One Week With The French Tycoon. Christy McKellen
into with such an odd question, ‘and the separate living area has the latest entertainment system—’
‘And a large sofa?’ Indigo cut in again.
The receptionist blinked hard and frowned, then her expression softened with a mixture of relief and gratitude as she realised where Indigo was going with this. This time she didn’t falter with her answer. ‘Absolutely! It is very comfortable—large enough to fully stretch out on. There is also a separate bathroom with a whirlpool tub and a waterfall shower.’
Indigo nodded decisively. ‘Okay then, we’ll share it.’
‘What?’ The word jumped from the Frenchman’s mouth as if he’d not been able to stop it.
She took a breath and turned to face his incredulous gaze. ‘I’ll take the sofa in the living room, you can have the bedroom; that way we both get to sleep tonight.’
The Frenchman’s brow crinkled in disdain. ‘Non. Thank you, but I don’t think that’s appropriate.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t bite, you know.’
His mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘I’m sure you don’t, but it seems improper to ask you to share your room with a strange man.’
‘You don’t seem that strange to me.’ She cast him a smile, which he begrudgingly returned, one eyebrow raised.
‘But, seriously, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind sharing and I’d hate to feel responsible for this woman losing her job.’
He flapped his hand, dismissing her concern. ‘It wouldn’t be your fault.’
She looked him hard in the eye. ‘But I’d still blame myself and it would ruin my holiday. Anyway, it doesn’t sound like you have a better option.’
He gave a gentle snort and shook his head, wearily rubbing his hand over his forehead, as he appeared to give her suggestion some serious consideration. ‘Are you sure you’re happy to do this?’ he asked, his eyes dark with indecision.
‘Yes, of course!’ she said brightly. ‘When life throws problems at you, you have to do whatever you can to make the best of a situation.’ She produced a firm smile. ‘Anyway, what kind of a woman would I be to send an exhausted man out into the night to sleep on the streets in such a beautiful designer suit?’
He looked at her intently for another few seconds, as if giving her the chance to change her mind, and when she resolutely kept her mouth shut he gave a sharp nod.
‘Okay, but you take the bedroom so you can lock the door; that way you have no reason to feel unsafe. I’ll take the sofa. I’ll be up and out early in the morning so I won’t be in your way.’ Without waiting for her response, he bent down to scoop up his luggage.
‘I’m getting up early myself,’ she said to the top of his head, her cheeks heating a little as she realised how defiant that sounded. For some reason she didn’t want him to think she was some kind of lazy slob.
‘Then we’ll each have to pretend the other doesn’t exist,’ he said with a flash of droll humour in his eyes as he looked back up at her, pushing a hand through his hair as he righted himself.
An impossible feat, Indigo thought, her eyes following the movement of his long fingers and the way his hair fell perfectly back into place, as if it didn’t dare defy him. There was no way a man like this could ever be ignored.
Turning back to the receptionist, he held out his passport. ‘If you’ll give us two key cards we’ll find our own way up to the room.’
With an air of sombre apology, the receptionist checked the passport, then picked up Indigo’s—which was still lying on the reception desk—and tapped something into her computer. After swiping a couple of key cards through a machine, she handed everything back to the Frenchman. ‘There are extra blankets and pillows in the wardrobes. I hope you will be comfortable,’ she said sheepishly, before scurrying away to serve someone who had just arrived at the other end of the desk.
Handing Indigo her passport and key card, he turned abruptly on his heel and, without another word, strode away from her, bags swinging from his hand.
Clearly he was a leader, not a follower.
Indigo paused for a moment, staring after him, suddenly feeling a little unsure of herself.
Had she really just offered to share a suite with a complete stranger?
She was so used to figuring out quick fixes at work it hadn’t struck her exactly what she’d committed to until it was too late to back out of it.
As she watched him reach the elevator and jab the button to call it, exhaustion from the mad scramble to get her community café in good shape so she didn’t have to worry about it whilst she was away hit her like a wallop to the gut. The last three months had been tough, filled with worry about whether the funding she’d applied for in order to keep it running would materialise, and it all seemed to be catching up with her now.
Ironically, this week away was supposed to be a break from the stress of it. Initially it had struck her as ridiculous to come on holiday when she had the possibility of losing everything hanging over her head, but she’d dropped the ball and made a few silly mistakes recently that, while fixable, had meant she’d cost the café some money it could ill afford. As her friend Lacey had jokingly pointed out, it would probably do both her and the café some good to have some time apart.
Added to which, all the travel and accommodation for this week had already been paid for and was non-refundable, so it would have been a waste of money not to come.
Wastage was something she felt very strongly about.
Anyway, it was too late to change her mind now—even if she let the Frenchman have the suite to himself. She didn’t have the money to pay for a room in another hotel, let alone the energy to face the monumental task of finding one.
This was her only option.
Hurrying after him, she caught him up just as the elevator door opened with a smooth swish.
‘Okay, let’s do this,’ she said, her words coming out a little breathlessly after her dash across the room.
He just smiled in a perplexed sort of way that made the skin prickle on the back of her neck, and gestured for her to walk into the elevator before him.
‘No, no, after you,’ she said, sweeping her own hand in an exaggerated arc towards the centre of the car.
Shaking his head in amusement, he stepped inside and moved to the back to allow her plenty of room to follow him in.
Once she was safely past the doors, he hit the button for their floor and the doors closed on them with another gentle swish.
Heavy silence fell between them.
Indigo shifted from one foot to the other.
Well, this is awkward.
‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves, since we’re going to be suite-mates,’ she said, raising a questioning eyebrow at him. ‘I’m Indigo. Indigo Hughes.’
‘Julien Moreaux,’ he replied, catching her off guard by stepping forwards and kissing her gently on both cheeks.
Being English, she’d forgotten about this traditional French greeting and almost jumped away in shock, only managing to hold her nerve at the last second. His scent hit her nose again, even more intensely this time due to his proximity, and instinctively she breathed him in, intuiting cool nights after hot days, the crisp tang of cold wine in the sunshine and the musky scent of warm skin.
Delicious.
After he’d stepped back it took her a full couple of seconds to pull herself together again. She gave him a friendly smile, but what she really wanted to do was pull him back towards her, bury her face in the scoop of his neck and drag his scent deep into her lungs again.
What