Home > One Night With A Billionaire (Perfect Man #1)(7)

One Night With A Billionaire (Perfect Man #1)(7)
Author: Vicki Lewis Thompson

“Right away, monsieur.”

Drew enjoyed the French way of doing business, which was often over a glass of wine. Some of his oldest friends gave him a hard time for preferring wine to whiskey or beer. He came from cowboy country, and cowboys don’t drink wine.

Josette must not have been far away when she’d called, because the doorbell rang before Raoul had brought up the wine. Drew left his office to greet Josette, a brunette in her sixties who’d probably worn five-inch heels every day of her life since she’d turned eighteen. Even if he hadn’t needed a personal shopper, he would have pretended to so that he could have regular dealings with this feisty woman.

She was loaded down with garment bags and boxes from the best shops along the Champs-élysées. “André!” She handed everything to the maid who’d opened the door and came toward him, arms outstretched. Grabbing his head, she kissed him on both cheeks.

Laughing, he returned the favor and breathed in her signature Chanel No. 5, something she’d probably also been wearing since she’d turned eighteen.

“I have so many beautiful things for your lady friend, André.” She beamed at him. “Is she from Dallas?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, but she’s not my—”

“How nice for you.” Josette’s brown eyes twinkled. “And you’re going to show her the city, yes?”

“I hope so.” He gestured toward the sitting room.

“Why wouldn’t you?” Josette walked briskly into the room and sat on one end of the sofa. “Too busy?” She glanced at the maid who’d come in with all the packages. “Merci, Isabella.” She patted the sofa. “Ici.”

“I can make the time,” Drew said. “But she feels uncomfortable accepting such extravagance.”

Josette’s eyebrows lifted. “C’est unique.”

“Yeah. And I like that she’s hesitant about spending my money. But it’s frustrating, too, because I want her to experience the best the city has to offer.”

“And Les Folies Bergère?”

“Yes! I hadn’t thought of that, but what a brilliant idea. She should see that, too.”

Raoul showed up with a tray and set it on the low table in front of the sofa. After pouring the wine, he left.

Josette smiled as she spread a piece of bread with the melted cheese. “André, you are turning into a Frenchman.”

“I need to search my family tree.” He picked up his wineglass. “I’ll bet there’s a French branch stuck on there somewhere.”

“Mais, bien sur.” Josette savored her bread and cheese and sipped her wine. Then she set down the glass and gazed at him. “This lady, she is special, non?”

Drew nodded. “She impresses me.”

“Then I hope she likes what I found for her.” Dusting off her hands, Josette reached for a long box and opened it. “Voilà!” She shook out a black and red silk dress that shimmered in the lamplight.

Drew swallowed. If the sleeveless confection looked sexy lying there against the sofa cushions, he could imagine the dyn**ite effect once Melanie put it on. “Nice.”

“And because the evenings are cool, I added this.” She plunged her hand into a glossy black shopping bag and came out with an elegant cape in black satin.

“How about shoes?”

“Certainement, mon ami.” She flipped open a shoe box to reveal black satin pumps.

Following that, Josette laid out her other purchases, but Drew couldn’t stop staring at the red and black dress. He was determined to see Melanie wearing it, along with the do-me shoes and the short black cape. Her reluctance was merely a challenge, and he thrived on overcoming obstacles.

“C’est bon?”

“Yes. Très bon. Thank you, Josette.”

She stood. “Treat this one well, chéri.”

“Excuse me?” Josette was always free with wardrobe advice, but she’d never said a word about his personal life.

“If she’s worried about spending your money, I like her already.”

“So do I.” He escorted Josette to the door and they exchanged good-bye kisses. After he closed the door, he stood there thinking about Melanie tucked into the Blue Room upstairs. “So do I,” he murmured.

Six

Melanie slept like a rock until three in the morning. Then she was awake. So very awake. And starving to death. Perhaps she shouldn’t have gone to bed without eating something besides the two pieces of cheese she’d nibbled at the sidewalk café.

This international travel was more complicated than she’d expected. On the plane over she’d been pestered with food every five minutes. Now that she was here, she hadn’t figured out when to eat.

She couldn’t blame it on being secluded in Drew’s townhouse. Even if she’d been staying in the hotel she’d chosen, she’d hesitate to venture out into a strange city at three in the morning in search of a meal. And that hotel certainly hadn’t been set up for room service.

The house was totally silent, unless she counted the growling of her stomach. Although that seemed loud to her, she doubted it would wake Drew or the servants. She sat up in bed and turned on a bedside lamp.

Her Paris travel books were stacked neatly on the delicate writing desk. She’d never had anyone unpack for her, and she’d had to rearrange things in the drawers a little. But the idea that someone had taken care of that menial chore was a heady one. She could get used to that.

She’d better not, though, because in four days she’d be on a plane back to reality. In the meantime, she might as well admit that she’d decided to stay here instead of moving to a hotel. First of all she’d have to take time to choose one, and nothing would feel as secure or be located so perfectly.

And there was the possibility that she’d insult Drew if she rejected his hospitality. He’d also worry about her. Causing him any kind of distress would be a poor way to repay his generosity. She was touched that he was concerned about her.

The rest of his proposed program, though—creating the Paris trip of her wildest dreams—was still under consideration. Now that she’d had some sleep, she could think more clearly about it. His analogy about treating a friend to a movie made a good point, but she still couldn’t equate that with four days of an all-expenses-paid luxury tour of Paris.

Maybe they could negotiate a compromise. She didn’t need a private tour of the Louvre, and she’d see the Eiffel Tower on her own. But she’d accept his generous offer of a moonlit cruise of the Seine, because that was an experience to be shared with a friend. If they were on a private yacht it wouldn’t matter what she wore, so her wardrobe wouldn’t be an issue.

Good. She’d solved that thorny problem. And she was still starving. Sliding out of bed, she padded over and picked up several of her books. Maybe reading in bed would take her mind off her stomach.

It didn’t. It seemed that travel books about Paris couldn’t resist talking about the food every other paragraph. Fifteen minutes later, she couldn’t concentrate on the page as hunger gnawed at her. She had at least three hours to go before she could reasonably expect the servants to be in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

But there was a kitchen somewhere on that basement level. Back in her college days, she’d lived in the sorority house with Val and Astrid, and they’d staged many raids on the kitchen in the middle of the night. They’d developed it into an art form. This was a French kitchen, but it couldn’t be all that different.

Taking food without asking wasn’t polite, but she had a stomachache from not eating. She couldn’t imagine three more hours of torture while she waited for the sun to rise and the kitchen to open. Neither could she imagine waking someone and asking them to fix her a snack.

How ironic that she was in Paris, the gourmet capital of the world, and she’d never been hungrier. A careful trip to the kitchen seemed like the sensible course of action and the most considerate of the household. If Drew was prepared to spend hundreds of euros on her, he wouldn’t begrudge her a little bread and cheese.

Putting down her book, she climbed out of bed. The pajamas she’d packed to wear on this trip were practical: cotton lounge pants and a roomy T-shirt. She hadn’t bothered with slippers or a robe, because they’d only have taken up room in her suitcase.

But if she planned to roam around Drew’s house in the middle of the night, she should probably put on a hoodie for modesty’s sake. After doing that, she slowly opened her bedroom door and crept into the hallway. A few stairs creaked on her way down, but this was an old house. It must creak and groan all the time. No one would notice.

Motion-sensitive lights along the baseboards helped her find her way downstairs. In minutes she’d navigated her way to the servants’ floor and located the kitchen. The hum of a refrigerator and the lingering fragrance of cooked food led her through an open door into a space dimly lit by a fluorescent light over the stove.

Once inside, she opened the refrigerator door. Finding a small wedge of cheese and a bottle of Perrier was easy. Searching out where the bread was stored posed more of a challenge, but at last she opened a metal box on the granite counter and hit pay dirt—one full loaf and half of a baguette. Taking the baguette, cheese, and Perrier, she left the kitchen.

***

Thoughts of Melanie had made Drew restless. Knowing she was right down the hall, he tossed and turned. Then a sound penetrated the thin veil of sleep. The stairs creaked.

At first he wondered if Melanie might be going down, but a second later he realized someone was coming up. Was it her? Had she gone down without him hearing and was now returning? Or was it an intruder?

He got out of bed, pulled on his briefs, and grabbed a robe out of the armoire. His security system was top-notch, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be breached by a clever thief hoping to steal the Monet hanging in the hallway. And an intruder would be a threat to more than his art collection. Melanie was sleeping in a bedroom nearby.

Stepping silently into the hall, poised for action, he waited for whoever was climbing the stairs. They were breathing hard from the exertion. It could be Melanie, but why would she go downstairs in the middle of the night?

Belatedly he realized that if this was an intruder, he had no weapon but his fists. No baseball bat or tire iron. A vase, two centuries old and valued in the high six figures, sat on a table in the hall. He picked it up.

As a shadowy figure rose from the stairwell, he started forward, vase raised. Melanie screamed a split second after he recognized her. Something sailed past his head and thudded against the wall as she yelled again, this time sounding like a samurai warrior. She cocked her arm as if to throw something else at him.

“Melanie! It’s me!” He set down the vase and backed up, palms facing her, heart racing. Jesus. She’d scared the hell out of him, and obviously he’d returned the favor.

“Drew?” Her voice shook and she lowered her arm.

“Yeah.” He sucked in a breath.

“Oh, God.” She clutched the banister. “I was hungry, but I didn’t want to wake anybody.”

Three floors below, footsteps pounded up the servants’ stairway. It sounded like a minor stampede.

“Guess that didn’t work out,” she said.

“Monsieur Eldridge?” a man called from below. “Q’est-ce que c’est? Désirez-vous la police?”

“No, Henri, no police.” Drew walked to the head of the stairs and peered over the banister at Henri, who stood below in his nightshirt. Henri also served as his houseman. “Mademoiselle had a scare. All’s well.”

“Ah. Bonne nuit.” After some murmured conversations, Henri and the other servants retreated down the stairs and closed their bedroom doors.

“I feel terrible.” Melanie climbed the remaining steps to stand before him. “Some guest I am, raiding the refrigerator and rousing the entire household.”

“I should have guessed it was you, but all I could think was that someone had broken in, so I—”

“Rushed to defend the castle. That’s so you.”

It was true he seemed to go into protector mode whenever she was concerned. “Are you still hungry, or did I scare that idea straight out of your head?”

She hesitated, as if taking inventory. “Still hungry. My heart rate is almost back to normal, which means I can now hear my tummy growling. But I threw the wedge of cheese when I saw you coming, so no telling what shape it’s in. Thank God you said something before I hit you with the Perrier.”

“Or I bashed you with a priceless vase.” Now that the crisis was over and nobody was hurt, he could see the funny side of it. “Let’s get a little light on the situation.” Stepping over to the wall, he hit a switch and glass sconces flickered to life. He loved those crazy things, which he’d found in Venice.

“Pretty!”

And so was she. No, not just pretty. Beautiful. His glance swept over glossy curls tousled from sleep, a freckled face still pink from embarrassment, and gray eyes that reflected the dancing light of the sconces. “Glad you like them.” He couldn’t stop gazing at her.

His attention drifted to her rosy mouth. Last time they’d been alone, she’d kissed him. He could still feel the softness of her lips as they’d brushed his, and he wanted that again.

Her loose pants, T-shirt, and hoodie shouldn’t look sexy on her, but they did. Maybe it was her bare feet and pink toenails that aroused him so much, or his suspicion that she wore nothing under her shirt. That would explain why she’d added the hoodie, because the house wasn’t cold enough to justify it.

But she’d left the sweatshirt unzipped. It hung open now, allowing him to see the slight tightening of the T-shirt where it stretched over what appeared to be her unbound br**sts. The house wasn’t cold enough to make her n**ples pucker, either, but it looked like they had.

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