faintly—exotic and spicy, with that tantalising hint of citrus—and her insides quivered. It suited him: light, but with much darker undertones.
He handed her the plate and then plucked a chilled bottle of white wine out of an ice bucket. Leila wasn’t used to drinking, and could still feel the effects of the bourbon, so she held up a hand when Alix went to pour her some wine.
‘I’ll stick to water, thanks.’
As he poured himself some wine he asked casually, ‘Where are your parents from?’
Leila tensed inevitably as the tall, shadowy and indistinct shape of her father came into her mind’s eye. She’d only ever seen him in photos in the newspaper. Tightly she answered, ‘My mother was a single parent. She was from India.’
‘Was?’
Leila nodded and concentrated on spearing some food with her fork. ‘She died a few years ago.’
‘I’m sorry. That must have been hard if it was just the two of you.’
Leila was a little taken aback at the sincerity she heard in his voice and said quietly, ‘It was the hardest thing.’
She avoided his eyes and put a forkful of food in her mouth, not expecting the explosion of flavours from the spice-infused rice ball. She looked at him and he smiled at her reaction, chewing his own food.
When he could speak he said, ‘My personal chef is here. He’s from Isle Saint Croix, so he sticks to the local cuisine. It’s a mixture of North African and Mediterranean.’
Relieved to be moving away from personal areas, Leila said, ‘I’ve never tasted anything like it.’ Then she admitted ruefully, ‘I haven’t travelled much, though.’
‘You were born here?’
Leila reached for her water, as much to cool herself down as anything else. ‘Yes, my mother travelled over when she was pregnant. My father was French.’
‘Was?’
Leila immediately regretted letting that slip out. But her mother was no longer alive. Surely the secret didn’t have to be such a secret any more? But then she thought of how easily her father had turned his back on them and repeated her mother’s words, used whenever anyone had asked a similar question. ‘He died a long time ago. I never knew him.’
To her relief, Alix didn’t say anything to that, just looked at her consideringly. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Leila tried not to think too hard about where she was and who she was with.
When she’d cleared half her plate she sneaked a look at Alix. He was sitting back, cradling his glass of wine, looking at her. And just like that her skin prickled with heat.
‘I hope I didn’t lose you too much custom by taking up your attention today?’
He looked entirely unrepentant, and in spite of herself Leila had to allow herself a small wry smile. ‘No—the opposite. The business has been struggling to get back on track since the recession...niche industries like mine were the worst hit.’
Alix frowned. ‘Yet you kept hold of your shop?’
Leila nodded, tensing a little at the thought of the uphill battle to restore sales. ‘I’ve owned it outright since my mother died.’
‘That’s good—but you could sell. You don’t need me to tell you what that shop and flat must be worth in this part of Paris.’
Leila’s insides clenched hard. ‘I won’t ever sell,’ she said in a low voice. The shop and the flat were her mother’s legacy to her—a safe haven. Security. She barely knew this man...she wasn’t about to confide in him.
Feeling self-conscious again, she took her napkin from her lap and put it on the table. That silver gaze narrowed on her.
‘I should go. Thank you for dinner—you really didn’t have to.’
She saw a muscle twitch in Alix’s jaw and half expected—wanted?—him to stop her from going.
But he just stood up smoothly and said, ‘Thank you for joining me.’
Much to Leila’s sense of disorientation, Alix made no effort to detain her with offers of tea or coffee. He picked up the bag that she’d had with her when she’d arrived and handed it to her in the main reception room.
Feeling at a loss, and not liking the sense of disappointment that he was letting her go so easily, Leila said again, ‘Thank you.’
Alix bowed slightly towards her and once again she was struck by his sheer beauty and all that potent masculinity. He looked as if he was about to speak some platitude, then he stopped and said, ‘Actually... I have tickets to the opera for tomorrow evening. I wonder if you’d like to join me?’
Leila didn’t trust his all-too-innocent façade for a second—as if he’d just thought of it. But she couldn’t think straight because giddy relief was mocking her for the disappointment she’d felt just seconds ago because he was letting her go so easily.
She was dealing with a master here.
This was not the first time a man had asked her out but it still hit her in the solar plexus like a blow. Her last disastrous dating experience rose like a dark spectre in her memory—except this man in front of her eclipsed Pierre Gascon a hundred times over. Enough to give her a little frisson of satisfaction.
As if any man could compete with this tall, dark specimen before her. Sexy. Leila had never been overtly aware of sexual longing before. But now she was—she could feel the awareness throbbing in her blood, between her legs.
And it was that awareness of how out of her depth Alix Saint Croix made her feel that had Leila blurting out, ‘I really don’t think it would be a good idea.’ Coward, whispered a voice.
He lifted a brow in lazy enquiry. ‘And why would that be? You’re single...I’m single. We’re two consenting adults. I’m offering a pleasant way to spend the evening. That’s all.’
Now she felt gauche. She was thinking of sex when he certainly wasn’t. ‘I’m just...not exactly in your league, Monsieur Saint Croix—’
‘It’s Alix,’ he growled, coming closer. ‘Call me Alix.’
Leila swallowed, caught in the beam of those incredible eyes. ‘Alix...’
‘That’s better. Now, tell me again exactly why this is not a good idea?’
Feeling cornered and angry now—with herself as much as him—Leila flung out a hand. ‘I own a shop and you’re a king. We’re not exactly on a level footing.’
Alix cocked his head to one side. ‘You’re a perfumer, are you not? A very commendable career.’
Unable to keep the bitterness out of her