One night to change your life. . .
Magazine writer Kathryn Taylor is traveling from New York to Paris for work. But the flirtatious Frenchman she left long ago is waiting at the airport--and he wants to play. . .
No one can guide Kat through the sensual city's delights like Marko Renard. He let her get away once, and now he's determined to make her stay--even if he has to tie her down. He will wrap her in cashmere, tease her tongue with chocolate, and take her to the peak of the Eiffel Tower. . .But can he convince the bohemian beauty she belongs with him, in his luxuriously decadent world? In business, he's the master--but it's Kat's body and soul he truly longs to rule. He has just enough time to show her the pleasures of the boulevards, the boulangeries--and the bedroom. To finally get her to just say oui, he'll have to seize the day--and the night. . .
“Why do I need to go to Paris?” Kathryn asked, rubbing her temple with more force. “I’ll be looking over my shoulder for him at every turn. What if I bump into him? What happens then?”
“You mean, how do you research the perfect place to find love when love finds you?” Paul folded his muscled arms over his chest and leaned back in his seat. “You could even have a true Parisian show you around all the hot spots. Why is that so bad, Kittykat?”
“Because Marko is not an option. He’s loaded, cultured, and out of my league.” Even worse, he’d insist on introducing her to his family like he had that Christmas years ago. “I’ve worked real hard to establish myself as a competent professional. It would kill me to have the mighty Renards look down on me.”
“Why would they look down on you?” Paul asked. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“You could never understand, Paul. You’re rich and entitled, cut from the same cloth as Marko. I’m a girl from Long Island that had to take online classes for eighteen months to finish my last semester and get my degree, all while keeping my dad’s aluminum-siding business afloat to save my childhood home. Could you picture a woman in Marko’s family with chipped nail polish and callouses on her palms?”
“Marko stayed by your side. You were the one that ran away from him.” Paul’s jaw was set, but his gaze was full of compassion. He’d seen what her father’s passing had done to her and her mother, and he’d also been there for her in that difficult time. She hadn’t turned away from him. The difference was that Paul was her friend. Marko was her soul mate.
“You mean, how do you research the perfect place to find love when love finds you?” Paul folded his muscled arms over his chest and leaned back in his seat. “You could even have a true Parisian show you around all the hot spots. Why is that so bad, Kittykat?”
“Because Marko is not an option. He’s loaded, cultured, and out of my league.” Even worse, he’d insist on introducing her to his family like he had that Christmas years ago. “I’ve worked real hard to establish myself as a competent professional. It would kill me to have the mighty Renards look down on me.”
“Why would they look down on you?” Paul asked. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“You could never understand, Paul. You’re rich and entitled, cut from the same cloth as Marko. I’m a girl from Long Island that had to take online classes for eighteen months to finish my last semester and get my degree, all while keeping my dad’s aluminum-siding business afloat to save my childhood home. Could you picture a woman in Marko’s family with chipped nail polish and callouses on her palms?”
“Marko stayed by your side. You were the one that ran away from him.” Paul’s jaw was set, but his gaze was full of compassion. He’d seen what her father’s passing had done to her and her mother, and he’d also been there for her in that difficult time. She hadn’t turned away from him. The difference was that Paul was her friend. Marko was her soul mate.
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ReplyDeleteGood morning! A huge Hump Day thank you for hosting today's Blurb Blitz and the book giveaway . I'll check back during the day for any sizzling questions.
ReplyDeleteSounds like a great read.
ReplyDeleteSounds like a great read.
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