Stryke Saint-Pierre, by the way.”
“Blyss Sauveterre,” she offered. And oh, yes, she was. “What sort of pre nom is Stryke?”
“The one my parents gave me. Uh, I’m from the US.”
“That is obvious from your accent,” she said with not even a smile.
Nope. He wasn’t going to win her over this way. Damn. Way to spoil things. Worst pickup ever. Now to extricate himself without humiliating her more than himself.
“Uh, could we move over near that column where there’s more light?”
He nodded toward a marble column at the edge of the gathering. Not a lot of people milling on that side of the gallery. They’d be granted some privacy to perform this delicate operation.
“If it’ll deliver me of your groping hand, then oui.”
She started toward the column and he followed, but it was easiest to let his fingers gently curl about her behind. Yeah, it wasn’t cool, but what about this situation was cool?
Once at the column he pulled her around to the other side, where they found privacy and better light.
“Excuse me for what I’m going to do,” he said.
Her lips pursed. Her bright green eyes were the most valuable jewels in the room tonight. And those pink lips. They looked moist and so wanting of a kiss. No chance of kissing them after this embarrassing debacle. Not as if he’d a chance with this delicious bit in the first place.
Stryke bent behind her to work at the tangle. She slid a hand down her hip, uncomfortable, he guessed. And impatient. God, she smelled amazing. All flowers covered in sugar and fluttering over him until he was buried in sweetness.
“So this is how American men meet women?” she asked over her shoulder. “Snag them like a poisson?”
Poisson? What was that? Poison? Hell, he didn’t know. “Not generally. I like to take a less aggressive tact when I’m interested in a woman.” Though certainly he was on the hunt. Wrong breed, though. This one he’d have to toss back. Ah! Poisson meant fish. “I suspect I’m not your type anyway.”
“What, or rather, who do you guess is my type, Monsieur Stryke?”
When she said his name like that Stryke wished they were the only two in the gallery, and that he had the courage to kiss her and steal away more of her elegant French words.
“Your type...” He stood and kept their close proximity by running his hand over her hip, and said, “...is rich.”
She quirked a perfectly arched brow. The eyeliner circling her beautiful bright eyes had been drawn out at the corners in a catty tease. As he had with the marble statues, Stryke reminded himself not to touch. This wasn’t the venue or crowd that appreciated his kind of sensual curiosity. He’d have to save the smoothing of his fingers over her skin for the bedroom. Which was never going to happen.
“So you do not qualify?” she asked. “Rich?”
“I do well enough.”
In truth, he could probably beat most of the people here tonight in a show of financial statements, but he didn’t like to brag. He was most comfortable living below his means. And if a woman judged a man by his checkbook? He wasn’t interested.
She tapped his free wrist where the diamond cuff link glinted. “I suspect you do.”
He wasn’t about to correct her assumption. Why create another mark against him?
“I’ve been in Paris two days,” he offered. “I have to say you’ve made the trip worthwhile.”
“How is that?”
Leaning closer, just managing the skim of his coat front against her back, he spoke near her ear when a curl of her hair tickled his cheek.
“You’ve pulled me out of my world and into a fantasy. Not often that happens to a guy. Would it be crass to ask if you’ve a boyfriend?”
“It would.”
He nodded. Yeah, he wasn’t going to score interest from this glamour girl.
She tilted her gaze at him and he couldn’t determine if she was disgusted or maybe intrigued. “Have you managed to detach yourself?”
He displayed the cuff link he’d freed from her dress minutes earlier. But since she’d been engaged in talking, he’d not informed her of her freedom too quickly. And the stolen moments of standing in her air? Priceless.
She clasped the cuff link. And then he remembered it wasn’t his. He shouldn’t just hand it over like that.
“Blyss,” he repeated, not addressing her, more feeling the taste of her on his tongue.
She dipped her lashes before looking directly at him and dragging the diamond cuff link across her kiss-me-now lips. “Oui?”
Oh, man, those lips said things he wanted to be true. He breathed her name again. It was so appropriate. Every pore on his body inhaled her perfume and imagined her sugar-flower taste as her silken skin glided against his body.
Before he could claim the cuff link, she strode off. Long legs moved her swiftly, high heels clicking the marble floor. The hand behind her back toggled the diamond cuff link, allowing it to catch the light teasingly. She didn’t reenter the crowd, but instead veered toward the curved marble wall where he had earlier seen the waiters coming and going.
Before walking through an open doorway, she cast a look over her shoulder at him. The cuff link was in her mouth, glinting between those luscious lips.
Stryke’s jaw dropped open. He didn’t need an interpreter to guess what she was saying.
Come claim it. If you dare.
Stryke Saint-Pierre was one gorgeous man. And polite. While he could have copped a feel when they’d been tangled out on the museum floor, he had remained the consummate gentleman. Too bad for her. Blyss wanted to feel his deft fingers smooth over her derriere. She wanted to lose herself in the rugged smell of him, the roughness of him.
And she wanted to feel that now.
She strode down the dimly lit hallway toward the back office. It was her office, but she shared it with Lorcan, her assistant, and used it principally for paperwork, business calls and the occasional make-out session with a sexy man. It was what she did. She saw an attractive man. She wanted him. She won him. The winning part gave her immense satisfaction. And sometimes a sparkler for her finger or ear. She was choosy, most certainly, and discreet. And never greedy.
Tonight the win was born of necessity.
“You live in Paris?” she called back.
“Staying for a week or so, then heading back home to Minnesota.”
Perfect. He’d be gone and out of her hair as soon as she had accomplished her task.
Minnesota? Blyss vaguely imagined a tundra with blowing winds and snow and—not of interest to her.
As she unlocked and opened the door and strode into the office, she surreptitiously glanced over a shoulder to catch the strut of the man’s long, confident strides. Following at a distance. Smart man. Well, she did have something of his that he wanted back. The cuff link was too small to sell for any worthwhile amount, so she would give it back.
But first, to enact part two of tonight’s plan.
Stryke closed the door behind him.
“Lock it,” Blyss cooed. She stood across the room and turned, back against the wall, one leg bent and a black patent leather shoe heeling the wall.
The