Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) by Michelle St. James Page A

moment later Julien stepped into the room with their bags. The two men exchanged a few murmured words before Julien ducked back into the waiting elevator car. The doors closed quickly.
    Christophe looked at his watch. “I have business to take care of, but it’s close to dinner time. Your luggage will arrive any minute. Why don’t you freshen up and we’ll get something to eat. Nine o’ clock?”
    She wondered briefly what would happen if she were to refuse. If she said she would order dinner in and call it an early night. It was almost worth finding out. She doubted Christophe heard the word “no” very often.
    But the thought was a passing one. She already knew she wouldn’t say no to him.
    That was the part that scared her most.
    “All right,” she said.
    He nodded, and picked up his bag. “I’ll see you then.”
    He turned and disappeared into the room on the other side of the living area. She waited for the door to close, then picked up her overnight bag and made her way into the other bedroom.

16
    T he bedroom was different from the living area. Here the floors were a rich oak parquet, the furnishings clean-lined and beautiful. There was a small sitting area with two welcoming chairs, a bed piled high with linens, detailed molding that might have been original if she didn’t know better. Beyond the sleeping space, a pristine bath beckoned.
    She set her back on the bench at the end of the bed. Had it only been this morning that she’d made her way nervously to Saint Germain to ask Christophe Marchand for help? She wondered about the shop. Had the men returned? Had they damaged anything? She relaxed when she remembered that Christophe had said he would install men to keep an eye on it while they were gone.
    She checked her voice mail, listened to a message from Carolyn, her boss at the Getty, then sent off a quick email explaining the timeline for her return. A couple days in Vienna, a couple more days to settle affairs in Paris, and she would be back at work in a week. She would ask Joelle to help with the sale of the shop and offer her a bonus, then coordinate the rest from California as much as possible.
    She threw her phone on the bed and walked to the bathroom, stripping off her clothes as she went. The tub was tempting — a black marble masterpiece deep enough for a good, long soak. But she had only a little over an hour until dinner. The tub would have to wait.
    She took a shower instead, letting the hot water wash sluice down her body, trying to keep her mind from straying to Christophe in the other room. Was he taking a shower as well? Soaping his naked body? Thinking of her?
    She was surprised to feel the beat of desire between her legs, her sex slippery and wet.
    And not from the shower.
    It had been awhile since she’d had such a physical reaction to a man. Which was exactly the problem, she told herself, hurrying to finish rinsing her hair. She was a young woman. Her body had physical needs, even if she tried to deny them in the name of work or self-protection or whatever else she used as an excuse.
    In other words, she was horny. And it had nothing to do with the icy Monsieur Marchand.
    She toweled off and went to her bag, removing the few articles of clothing she’d brought, glad she’d thought to throw in the midnight blue slip dress. It was small and light — perfect for travel. That’s why she’d packed it. Not because it was sexy. Not because she’d hoped to have an occasion exactly like this one — a candlelit dinner in one of the most romantic cities in the world with a man as mysterious as he was compelling.
    Not that.
    She rubbed almond oil into her skin and let it seep into her pores as she started her makeup. Her hand shook as she did her eyeliner, and she put the pencil down and moved in close to the mirror, staring sternly at her reflection.
    “Get it together, Charlotte,” she murmured.
    She straightened, took a couple deep breaths, and finished her makeup quickly,