Chapter 2

Benita woke up late that night, the unfamiliar quiet of the hotel room momentarily disorienting her. Paris hummed softly outside her window, alive even after dark. Sitting up, she stretched, then smiled to herself.

Tonight was hers.

She dressed slowly, thoughtfully, mapping out how she wanted to walk through the city. where to go, what to see, how to let the city swallow her whole. But first, she needed a drink. Or two.

The moment she stepped into the disco club, music washed over her in pulsing waves. Lights flashed. Laughter echoed. She made her way toward the bar, and then she saw him.

Damien Blackwell.

He sat there like a sin Paris had crafted by hand. Rough. Influential. Dangerous in a way that made her pulse stutter. His dark hair was slightly ruffled, as if fingers had run through it one too many times. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing a tattoo on his wrist, subtle, masculine and hypnotic.

Her mind betrayed her with images she didn’t ask for.

She slipped off her coat, folding it neatly over her arm, and approached him with purpose. He didn’t know who she was and that made this delicious. The idea of spending a night with her father’s biggest rival felt like poetic revenge. A quiet slap to the face of the untouchable Damien Blackwell, New York’s most principled golden bachelor.

She almost reached him when he snapped at the bartender.

The poor man looked seconds away from panic.

“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Benita said from behind him.

Damien turned, gave her a quick assessing glance, then faced the bartender again. “Should I applaud him for getting my order wrong?” he asked dryly.

“No,” she replied evenly. “But you can correct someone without making them feel small.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

She suspected the failed partnership had left him raw and she almost felt guilty.

Turning to the bartender, she smiled. “May I?”

Desperate for escape, the bartender nodded quickly and stepped aside.

Benita slipped behind the bar. “Mr. Blackwell,” she said calmly, “you don’t need bourbon right now. I’ll make you what you need.”

His brows lifted. “You know my name.”

“Only babies don’t know Damien Blackwell in New York.”

“You’re from New York?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“So what are you doing in Paris?”

“Vacation,” she said, sliding a glass toward him. “I call this Warm Ecstasy.”

She smiled and something in his chest shifted, more like a relief.

He stared at the drink, then at her. “Convince me.”

She leaned in slightly. “If you don’t like it, I won’t be offended.”

He took a sip.

The reaction was immediate. Heat bursted on his tongue, rich and smooth, burning straight to his stomach. Damien exhaled slowly, stunned.

Benita smiled. She knew that look.

“Can I have another?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Damien hadn’t come here looking for distraction and certainly not for a woman whose smile tugged unexpectedly at him. And yet here he was.

“About earlier,” he said after a moment. “I may have… overreacted.”

Benita laughed softly. “Is that your way of apologizing?”

“I’m saying—”

“I know what you’re saying,” she cut in gently. “Delivery matters.”

She placed another drink in front of him.

“Are you saying I lack social manners?” he asked, draining the glass.

She leaned closer, her fingers brushing his palm, light, deliberate. The electric sizzle he felt was instant. Who is this woman?

She tilted her head, lips near his ear. “Do you?”

Damien’s breath hitched.

He turned to her, their faces inches apart. Her perfume wrapped around him. His gaze dipped to her lips.

“Let’s start with names,” he murmured. “You know mine.”

She smiled slowly. “Call me Mystery.”

“Mystery,” he repeated. Obviously that's not her real name. “And what is Mystery doing in Paris?”

“Having fun,” she said softly. “And maybe getting laid.”

The honesty stunned him.

“Then let me make your vacation memorable,” he said, the words leaving him before he could stop them.

She met his gaze, surprised, even by herself. “Convince me.”

And he did.

They left the club together, laughter and music trailing behind them. He guided her into her coat, stopping her when she moved toward her car.

“In Paris,” he said, “you take cabs.”

She followed him without question.

The night unfolded like a dream. He took her street dancing, laughter  echoing between old stone buildings, a violinist playing a tune so haunting she melted against him without realizing it. His arm settled around her naturally, protectively.

Paris wasn’t just romantic.

It was romance.

He took her hand again, the spark undeniable, and strong. He led her toward the Eiffel Tower glowing gold against the night sky.

“They say lovers who make a wish here always get it,” he said.

She looked up at him. “Are we lovers?”

He smiled instead. “Let's say we are. Close your eyes.”

She did. And she wished.

When she opened them, his gaze was intense, focused solely on her. He stepped closer, hands settling on her waist, lifting her chin gently.

“What did you wish for?” she whispered.

He leaned in, lips hovering over hers. “You,” he murmured. “In my bed. Tonight.”

Then he kissed her.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was inevitable.