Page 7 of Brutal Heir

He gave my waist a squeeze as he laughed. The sound didn’t reach his eyes. “If I couldn’t already tell from your adorable accent that you’re American, I’d know from your suspicious attitude. You mentioned it a few moments ago.”

Had I? I couldn’t think straight with him this close.

He thought my accent was adorable.

Dammit.

Focus.

I glanced between him and the car while I bit my lip.

His gaze sharpened when he stared at my mouth.

It wouldn’t surprise me if he was the type to hold a woman’s neck while devouring her lips—just like all those sexy-as-hell, but unrealistic, domineering book boyfriends I loved to read about.

Before I could catch myself, I leaned into him, angling my head. My pulse thundered in my ears.

“Is that a yes?”

Catching myself, I tried to break away, but once again, his hand on my lower back stopped me. Holding me close. Too close—possessively close.

I shook my head. “I shouldn’t.”

I’d have to be insane to get into the car of a man I’d just met on the streets of a foreign city, especially an Italian man.

My mother was already apoplectic about me coming to France alone, but I desperately wanted to be independent.

I’d never been given the space to learn how—until now.

And I wasn’t about to ruin it by getting murdered my first week here.

He adjusted his coat over my shoulders again. “If you won’t join me in that nice…warm…dry car, I’m afraid I’ll have to escort you to your destination in the rain.”

I gestured through the hazy fog toward the museum. “It’s only a few blocks.”

He turned up his suit jacket collar against the rising wind. “I’m afraid it’s nonnegotiable.”

I ran a hand through my damp hair, which was already starting to frizz and curl. I looked between him and his waiting car. “Is there any version of this where I walk alone back to the museum?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

I sighed and tilted my head to the side to scrutinize him. “Can you at least promise me you’re not some crazy ax murderer?”

He smirked then leaned in close to rasp in my ear, “I promise not to murder you.”

Strictly speaking, saying he wouldn’t murder me wasn’t the same thing as not being a murderer.

And then there was that flash of metal under his suit coat—a quick, unmistakable glint. A gun? Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I was imagining things. Imagining this man was a violent Italian mafia boss about to kidnap me off the streets of Paris in broad daylight.

Besides, the more I delayed, the angrier Édouard would be.

I needed this job to go well. Pissing off a celebrated designer was not the way to achieve that, no matter how demoralizing this errand had been.

“Fine, but straight to the Louvre.”

He settled a proprietary hand on my lower back, steering me toward his car. Having waved off his driver as he stepped out, he held the door open for me himself.

It was a relief that there was someone else in the car.