Relieved to be moving away from personal areas, Leila said, ‘I’ve never tasted anything like it.’ Then she admitted ruefully, ‘I haven’t travelled much, though.’
‘You were born here?’
Leila reached for her water, as muc
h to cool herself down as anything else. ‘Yes, my mother travelled over when she was pregnant. My father was French.’
‘Was?’
Leila immediately regretted letting that slip out. But her mother was no longer alive. Surely the secret didn’t have to be such a secret any more? But then she thought of how easily her father had turned his back on them and repeated her mother’s words, used whenever anyone had asked a similar question. ‘He died a long time ago. I never knew him.’
To her relief, Alix didn’t say anything to that, just looked at her consideringly. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Leila tried not to think too hard about where she was and who she was with.
When she’d cleared half her plate she sneaked a look at Alix. He was sitting back, cradling his glass of wine, looking at her. And just like that her skin prickled with heat.
‘I hope I didn’t lose you too much custom by taking up your attention today?’
He looked entirely unrepentant, and in spite of herself Leila had to allow herself a small wry smile. ‘No—the opposite. The business has been struggling to get back on track since the recession...niche industries like mine were the worst hit.’
Alix frowned. ‘Yet you kept hold of your shop?’
Leila nodded, tensing a little at the thought of the uphill battle to restore sales. ‘I’ve owned it outright since my mother died.’
‘That’s good—but you could sell. You don’t need me to tell you what that shop and flat must be worth in this part of Paris.’
Leila’s insides clenched hard. ‘I won’t ever sell,’ she said in a low voice. The shop and the flat were her mother’s legacy to her—a safe haven. Security. She barely knew this man...she wasn’t about to confide in him.
Feeling self-conscious again, she took her napkin from her lap and put it on the table. That silver gaze narrowed on her.
‘I should go. Thank you for dinner—you really didn’t have to.’
She saw a muscle twitch in Alix’s jaw and half expected—wanted?—him to stop her from going.
But he just stood up smoothly and said, ‘Thank you for joining me.’
Much to Leila’s sense of disorientation, Alix made no effort to detain her with offers of tea or coffee. He picked up the bag that she’d had with her when she’d arrived and handed it to her in the main reception room.
Feeling at a loss, and not liking the sense of disappointment that he was letting her go so easily, Leila said again, ‘Thank you.’
Alix bowed slightly towards her and once again she was struck by his sheer beauty and all that potent masculinity. He looked as if he was about to speak some platitude, then he stopped and said, ‘Actually... I have tickets to the opera for tomorrow evening. I wonder if you’d like to join me?’
Leila didn’t trust his all-too-innocent façade for a second—as if he’d just thought of it. But she couldn’t think straight because giddy relief was mocking her for the disappointment she’d felt just seconds ago because he was letting her go so easily.
She was dealing with a master here.
This was not the first time a man had asked her out but it still hit her in the solar plexus like a blow. Her last disastrous dating experience rose like a dark spectre in her memory—except this man in front of her eclipsed Pierre Gascon a hundred times over. Enough to give her a little frisson of satisfaction.
As if any man could compete with this tall, dark specimen before her. Sexy. Leila had never been overtly aware of sexual longing before. But now she was—she could feel the awareness throbbing in her blood, between her legs.
And it was that awareness of how out of her depth Alix Saint Croix made her feel that had Leila blurting out, ‘I really don’t think it would be a good idea.’ Coward, whispered a voice.
He lifted a brow in lazy enquiry. ‘And why would that be? You’re single...I’m single. We’re two consenting adults. I’m offering a pleasant way to spend the evening. That’s all.’
Now she felt gauche. She was thinking of sex when he certainly wasn’t. ‘I’m just...not exactly in your league, Monsieur Saint Croix—’
‘It’s Alix,’ he growled, coming closer. ‘Call me Alix.’
Leila swallowed, caught in the beam of those incredible eyes. ‘Alix...’