Page 6 of The Stranger

Oh, so you want to share my herpes, do you?

I’m only here to observe? My ribbon. I glance down at my wrist. Where the hell has it gone?

But as my brain seems to catch up, I realize he spoke in French, and I have an out.

“Can I help you?” I begin as I turn, all frowning and cutely confused. English girl without a lick of French just entered the chat.

Two men sit at a table, a bottle of wine between them. One is fair-haired and all smiles, the other dark-haired, broad shouldered, and brooding. The one thing they have in common is they’re both unfairly good looking.

“Anglais,” the blond says to the grump in French. And then he says something about me being just his type.

“I’m sure lots of women would totally be into this grade A sausage-fest before me, but I’m sort of in a hurry,” I say.

“Saucisson?” The blond gives a playful quirk of his lips, and my stomach plummets. But lots of French speakers would recognize the word ‘sausage’ in an English sentence.

Wouldn’t they?

“Yes, sausage.” I give a definitive nod of my head. “Sausage I’m not at all interested in, so…” I give my wrist a shake. But the blond just flashes me a wide smile that speaks of expensive dentistry.

Given his attitude, his designer suit, and heavy watch, I’m going to say he thinks he’s a bit of a catch. And maybe he is if you’re into the group thing. Or the public thing. Or maybe he likes to have his bum tickled with a peacock feather. I give a shake of my head as the image of just that flits through my mind.

“That’s a pretty smile,” he says, still speaking Français.

Said smile deflates. If I wasn’t pretending not to understand I’d tell him exactly how much women appreciate it when a strange man comments on their mood. I mean, I’m sure you’d be more attractive if you knuckle-dragged your way back to the 1950s, but we can’t always get what we want.

“Do you think she has any French?” The blond’s gaze slides to his friend. “La langue de l'amour.”

The language of love in the house of fucking? Cupid would probably off himself.

His dark-haired companion seems to agree as he makes a noise of pure derision. My attention shifts automatically and, holy moly! The instant our eyes meet, something jolts through my body straight to my soul. The sensation is considerably more pleasant than the time I accidentally stuck a fork in the toaster, but it feels no less electrifying.

His gaze drops and travels over me with a slow, sensual intent. By the time his eyes return to mine, I’ve forgotten how to breath.

Turns out, I do like older men. But just the ones who look like they would put the world at a girl’s feet. And put anyone who hurt her six feet beneath it.

The (dumb) blond waggles an admonishing finger between us, putting my fanciful thoughts to an end.

“Ah-non! Prems!”

What is he, twelve? Prems is the equivalent of calling dibs. You can’t call dibs on people. But maybe you can at a sex club.

“Hey!” I exclaim as he tugs me a closer. I look to the man with the startling blue eyes, but he merely reaches for his glass.

He’s older than his tablemate, his hair almost black, his brow stern and his jaw chiseled. Lashes laminated by an unfair god.

“Assieds-toi.” Take a seat. The blonde actually pats his knee.

Barf. I give my head a hard shake. “My friend will be looking for me,” I continue as I try to ignore how his gaze slides over me. It doesn’t feel as good as when dark and dangerous did the same. Though his gaze is now cold, and his posture arranged into complete indifference.

His attention span must be minuscule.

“That’s not very friendly.” Tom Cruise teeth slides his thumb over my hammering pulse. My reaction is instinctual as I yank my arm.

“Let go.” I sound much calmer than I feel. Should I say it in French, or will that just make things worse?

“Relax,” he continues, all boyish smile and reassurance. I’m not buying it.

“Nils,” the other man chides, more bored than bothered. “Leave the girl alone.”