Chapter 6: If She Runs, He Follows

Adrian waits, his hand still curved around the back of Rosalie’s neck.

The corners of his eyes are red, but there is no give in his expression.

Marry me first.

Rosalie looks away.

Marriage is impossible. She cannot give him the future he wants. But walking away empty-handed is not an option either.

If pushing harder won’t work, she’ll have to change tactics.

She checks her reflection in the dark window.

Her lipstick is mostly gone, leaving her lips pink and swollen. Loose curls soften the polished look she wore into the ballroom. The blue gown still hugs every curve exactly as intended.

She looks thoroughly kissed.

Adrian used to lose every ounce of restraint around her.

What happened to him?

Her gaze dips.

He notices at once. One hand comes down over the front of his jacket as he shifts farther into the corner of the seat.

Rosalie sees nothing and gives up—for tonight.

Fine. If he wants to play difficult, she can play hard to get.

She pushes against his shoulder and slides back to her side of the car. “Let me out. I’m going home.”

Adrian goes rigid.

“Home where?” He sits up so quickly that the last trace of heat vanishes from his face. “You’re not leaving.”

Rosalie stares at him. “I’m going back to my hotel. Why wouldn’t you let me?”

Understanding dawns, and one corner of her mouth lifts.

“Unless you’re inviting me home so we can finish what we started?”

Adrian ignores the bait.

He studies her for another second, making sure she means the hotel and not France, before his shoulders ease.

“Which hotel?”

“The Aster. Obviously.”

He presses the intercom. “Turn around. Back to the Aster.”

The car changes direction at the next intersection.

Rosalie folds her arms and turns toward the window, committing fully to her sudden lack of interest.

Adrian lasts three minutes.

Her reflection floats over the passing lights. Loose hair exposes the pale line of her neck, and the gown follows her narrow waist.

He watches with the grim concentration of a man punishing himself.

His breathing deepens.

Slowly, the hand resting on his knee lifts toward her.

The intercom crackles.

“We’re here, Mr. Mercer.”

Adrian’s hand stops in midair.

Rosalie hides a smile and reaches for the door. Before she can step out, his suit jacket settles over her bare shoulders, still warm from his body.

“It’s cold,” he says. “Wear it.”

She keeps it.

Outside, she crosses the entrance at an unhurried pace. The oversized jacket hangs from her narrow shoulders like something stolen after a much more satisfying evening.

She knows Adrian is watching, so she walks a little slower.

She nearly reaches the lobby before she hears the car door open behind her.

Adrian follows her inside, then into the elevator, then all the way down the quiet hall to her room.

Her back remains cool and indifferent while satisfaction curls warmly in her chest.

At her door, she taps the key card and steps inside.

Adrian stops at the threshold.

So close.

She leans against the doorframe and folds her arms, letting his jacket fall open over her dress. “Would you like to come in, Mr. Mercer?”

Her voice turns soft enough to make the invitation sound indecent.

She hooks one finger through his belt and tugs him closer.

“Mrs. Mercer must be asleep by now.”

Adrian’s throat works.

She looks like a beautiful little scandal—kissed lips, his jacket on her shoulders, one hand at his belt while she invites a supposedly married man into her hotel room.

His body follows before his judgment catches up. One step brings him to the edge of the room.

One more, and there will be no stopping.

Rosalie’s eyes brighten. Victory is already in her smile.

That smile saves him.

Adrian comes to his senses with brutal clarity. If he gives her what she wants tonight, she could be on a plane tomorrow.

He cannot survive that twice.

He closes his hand around hers and removes it from his belt.

“Another time,” he says, his mouth curving. “My wife keeps a close eye on me. She’ll be checking in soon.”

Rosalie’s smile disappears.

She tears off his jacket and throws it at his chest. “Then get lost.”

Adrian catches it with a grin.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he says, his expression turning serious.

She gives him her back and starts closing the door. At the last second, her face appears again in the gap. Her gaze travels slowly down his body and pauses below his waist.

“Adrian, did five years without sex finally break you?”

“Rosalie!”

The warning comes out as a growl.

She slams the door in his face.

A second later, the security lock snaps into place—loudly, as if she wants him to hear it.

Adrian stands in the hallway clutching a jacket that smells like her, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

Then, despite himself, he laughs.

Ten minutes later, the Bentley pulls away from the hotel.

Adrian sits in the back with the jacket beside him. The fear that seized him when she said she was going home has not completely faded.

For one terrible second, he thought she meant France.

He thought she was leaving again, and he would be trapped waiting for a woman who might never come back.

He takes out his phone and calls Evan.

“Have Legal look into long-term options for France.”

There is a brief silence. “You can enter for ninety days without a visa. Are you planning to stay longer?”

“I want the option.”

“On what basis?”

Adrian looks out at the city lights.

“Have International evaluate opening an R&D center in Paris. If the project makes sense, use the business route.”

Evan is quiet for another beat. “How soon do you need this?”

Adrian’s gaze drops to the jacket beside him.

“Before she runs again.”