It was meant to be a quick kiss, just to express her overwhelming gratitude for what he’d done for her today. His actions had gone beyond kindness. That he had noticed her paperback, and on a whim, changed their plans for returning to Venice!
Her kiss was meant to simply thank him. Nothing more. Or so she told herself.
But when their lips brushed, she felt a sizzle of electricity that shook her deep inside. She quickly pulled away, and their eyes locked on the platform of the Gare de l’Est, where they stood next to the shining carriage of their luxury train.
The two satchels fell from Alex’s shoulders. Looking at her intently, he cupped her face with both his large hands and lowered his head swiftly to hers.
His kiss was not gentle. It had nothing to do with gratitude.
His lips seared hers, burning her. She gasped as her whole world swirled around her, around the train platform in Paris, as the most handsome, powerful man she’d ever met held her tightly to his muscular body and plundered her mouth in the most amazing kiss of her life.
When he finally pulled away, Rosalie was dazed, lost. Sprinkles of stars, a penumbra of rainbow-colored fairy dust, hovered on the edges of her vision.
“What—was that?” she breathed.
“Don’t you know? Haven’t you guessed?” Alex looked down at her. Running his fingertips along the edge of her cheek, he said huskily, “I want you, Rosalie.”
For a moment, she was lost in the dark fire of his gaze. She heard a loud whistle, and a conductor calling out in French before he said in English, with good humor, “Young lovers, do you need help with your bags?”
Blushing, Rosalie turned back to Alex.
“We’re supposed to board,” she said, somewhat lamely.
“Yes. I heard him.” A lazy smile lifted to Alex’s lips. He picked up the two satchels from the platform. “Shall we?”
She followed him, feeling like she’d fallen into an alternate universe. Alex Falconeri, the Conte di Rialto, had kissed her. He’d said he wanted her.
No. It couldn’t be true. She had to be dreaming!
But as he helped her up the train steps, Rosalie felt his hand against the curve of her lower back. And she shivered, caught between desire and fear, as they boarded the Orient Express bound for Venice.
CHAPTER FIVE
HE NEVER SHOULD have kissed her.
As the evening passed, and they’d boarded the train and found their separate compartments, Alex despised himself for his weakness. Even as he’d escorted Rosalie to their dining car and they sat across from each other for the elegant four-course meal, an underlying sexual tension had filled in all the spaces between their awkward dinner conversation, and he’d seen the unspoken question in her eyes.
What about his kiss? What did it mean? And above all: Would it happen again?
He would not let himself seduce her. He could not give her the love or the kind of marriage she clearly dreamed of. But he intended to make her happy. So he’d spent the whole day in Paris trying to charm her, to make her glad she’d agreed to move to Italy—while at the same time, keeping his emotional and physical distance.
Then he’d ruined it all by kissing her at the Gare de l’Est.
No matter how beautiful Rosalie
had looked, no matter how wildly his body had reacted when she’d thrown her arms around him and pressed her soft lips to his, he should never have lost control and kissed her back.
After that kiss, he’d desperately needed a cold shower, and sadly his private compartment on the refurbished 1920s-era train did not have one. He deliberately hadn’t booked the grand suite for two, with its anachronistic large bed and en suite shower. He was grimly determined to keep his distance.
Especially at night.
After sharing the hotel suite with Rosalie in Paris, Alex had known he could not endure another such night, tossing and turning on the sofa, aware that just a few steps away in the darkness, this beautiful, half-naked woman was wrapped around the pillows of a king-size bed. Just seeing her yesterday morning in a thin T-shirt which showed the detailed shape of her belly, her nipples and swollen breasts, and the little knit sleep shorts that rested below her pregnant tummy, clinging to the very edge of her hips as if they might fall off!
It was torture.
To be fair, in his overheated state, anything and everything felt like too much. Throughout their Paris tour yesterday, he’d been constantly aware of her, sitting beside him in the back seat of the Rolls. So he’d talked too much, tried to distract himself from his desire by telling one absurd tale after another. Even now, he could hardly believe he’d told Rosalie about the wine blight of 1871.
He’d never felt so out of control.