“I’ve never seen anything like it, anywhere.”

She stepped forward, away from his heat and toward the painting on the opposite wall. He let her go, walking backward to perch on the bench in the center of the room. He sat with his knees spread, his elbows on his thighs. She turned her back to him, but she couldn’t help but be aware of him—his presence that felt so unreasonably large in such an enormous room.

“That used to be one of my favorites,” he said, gesturing at the canvas she’d been drawn to.

“Oh?” It was arresting, the composition and the arrangement of the figures drawing the eye in. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she read the placard beside it. “Zeus and Hera?” She took a step back and tilted her head.

The two figures were seated in a garden, staring into each other’s eyes. A smile colored the edge of Zeus’s lips.

“They look happy.” His shrug came through in his voice.

Really? The king and queen of the Greek gods weren’t exactly known for their perfect marriage. How many people had died on account of their fits of jealousy and pique? She furrowed her brow. “Not exactly how I usually think of them.”

From behind her, he chuckled. “No. Not usually.” He paused, then added, “I think maybe that’s why I liked it so much.”

She hummed, asking him to elaborate.

“It was just a reminder. No matter how awful things were between them most of the time, they still had their moments. Their good times.”

A sour taste rose in her throat. “Doesn’t change the fact that he’d knocked up half the pantheon.”

If her mother hadn’t fallen for all the good times with her father . . . If the good times with Aaron hadn’t blinded Kate . . .

“And the better part of the mortal realm, too,” Rylan agreed, a wry twist to his tone. “But still. I always used to like to imagine that at one point they were like this.”

“Used to?”

He chuckled wryly. “We all have to grow up sometime.”

They were silent for a minute as she tried to take the whole thing in.

When he spoke again, it echoed in the space. “The first time I ever came here, I was . . . maybe eight? Nine?” A shade of memory colored his voice. “A few years before my parents got divorced.” He cleared the roughness from his throat. “My mother brought me to this room, and I remember finding this picture and not being able to look away from it.” He gave a little rueful laugh. “My sister gave me so much shit for ignoring all the giant battle scenes to look at two people who weren’t even naked or anything.”

Kate glanced over her shoulder at him. That was . . . kind of a lot of information, actually, considering how evasive he’d been while they’d been trading histories earlier. Turning back to the painting, she cast about for something to ask him more about. Not the divorce—not with the way that topic always brought her own hurts to the surface—though she tucked that away for later. After a moment’s indecision, she landed on, “You came to Paris when you were a kid?”

“The whole family did. My dad’s work had us doing a bunch of travel.”

“What did he do?”

“Finance stuff. Very boring. And a very, very long time ago.”

She frowned. “It can’t have been that long ago. How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven. Don’t try to tell me nineteen years isn’t a long time.”

He made it sound like a lifetime. For her it nearly was.

“Believe me, it’s a long time. I’m only twenty-two.”

“That’s not so young.”

She considered for a moment. “It’s old enough.”

“Old enough for what?” Suggestion rolled off his tongue. His flirtation made her bold. “For knowing better than to be taken in by men like you?”

“Men like me?” His tone dripped with mock offense. “Men who take you to beautiful museums.” He was off the bench and at her side again, pushing her hair from her face. “Men who want nothing more than to show you their big, huge—”

She made a noise of half laughter, half disgust and shoved him off.

“Paintings! I was going to say paintings.”

“I’ll bet you were.”

“I was.” He held his arms out to indicate the whole of the room. “Do you like them?”

And she couldn’t lie, not even a bit. She spun around another time, nice and slow, taking in everything. As she twisted back toward him, something inside of her softened. All the innuendo and playfulness had fallen from his lips, and he was simply standing there, waiting for her opinion.

Looking for all the world like he actually cared what it would be.

Impulsiveness took her close to him. “I do.” And this was stupid. But she did it anyway—leaned in and pressed the quickest, lightest kiss to his cheek. “I love it. Thank you.”

He grinned as she danced away before he could reel her the rest of the way in. “Does that mean you’re ready to agree for me to walk you home?”

A little thrill shot through her. How nice would that be? He’d been trying so hard, and she’d enjoyed every minute of it. After months of being on her guard, nursing her bitterness, it was tempting to just let go. To say yes for once. He was funny and smart, charming and gorgeous. She could do a lot worse. But she wasn’t entirely sure she couldn’t do better.

And besides. She’d never known it could be so much fun to watch a guy work for it.

She started toward the exit from the gallery, a little bounce in her step. “Let’s start with you walking me to dinner.” Glancing back at him, she smiled at the look of smug satisfaction on his face. “No promises for after.”

“I would never dare to assume.”

“And it had better be something good.” She slowed down so he could catch up, and she didn’t bother to stop him when he moved to interlace their fingers. She’d already let enough of her inhibitions go, lulled by the ease of his smile and his touch. Why not accept this, too? Especially when it felt so good. “Off the beaten path. Nothing I could find in a tour guide.”

“Don’t you worry.” A sly grin made his eyes sparkle, and his hand squeezed hers. “I have just the thing in mind.”

chapter THREE

“I have to admit,” Kate said, licking at her thumb.

It was distracting, watching that little pink tongue. “Hmm?”

“This is not what I expected.”

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

And he’d had a feeling she would enjoy being surprised like this. Instead of going to whatever cozy, intimate bistro she’d probably imagined her Lothario would take her to, they’d stood in line for almost an hour at the best little crepe stand in Paris and ordered galettes from a man who’d made them right in front of them. Eggs and onions and mushrooms and spinach, all wrapped up in a buttery crepe for her. Ham and cheese for him, and a final one with Nutella and banana clutched in his free hand for dessert. He was still holding out hope she’d let him lick it off her, but it was starting to matter less to him.

He was having too much fun. Ambling around the Latin Quarter. Eating crepes with a pretty girl. He took a big bite and swallowed it down.

“So what did you expect?” he asked, nudging her with his shoulder.

“I don’t know. You talk such a big game. I was thinking candles, wine. Maybe a table, at least.”

“Ooh, big spender.”

She gave him a sideways glance.

Sloppy. He’d been giving off all kinds of mixed signals when it came to his finances, and she was too smart by half. He was going to have to be a bit more careful about that if he wanted her to buy into the idea that he was working with a budget.

And he . . . did. It wasn’t a game he’d played before—not with any real sense of dedication. A Black Amex was such a shortcut to seduction¸ and he’d been leaning on it more heavily than usual this year. Throw a little cash around, and women tended to throw themselves right back at you in return. It was easy, uncomplicated.