My pulse sped along, making desire hum through my body, and I stifled a whimper when Vance released me. He stepped back and jammed his hands in his pockets, giving the impression he needed to put them somewhere else, so he wouldn’t put them on me.
“Are you okay?” He said it so quietly, it was heartbreaking. “Was that okay?”
“It was more than okay,” I whispered back.
He nodded, yet it looked like he didn’t know what to do with that information. He climbed down the single step and went to fetch Petra, who after reassurances from me, continued with the styling. But this time, their comments were nothing but glowing praise.
When it became Vance’s turn, he disappeared into the fitting room, and Petra went in the back with her team. I got up off the couch and wandered the small, elegant store because my nap earlier had only deferred my exhaustion. If I sat too long, I’d fall asleep.
The place had a minimalist design. The walls displayed clothing on hangars like it was art. Brass table legs were paired with white marble tops and spaced equal distance from each other, allowing shoppers plenty of room to browse. Although there wasn’t much to browse. The single stack of pants on the table nearest me only contained one sample of the design in each size.
The door to the front opened, and a man walked in, making me furrow my brow. The boutique had a ‘closed’ sign hung in the window. The guy, who looked to be around thirty, scanned the place until his gaze landed on me.
French spilled from his mouth as he strolled forward.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t speak French.”
“Ah, American?”
“Yes.”
“You must not work here.” His English was excellent, with barely an accent, but it wasn’t French either. German? Austrian? He had dark blond hair and a day’s worth of scruff covering his dimples when he smiled.
“No,” I said. “I don’t work here.”
He’d strutted in with so much swagger, I immediately sized him up the way I did when looking for marks at Times Square. If I thought Vance oozed cockiness, this guy was an arrogance bomb. He wore black jeans and a simple fitted t-shirt with a brand name printed on it, but one I didn’t recognize. His sneakers were probably several thousand dollars, and the clunky silver watch around his wrist was the expensive accessory to complete his ensemble. He was handsome, but his air of smugness was so strong, it overpowered his cologne.
I couldn’t tell if this guy had money, or just wanted people to think he did. Monaco was where the filthy rich came to play, but Vance had said it also brought out the wannabes. As the man stared at me expectantly, his smile widened like there was some joke I wasn’t getting.
It made me uncomfortable. “I don’t know if anyone will be out to help you,” I offered. “The store’s actually closed right now.”
“This is fine.” He waved a hand, brushing my comment away. “They will make time for me.”
I pressed my lips together and glanced at the doorway that led to the fitting room, silently willing Vance or Petra to hurry up and save me from Mr. Ego.
The man’s eyes sparkled with amusement, unable to stand it any longer. “Do you not know who I am?”
It came out before I could think better of it. “Should I?”
My biting reply somehow delighted him. “Most people do, so this is refreshing.” He evaluated me head to toe and moved closer. “It’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t.” I expected him to thrust out a hand and introduce himself, but all he did was invade my space and continue to stare at me like I was a unicorn.
“So, who are you?” It seemed like he wanted me to ask.
He tilted his head to the side. “Maybe I like it better if you don’t know.”
Whatever, dude.
Maybe he’d like it even more if I told him to go flirt with someone else. He was obviously some sort of celebrity. Perhaps he was a singer who was big in Europe, or a soccer star. He was tall, athletic, and attractive . . .
There was a charity fashion show later this week on our agenda. “Are you a model?”
He was utterly thrilled by my question and laughed, shifting his weight so he was closer still. His lips parted to deliver his answer, but a male voice across the room interrupted.
“No.” Vance’s tone was even and controlled, but—was he upset? He looked vaguely unhappy, and it didn’t seem to be caused by the fit of his sports jacket. “His name is Niko Leitner,” he said. “One of the drivers for Red Bull.”
During the primer Vance had given me on the plane yesterday, he’d explained how Mercedes’ number one driver had battled all season last year to win the drivers’ championship. It’d been a bitter fight between him and another driver, including some questionable crashes and penalties handed down by the stewards. But at the end, Mercedes had lost.