SUMMER

I ARRIVE at the restaurant at exactly eight o’clock, letting the wind in with me as I push through the heavy doors. It’s a chilly night, and I’m clad in a thick black faux fur coat Monty found for me on our shopping excursion. It’s short, but just enough to cover my minidress, my legs still completely exposed. They glow from the exfoliation treatment I gave them in the shower earlier. I paid special attention to my entire body for tonight, Monty instructing me to do so. He wanted me to prepare myself as if I were going to have sex with the King of Sultan, direct quote.

I don’t know where he gets his silly ideas, but I went along with it, enjoying the pampering. Since I’ve been in Paris, I haven’t indulged in much self- care. I’ve been too busy, trying to keep my mind and body active so I won’t sink back into the memories that haunt me.

This last week with Monty has felt like a high fantasy moment. Giving me a glimmer of my old life, when I naively believed Whit would gladly relinquish everything to be with me. That week leading up to Thanksgiving were some of my favorite moments with him. When he chased me all over the Lancaster estate, finding me in dark corners where he would then ravish me with his beautiful mouth and hands as my prize.

I miss that mouth and those hands. I even miss the dark, disturbing things he would say to me. No one made me feel like Whit Lancaster.

No one.

An imposing set of marble stairs rises before me, draped in blood red carpet. I carefully walk up them, my ankles wobbly thanks to the five-inch heels of my stilettos. They’re whisper thin, as are the silver straps that cross my feet, and I know it would take nothing to topple me completely over, planting me on my face.

Reaching out, I grab the balustrade, holding onto it for dear life as I reach the top of the stairs. The floor is covered in black and white marble tiles, my heels clicking as I walk across them, toward the single open doorway with the restaurant’s subtle sign to the left of it. The room within beckons, dark and mysterious, and I frown, surprised I don’t hear the low murmurs of conversation, the delicate clink of silverware hitting fine china.

I hear nothing at all.

Still not quite sure of Monty’s motives, or what he’s all about in regards to tonight’s dinner. I feel like I’m his doll and he’s playing dress up with me. He wants me to look a certain way, to be this sort of—sex bomb to drop men to their knees or whatever. I kept questioning him about tonight’s dinner guests, but he remained frustratingly mum. It’s annoying.

I’m sure he’s doing it on purpose, wanting to be mysterious. It’s working. Too well.

Once I enter the overly warm restaurant, my hands go to the front of my coat, and I wish I could rid myself of it. A man in an elegant gray suit materializes out of nowhere, stepping toward me with a polite smile as he helps me out of it. I smile at him, murmuring, “Merci,” as he takes my coat for me.

His gaze remains trained on my face the entire time, never once looking at my body, and I wonder if someone warned him of what I could be possibly wearing.

Though the idea is ridiculous. Why would anyone need to do that?

“Right this way, mademoiselle,” he says, his French accent heavy as he holds his hand out, indicating where I need to go. The restaurant is small. Dark. Intimate. There’s no one else in the room, which is strange. It’s

Friday night. It should be bustling with business, every table full of people eating and drinking and talking.

We pass through many connected rooms, every single one of them empty, before we stop in the last room. There’s a singular round table in the center with only two chairs and place settings in front of them. Frowning, I glance over at the man but he merely smiles and nods before he leaves me completely alone.

Our dinner party is really only for two? Me and Monty? That’s it?

Disappointment floods me, and I revel in it for a while. I’d hoped to meet someone new. Other people that are Monty’s friends who I could laugh and drink with. Instead, it’s just the two of us, and for a moment, I allow myself to be sad.

But that only last for a few minutes. I’ve wallowed enough about things almost my entire life. Time to move on and be strong.

I walk around the room, trailing my fingers along the dark gray-paneled wall, until I stop in front of the window, staring outside at the busy Paris night. There is an endless stream of cars on the street below, and people walking along the sidewalks. The trees are starting to bloom, lovely and hopeful in the dreary, windy weather, those blossoms clinging to the branches for dear life. I touch the cool glass with my fingertips, my nipples tightening from the outside chill.

It’s when I feel the presence of someone entering the room that my body stiffens, and I keep my back to him. It’s a man. I can smell his cologne. Rich and distinct, I inhale discreetly, not recognizing the scent. Did Monty change his signature cologne? Highly doubtful, since he bought a vat of it at Hermes when I was with him, and it smells nothing like this.

Seconds pass, gaining quickly on a minute, and still the man says nothing. I avert my head, about to glance over my shoulder, when he barks at me:

“Don’t turn around.”

My heart thumping wildly in my chest, I do as he says, vaguely recognizing the voice. It’s purposely deeper, as if he’s trying to disguise it, and I wonder who he is.

In the darkest, deepest recesses of my soul, I recognize him. I know him. He draws closer, my entire body lighting up, and I close my eyes, hope against hope filling me. I’m trembling, a mixture of fear and excitement swirling within me. He pauses directly behind me and I dip my head, glancing down at my feet. I can see his dark dress shoes, the hem of his black trousers. My breath lodges in my throat as I wait for something, any sort of acknowledgment.

A shaky exhale escapes me as I feel it—a single finger drifting down my back, feather-light, sending goosebumps rising in its wake as it moves lower. Lower. Until it reaches the base of my spine, tugging gently on the mesh fabric pooled there, his knuckle grazing my skin.

The finger vanishes, leaving a pang of disappointment, but moments later, he settles his hands on my shoulders, gripping me firmly. I breathe a sigh of relief, my body immediately responding to his touch.

“Whit,” I whisper.

His grip tightens, keeping me anchored. I open my eyes to see my reflection in the window, and his, right behind me. I drink in his appearance greedily—he’s just as beautiful as I remember, maybe even more so now. He looks older, more like a man. His jaw is as sharp as ever, his cheekbones prominent, accentuated by that delectable mouth. I study him unashamedly in the reflection, realizing he’s doing the same to me, though his gaze is roaming my body.

“What the hell are you wearing?” he asks, his deep voice filled with wonder. “Did Monty choose this dress just to drive me out of my mind? Because it’s working.”

I stiffen beneath his touch, trying to pull away, but he won’t let me go. “You planned this with Monty?”

“How else do you think I found you?” He steps closer, his body heat radiating against me. The brush of his clothes against my mostly bare skin. “Are you happy to see me, Savage? It’s been a long time.”

I’m torn between wanting to slap him and wanting to throw myself at him. “Why are you here, Whit?”

“We have the restaurant to ourselves. I rented it for the night,” he says, his voice dripping with smugness.

I frown. “Monty said it was a dinner party.”

“For two.”

“I thought there would be more people,” I admit, hating how confused I sound. “Like Monty. He said he would be here.”

“Your dear friend lied to you.” Whit trails his fingers down my arm, leaving me trembling. “Have you missed me?”

I thought that when I finally saw Whit after all these months—well over a year—I would be thrilled. But I’m not.

I’m angry. Infuriated. I feel deceived, used. What else is new?

“No,” I snap.

“Really? Your body is telling me otherwise.” He brazenly touches my breast, his thumb slowly brushing against my nipple through the mesh, offering little protection. My nipple hardens instantly, and he flicks it again, making me ache. “This dress should be fucking criminal. I can see everything.”

I swallow hard, fighting the shame that threatens to overwhelm me. Wearing this dress and coming here tonight was a huge mistake. I walked straight into a trap, just like the naïve girl I’ve always been. I’m just like my mother. “Why did you do this? How?”

“I missed you,” he says simply, as if that’s explanation enough. “I wanted to give you some space before I made my move.”

“That sounds like bullshit,” I spit.

“It’s the truth,” he replies firmly. “I knew you were in Paris pretty much from the day you arrived.”

I’m fuming. Monty was the only one I kept in contact with, so he must have been the one to give me away to Whit. But why? And why is Whit here?

“Yet you didn’t reach out to me.” If he truly wanted me, he would’ve done something about it by now, not kept away for so long.

“You didn’t want to be found.” He releases my shoulders and reaches around to my front, his hands settling over my breasts, tugging gently on the mesh fabric. “You might as well be naked.”

“Don’t touch me,” I say through clenched teeth.

He laughs, the sound vibrating against my ear before he lightly bites my earlobe. “You’re shaking, Savage. You want this so badly. Just as badly as I do.”

Whit presses his hips against my backside, his cock nudging me. I close my eyes, feeling powerless but not ready to give in just yet.

“You need to talk to me first,” I tell him, hating how weak I sound. He despises weakness, I know that. “Tell me why you’re here, and what you want from me.”

“First, I want this.” He releases my breast, his hand drifting down my side, slipping beneath the hem of my dress to cup me between my legs. “I’m reclaiming it.”

“You don’t own me,” I whisper, biting my bottom lip as he exerts slight pressure against my sensitive flesh, thinly covered by my nude thong.

“I own this. It’s always been mine,” he says arrogantly. “Since we were fourteen, Savage. Remember that night?”

How could I forget?

“It’s burned in my memory,” he admits. “And all the other nights we’ve shared. So many. We couldn’t get enough of each other.” He shifts his fingers, pressing harder, his index finger sliding between my pussy lips.

I lean my head against his chest, a sigh escaping me as he begins to stroke. What is he doing to me? I’m ashamed of how my body reacts instantly to his touch—my knees wobbling, my core tightening, eager for more. My head swims with memories of his voice and his lips.

“I’ve bided my time, waited for you while I got my affairs in order,” he says, his fingers toying with me, making my thong damp with each stroke. “When the opportunity arose, I took it. Now here we are. Together again.”

I pull away from him, immediately missing his warmth and touch. Turning to face him, I take in his elegant black suit, neatly trimmed hair, and that devastatingly handsome face.

He looks at me as if there’s no other woman in the world for him. Just me. Only me.

“I have something for you,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine as he reaches for the table behind him, picking something up. “It doesn’t belong to me.”

He extends his hand, and I see my journal clutched in his long fingers. My stomach lurches at the sight, my mouth going dry. I hate that journal. It’s what got me in trouble in the first place.

I meet his icy blue eyes, feeling them pierce through me. “The last time I saw my journal, it was in your mother’s possession.”

A flicker of irritation crosses his face before it disappears. “She said and did things to you that I’m still not happy about.”

“She threatened me, Whit. Said she’d call the police and claim I started the fire. That I killed my stepfather and Yates,” I throw at him.

He flinches at Yates’ name, and I wonder why. “Idle threats. She’s not a concern for you anymore.”

“Yeah, right.” I snort. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust any of you.” I start to walk past him, but he grabs my arm, his grip firm enough to keep me from escaping. “Let me go.”

“Listen to me first.”

“No.”

“Summer.” His voice softens, a rare pleading tone that surprises me. “At least sit and have dinner with me. Let me explain.”

I pout, still glaring. “I hate you and Monty for tricking me into this.”

“You don’t hate Monty.” His confidence is unshakable.

“I definitely hate you,” I spit.

Whit actually grins, and the sight takes my breath away. “That’s exactly what I was counting on.”

“Why couldn’t you have just asked if I wanted to see you?”

“Would you have said yes?”

“No,” I answer immediately.

“Then that’s why,” he says drolly.

He lets me go, his words lingering as he pulls out a chair for me. As soon as we’re seated, a server appears—a crisp white jacket, serving us wine before Whit speaks to him in fluent French.

I watch him, wondering who he’s become. It’s been a year and a half since I last saw him, and we’ve both changed. At least, I have. I’m sure he has too.

Once the server is gone, I lean across the table, glaring at Whit as his gaze drops to the front of my barely-there bodice. “You need to start explaining.”

He reaches for his wineglass, taking a sip and swirling the pale liquid. “What do you want to know?”

“What happened with you and Leticia?”

Whit sighs, setting his glass down. “You would ask that first.”

“She was your future bride, after all,” I say tightly.

“I ended things with her not long after you left. She broke the stipulations of our contract with her secret drug habit,” he says. “She’s been clean for over a year.”

“Good for her,” I reply, sounding more resentful than I intend. “Do you still talk to her?”

“I do.” He tilts his head. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Not at all,” I say haughtily before sampling the wine. It’s crisp, cold, and delicious.

“Good. Her girlfriend has no issues with us communicating either.”

I set my glass down with a thud. “She’s a lesbian?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You say lesbian as if it’s a bad thing.”

“No, of course not,” I say defensively. Leticia seemed so into Whit at that dinner…

“She’s bisexual. Not that I should air her private business, but she won’t mind,” he says. “Part of why she turned to drugs was