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Max reaches up, takes a strand of my hair, and tucks it behind my ear. His fingers drift over the sensitive shell of my ear and then down along my jaw.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says, his fingers resting on my cheek.
I turn my face into his hand until my lips connect with the tips of his fingers.
He draws in a breath, his chest expanding.“Anna.”
I look up. His eyes are closed.
“What?”
He takes another pained breath. “I’m trying very hard not to find out if all my memories are true.”
The corners of my mouth tug down. “What do you mean?—?”
He clears his throat.
I notice the stiffness of his shoulders; the tightness in his muscles. I look down, noticing the hard line of him visible through his jeans.
“Oh. Ohhhh.”
He opens his eyes and looks directly at me. “Exactly.”
My heart does a slow flip in my chest and then a rapid beat, responding to the heat in his eyes.
My skin is hot, flushed, and I have the sudden wild urge to lift my nightie free and let Max recreate anything he wants.Everything he wants.
“I never wanted passion,” he says, pulling his hand from my cheek. “I never wanted that kind of relationship.”
I try to catch up with what he’s saying, but it’s like trying to do long division after drinking a bottle of wine.
“The kind in my memory,” he clarifies. “I’ve always said passion isn’t what I’m looking for. But apparently, it’s what we have. Had. However you want to say it.”
We have a lot of sex. That’s what Max is saying. He remembers us having lots and lots of sex. Very good sex, if the tautness of his shoulders is anything to go by.
“Come to Paris with me.”
I shake my head, snapped out of my chocolate-mousse, lust-filled imaginings. “Sorry. What?”
Is he asking me to Paris to recreate our first week together? Does he want a no-museum, sex-filled weeklong wrist-bound orgy trip?
He smiles, and that eager, happy-the-day-has-begun look is back in place. “Like I said, I spent the night thinking. It appears I know you. It seems I like you. I think I can trust you.” He lifts a shoulder in a small shrug. “We’ll figure this out together. You made a mistake when you made that wish. Neither of us want this.” He gestures between us. “I have an idea to fix it. All we have to do is fly to Paris.”
“Paris?”
He smiles. “Paris.”
I say yes. He’s very convincing.
14
“Can I ask you a question?”
I study Max leaning back in the white leather club chair across from me. His ankles are crossed, he’s absently twisting the gold signet ring on his finger, and until I spoke, he was contemplating the snowy white clouds outside the jet window.
We’re in the air, soaring above the cloud line. Beneath us is a rolling white expanse of cumulus clouds intermittently broken with quick peeks at green fields stitched up with gray roads and patchwork towns.
I’ve never flown in a private jet before. Max has a number for his business, with three pilots on full-time standby. The larger jets fly between Geneva and New York or Singapore. The smaller, like this one, with only room for six passengers, flies shorter distances.
