Chapter 5: Her Role

She continued arranging the papers, acutely aware that he was doing nothing but towering a few feet away, watching her. It was just like the office; he would often pause his work to observe her with those dark, piercing eyes.

"What will we say at the office?" she asked, her voice hitching. She began to ramble. "People talk. Chloe, Mrs. Warren... they’ll notice. They’ll think—"

Gossip was ruthless at Gagnon Fintech. The idea that her colleagues might believe she’d done something unprofessional to land a business trip with Henri gripped her with unease.

When Henri didn't reply, she looked up and caught a wicked sparkle in his gaze. She had the strangest sensation that he’d been staring at her—specifically, at the curve of her hips.

"We will say that I ordered you to accompany me, of course," he said smoothly. "You are my assistant, after all."

His brows drew together as he peered at her, his gaze heavy, as though daring her to argue. A pang struck her right where it hurt; she knew she could never be more than an assistant to him. Henri Gagnon was the "Golden Prince" of Montreal—utterly unattainable.

Elizabeth was dreaming if she wanted more than a seat outside his office. She was dreaming if she thought the desire in his eyes was for her. She was dreaming to think that, even if it were, he would ever act on it—or that she would dare let him.

*No,* she told herself. She could not allow herself to harbor these foolish nightly fantasies. The daily ones had to go, too. It was hopeless, hurtful, and stupid. He was simply offering her an assignment.

When the pile of papers reached a perfect height, she straightened the stack with as much dignity as she could muster.

"I'd be happy to be your escort," she said.

He nodded slowly. "Good. Great. Excellent." His voice was strangely terse, yet so rich it seemed to vibrate through her until she pulsed from the inside out. "I knew we’d come to an agreement, then."

Maintaining her composure was becoming an impossible task. Excitement warred with worry; gratitude with raw desire. One week with him in Lyon. Playing his escort, his lover—a role Elizabeth had occupied a thousand times in her mind. But this would be a real pretense. She—inexperienced and naive in the ways of men—would have to pretend to be the partner of a legend. Could she seize the moment? Do something reckless? Could she actually plant a kiss on the lips of the man who, unknowingly, was the reason she didn't want anyone else?

Was there even a possibility of being a convincing lover to a man who had dated actresses and duchesses?

Unsettled by the weight of the task, she headed for the door, stealing one last glimpse of him. "Thank you, Henri. For… everything. Good night."

"Elizabeth."

She was halfway down the hall when he caught up, his hand seizing her wrist to turn her around. The contact sent a shiver skidding up her arm.

"It’s a five-hour flight," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I mean to leave tomorrow afternoon. Can you be ready by then?"

*Ready,* she thought wildly. She could never be ready for a week alone with him. But she managed a smile and a jerky nod.

He reached out, his fingers catching her chin to tilt her face toward his. She sucked in a breath at the contact, the tips of her breasts brushing against his chest.

"Will you be ready, Elizabeth?" he persisted.

Her legs quivered. His breath was hot and fragrant, his mouth so close that a moan rose in her throat, trapped. How would he feel against her? His mouth? His hands? He was solid, powerful—so unlike any other man she’d known. He made her feel safe, yet he made her burn.

She suppressed a shiver and took a careful step back to reclaim her air. "I’ll be ready," she assured him, a nervous excitement flourishing in her chest. "Thank you. I know… I know you could ask someone else to do this. And I doubt you’d have to pay for their company."

His eyes smoldered, his face tightening with an unnameable emotion. "Yes," he said, his voice like velvet.

"But I want you."

*I want you.*

A ribbon of hope unfurled inside her, but she didn't trust it. Henri didn't mean the words the way they sounded to her ears—ears starved for anything he had to say. She told herself firmly that Henri simply wanted someone trustworthy.

She had always wanted to be different to him. Not a charity case. Not like his stepbrother, the playboy Henri constantly had to rescue. Not like the strangers who called every day seeking his power. Everyone wanted something *from* Henri Gagnon. They didn't see the man beneath the exterior—the one with the heart of gold and a mercy that rivaled his ruthlessness.

On those early mornings when she’d found him bent over his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up and eyes tired from lack of sleep, her heart had ached to take care of him. *Who takes care of you, Henri?*

Now, she determined that whatever he needed, she would give.

"You won't regret it, Henri," she promised softly. "Helping me, I mean."

His lips twitched. That amused smile sent a jolt to her stomach, but it didn't reach his eyes. They remained hooded, unreadable. He ran the back of one finger down her cheek, the touch sparking fire.

"It is I," he murmured, "who hope you never regret this visit."