3. Winnie

3

WINNIE

T he professor was a weird one. Hey, I embraced my weirdness, but I didn’t understand the academic variety.

Alistair had opened his laptop the moment we got settled on the train, ordered a cup of tea from the attendant, flexed his fingers, and started typing a mile a minute. He occasionally lifted his head to take a sip, and not that I was counting, but this newest cup had to be number six. Did Brits really drink that much tea?

Whatever. He seemed happy enough, and I wasn’t going to miss out on this whole first-class experience.

It was glorious. A flirty Frenchman introduced himself as our humble servant, offered wine or more champagne, and served it with a dish of fresh strawberries. And that was just a warm-up.

“ Bon appetit. I am Guillaume. If you need anything, let me know,” he purred in a dreamy accent.

“ Mare-see . Did I say that right?”

Guillaume chuckled. “Close enough. The R can be softer and more in your throat, yes? ”

“ Mah-see .”

“You’ll keep trying. By the time you arrive in Paris, you’ll speak like a native,” he promised.

I thanked him, nudging Alistair’s elbow. “Did you hear that? I’m getting a free French lesson. This is so…ooh-la-la, right? That’s real china, too. Not a plastic cup or paper napkin in sight. I could get used to the high life. We all judged our friend, Donovan, when he got himself a sugar daddy. I judge no more.”

“A sugar daddy,” he drawled, pausing with his hands over his keyboard to eye me curiously.

“Yep, Donovan met Stan, a sixty-six-year-old movie exec, newly divorced from his wife of thirty years, father of three adult children, grandpa of two, at a go-go club. The ew factor was strong with that one, but five years later, they’re still together and happy as clams. They live in a fab house in the Hollywood Hills with an infinity pool that makes you feel like you’re tiptoeing in the clouds. They travel the world, hobnob with movers and shakers, and according to Donovan…the sex is amazing.”

The professor’s fingers froze on his keyboard. “Uh, I…should concentrate.”

“Of course you should. Oh, wait! Look at this view! The sun is finally out, the sky is blue, and those fields are a patchwork of gorgeous green. Your country is so pretty. Especially when it stops raining for a fucking second.”

Alistair nodded his agreement before diving into his work, head down, eyes on his screen, one thousand percent focused.

I snuggled into the corner of my leatherette seat and watched the world whiz by in a champagne fizzy, pinch-me-now state of contentment. The moment I spotted my first French flag, I turned on the travel playlist Max curated for my trip to set the mood—édith Piaf, Carla Bruni, and a few other French artists I didn’t know—and let myself bask in the joy of impending discovery.

Paris, I’m coming for you.

We arrived at Gare du Nord early in the evening, took a taxi to our hotel facing the Jardin des Tuileries, and checked into our suite on the fifth floor. I wheeled my suitcases into my adjoining room, opened the French doors, and squealed loud enough to catch the attention of a pedestrian strolling on the opposite side of the street.

“Are you all right?” Alistair asked, fussing with his glasses as he hurried into my room.

“I will never be all right again. Look!” I pointed at the Eiffel Tower glowing like a firecracker against the indigo sky. “Can you believe it? It’s real!”

The professor cocked his head curiously. “Of course. Did you think the Eiffel Tower was part of an elaborate scheme designed to entice tourists to visit?”

“No, but also…maybe.” I folded my arms over my chest to ward off the autumn chill and smiled dreamily. “It’s more than I ever imagined. I can’t wait to explore tomorrow. I’ve done my research and put together an itinerary. We can go to the Louvre in the morning, walk along the Seine toward Notre-Dame, have lunch in the Latin Quarter, go to Montmartre and see Moulin Rouge. That’s a must! It gives Burlesque vibes. Did you see that movie? Diva heaven. Cher, Christina, Stanley Tucci… Then we’ll go to?—”

“Thank you for the invitation, Winnie. I’m afraid I won’t be joining you. I have quite a bit of work to catch up on.”

“Hold up. Aren’t you hungry? Let’s get dinner. We can discuss your schedule and?—”

“Sorry, I can’t. I’m terribly behind. I’m going to require a day or two to devote to my current project,” he replied awkwardly. “I hope you’re comfortable here. Good night.”

I followed him through the elegant hotel room decorated with gilt-framed Impressionist artwork, cornflower blue satin drapery, and a gold and azure duvet on the king-sized bed. It was trés sophisticated and almost as big as my entire apartment. I’d assumed Alistair would have a similar setup, but wow…they gave the professor the chichi suite.

“Oh, my! You have a living room too? This is sweet, Professor.” I gave a low whistle, perusing the ample sitting area and dining table.

He frowned, blinking as if he’d been totally unaware of his lush surroundings until I’d pointed them out.

“I-I don’t make the reservations. The heritage fund consults with the museum and?—”

“Lucky you,” I intercepted. “C’mon, I’m hungry and I’m sure you are too. Let’s find a café and order pommes frittes and boo-ju-lay. I don’t even know what boo-ju-lay is, but it’s fun to say and it sounds good.”

“Beaujolais is a region in Burgundy. They harvest grapes with thin skin and low tannins, rather like a Pinot Noir. Light and fruity.” He coughed and his cheeks pinkened adorably. “That’s more than you wanted to know, I’m sure.”

“Not even close. Tell me all about boo-ju-lay at dinner,” I prodded.

Alistair lowered his gaze, then moved to the door meaningfully, waiting for me to join him under the threshold. “Not tonight. I’ll eat alone. Don’t worry about meals. You’re welcome to place any food or beverage charges on your room. Enjoy yourself, Winnie.”

The door closed in my face before I had a chance to respond.

I raked my teeth over my bottom lip and mulled my choices. But there really wasn’t another option. I couldn’t coerce a grown-ass man into doing anything he didn’t want to do.

I was on my own.

My first three days in the city passed in a blur of endless sightseeing. I walked for miles, using my cell as a map to check off a few landmarks I wanted to be sure to see—the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre-Dame. I strolled through the Tuileries, sipped coffee in cafés, and peeked into the windows of Chanel, Hermès, Dior, and Gaultier. And yes, I took copious photos and videos to document my touristy moments.

It was a blast, and trust me, I hadn’t even scratched the surface. I had big plans to go back and spend some quality time at every point of interest—including the museums. The line at the Louvre was ridiculously long, and I didn’t have the patience for that. Besides, I sort of hoped to coax the professor to come with me…if only to drag him from his room.

So far, I’d been unsuccessful. Or as sporty folks say—I struck out.

Day one: I’d knocked on Alistair’s door and invited him to breakfast. He’d politely declined my offer and reiterated that I should have fun. On my own. I’d reminded the professor that I was there to help him, but he’d waved me off. He had work to do…alone. I’d tried again at dinnertime, but he hadn’t answered at all, nor had he responded to my text message.

Day two: repeat.

Day three: Repeat with a twist. Alistair had looked like he’d slept in his clothes when he’d inched the door open at nine a.m. His hair had stood on end, his glasses had been smudged with fingerprints, and his clothes wrinkled. He’d insisted that he’d just woken up, but truthfully, the professor looked like he’d pulled an all-nighter. I’d voiced concern, but he’d assured me he was fine. Just busy.

Was I worried? Yes. I figured I’d give him one more day to acclimate before I butted in with gusto. As you might recall, I was primarily on matching socks and punctuality duty. I also assumed he’d want me to run errands or…something. However, his eating and working habits were none of my business.

Day four: I met Gerard.

Let me backtrack a moment.

The morning began the same as every other day in Paris.

I knocked on our adjoining door, no response.

“Yoo-hoo! Are you there, Professor?”

Nothing.

I texted him, no answer. I caught my reflection in the mirror in between knocks and texts and blanched at my pasty complexion thanks to an olive toned sweater that tipped more toward evergreen. I’d changed my outfit because….yikes, grabbed my Oui, Paris tote and moved into the hallway.

That was when I noticed the “ Ne pas déranger ” sign. I hit Google for the translation: Do not disturb.

I couldn’t remember if it had been there yesterday.

And why did that bother me? I didn’t know what to do. I chewed on my nail, worrying way too hard about a geeky bear of a man I hardly knew.

I considered texting Raine for guidance, but I didn’t want to intrude on his romantic getaway with his husband. And I didn’t want to be an alarmist. On the other hand, leaving the professor to work all day again didn’t feel right either.

My mental pickle made it difficult to enjoy my daily croissant and coffee.

“ Monsieur , your bag has fallen.”

The deep voice and sexy accent pulled me from my reverie like a shot out of a cannon. I glanced at the man bending to retrieve my tote and did a double take. How did one say “sexy silver fox” in French?

I thanked him as I stood. “Oh, that’s nice of you, but I’m on my way out. Did you want this table? It’s one of the only window seats left.”

“ Merci , but no. I’ve had my breakfast.” He pointed to a nearby table. “I was sitting there and couldn’t help noticing that you seemed…preoccupied?”

That last word sounded like a question, and yes, it also sounded a tad flirtatious.

I fussed with my sweater, tugging the longish sleeves till they fell over my hands with a macabre cool effect while surreptitiously studying the stranger. He was a couple of inches taller than me with salt-and-pepper hair, crystal-blue eyes, and a ready smile on his full lips. His designer jeans and checkered sport coat combo was understated chic. Add his gorgeous accent, and he was anyone’s idea of a perfect ten.

“Oh, I was just…worried about my travel companion.” I held up my key card as we walked out of the hotel restaurant.

“ Bon chance .”

“What does that mean?” I asked, hoping I didn’t flutter my lashes too. The French language was too damn pretty for me.

“Good luck.”

“Oh, right. Mare-see .”

He chuckled lightly. “You’re welcome. Are you enjoying Paris?”

“Yes, I am! I’ve seen so much, but I’m here to work and I’m starting to feel guilty. Do you live here?”

“At zee hotel?” he joked.

I rolled my eyes, charmed by his boyish humor. Quite honestly, I was starved for human contact. Other than a few pleasantries with random fellow tourists and waitstaff, I’d been on my own for days. It was no wonder I turned into a simpering coquette the first time a handsome man glanced my way.

“In Paris,” I clarified.

“ Non , I live in Dijon. It’s an easy express train ride away, but I have business in the city and a conference to prepare for.”

“Conferences seem to be all the rage. What’s yours about?” I asked for no particular reason. I was just trying to be friendly and it was an innocent enough question.

“Ancient Egypt.”

I came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the bustling hotel lobby, mouth open. “Do you know Alistair Creighton?”

Monsieur Silver Fox’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Yes, of course. Dr. Creighton is a preeminent Egyptologist.”

“So he’s an expert?”

“Of course. He is one of the most dedicated scholars in the field…a tireless researcher. And a friend. Are you acquainted?”

“Uh…yes. We just met recently.”

Okay, yes, I was hedging…for a good reason. See, the professor had been on my mind for the past three days. As we’d established, I’d been given a job and wasn’t working at all, and Raine wasn’t an easy text away at the moment. But an unbiased opinion might offer better clues about the elusive professor anyway.

He cocked his head curiously. “You met him here…in Paris?”

“We actually met in London, but yes, in Paris too. He’s here…staying at the hotel.”

“Really?”

“I’m Winnie Rodriguez, by the way,” I said, offering my hand.

“Gerard Poitier.”

Okay, I was officially a puddle of lusty goo. That accent, that firm grip… mmm .

“Nice to meet you,” I choked out.

“Are you interested in ancient Egyptian studies?” he asked .

“God, no!” was the honest answer, but in this case, a little white lie wouldn’t hurt.

“Yes, specifically Professor Creighton’s work.”

Gerard nodded as if that made perfect sense. “I understand. He’s a brilliant man. His insights into the daily life of ordinary civilians in the ancient world have opened a fascinating new line of research. Many archeologists directly deposit their newest findings onto the professor’s desk for review. Myself among them.”

“You’re an archeologist?”

“ Oui .”

I grinned. “Wow, I’ve never met a real live archeologist.”

“ Voilà !” He opened his arms wide. “Here I am.”

“So you’re the guy who digs up mummies and buried treasure?”

“If I’m lucky…yes. There are many—how do you say…factions?—involved. Governments, land owners, museums. It’s a relief to collaborate with researchers like Creighton. I’ve never met anyone who works as hard as him. The professor has been known to sequester himself for days on end in his office when he’s not teaching.” Gerard narrowed his eyes. “I was sure he would not be in Paris until later this month. Are you certain Alistair Creighton is here?”

“Yes, I’m his assistant.”

He blinked in barely disguised surprise. “That is interesting news.”

If I wasn’t suddenly anxious as hell, I might have given more details, but I was legit worried now.

Sequestered for days on end …

Oh, no.

I swallowed hard as I reached into my pocket for the key card to my room. “Yes, yes, definitely. I should get going. ”

“ Bon .” Gerard bowed gallantly. “ Au revoir, Winnie. It was nice to meet you.”

I stared after him for a beat, then raced for the elevators and stabbed the button for the fifth floor.

Yes, I was occasionally guilty of overreacting. Shocker! Perhaps this was one of those times, but something wasn’t quite right about being holed up in a hotel room for days on end with a “Do Not Disturb” sign barring even the housekeeping service.

The mental snapshot of a bedraggled professor with Einstein-esque hair yesterday freaked me the hell out. I had to make sure he was okay, and I wasn’t taking no for an answer.

I decided to stage my attack from the inside, knocking gently before pounding on the door. “Professor? It’s Winnie. Good morning, are you there? Professor, are you?—”

The door flung open and there stood a half-naked, wet man, clinging to the corners of the tiny white towel wrapped around his waist.

“Is something wrong, Winnie?”

Uh…good question.

But I needed a second before I attempted words, ’cause holy crap, the professor was a dream.

Sidebar: I know what you’re thinking. I’d just had a starry-eyed moment over a random stranger, and now this. Yes, I was a horny, sex-deprived beast, but seriously…I was unprepared for this level of professorial bear hotness.

Alistair was a hunk of thick masculinity. Water dripped from his messy damp hair onto his broad shoulders and down his thick, hairy torso. My gaze caught on the rivulet cascading over his left nipple. I tried to look away, but the tattoo across his pecs and along his side had my full attention. I could claim to be suddenly curious about hieroglyphic translations, but I was way more interested in the ripple of muscles in his forearms and the trail of hair under his navel pointing south .

So the professor was a little soft in the middle—not overly fit, no six-pack, no bulging muscles, or veiny biceps. So what? There was something incredibly attractive about a naturally sexy man who didn’t seem to have a clue that he was legit…hot.

Hold up.

Earth to Win! There would be no perving on the sexy professor. Alistair was off bounds. And let’s remember, I’d been worried sick about him for days. If I found any gray hair on my head, it was his fault and I was going to be pissed.

“Nothing’s wrong, but?—”

“Good. Enjoy your day.” His lips curled into a weak approximation of a smile as he closed the door.

I raised my hand like a shield and stepped around him to avoid having my fingers smashed, and accidentally— I swear I have no idea how it happened —dislodged his towel.

Imagine my surprise when I whirled to face him with my best “don’t mess with me” expression locked and loaded only to find myself ogling a naked man.

Excuse me, a naked professor.

Personally, I had no words. I gaped for far longer than was polite as Alistair bent to pick up the towel, and somehow managed not to fan myself, which was a damn miracle ’cause the view was…wow.

His ass was thick and yummy, and his cock was absolute perfection, hanging between a neatly-trimmed thatch of hair. The towel was back in a flash. He refastened it, muttering something about changing into clothes before disappearing into the bedroom.

Gulp.

I set my hands on my hips, then crossed them over my chest, licking my lips nervously. I wasn’t sure what the proper etiquette was, but my guess was that it would be best to pretend it never happened. Good plan .

I paced to the window and opened the drapes, blinking against the flood of sunlight as I surveyed the room. Geez, it looked like a war zone.

No kidding. Books, scattered papers, and three laptops shared space on the dining table with a medley of used mugs, a teapot, and an assortment of cookie wrappers, while the floor was covered with towels and empty water bottles.

First of all, I was impressed that he’d managed to fit this much shit into the one suitcase he’d brought. And second, I had a feeling he hadn’t eaten anything other than cookies for few days. This was bad.

I was raised in a loving Mexican American home where food was life. You’re sad, eat. You’re mad, eat. You broke up with your bum boyfriend who ghosted you for a month and wants to see you now…don’t do that, and eat. All serious conversations happened over a meal. So did joyful ones. If you asked my abuela , food cured everything but stupid, and I believed her.

Alistair Creighton was a brilliant man who did some deep thinking about shit I couldn’t begin to comprehend, but no one’s brain was at its best if all you ate was?—

“What the hell is a Jammie Dodger?” I mumbled, fingering the empty red package on the table.

“It’s a delicious biscuit,” the professor replied, tugging at the sleeves of a beige sweater that did nothing to complement his baggy khakis.

Clothes certainly didn’t make a man, but now that I’d seen what was underneath all that cotton and polyester-wool blended nonsense, I was a little confused. Did he not understand how much sexiness he was hiding?

Whatever. The man needed a real breakfast. And to vacate the room so housekeeping could do their thing.

I dropped the empty packet into the trash and pasted a smile on my face. “I’m sure they’re fabulous, but one can’t live on jelly- filled cookies alone. C’mon, I’m taking you to breakfast, Professor, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to. I’m in the middle of an important project, but thank you for the invitation.” Alistair moved to the door and opened it to give me the old heave-ho.

“Nope. I’m not going anywhere without you,” I insisted. “I know you’re very important and that you do very important work, but I can’t stand by while you eat processed crap while I’m feasting on the best bread and cheese and wine I’ve ever had in my life. It’s not right.”

“I appreciate your concern, but—” He furrowed his brow as I flattened my back to the doorjamb and slid down the wall. “What are you doing?”

“Protesting. You come with me, or I stay here with you…just like this.”

“Winnie…”

“Alistair…”

The professor scrubbed his hand over his stubbled jaw and sighed. “All right. One meal.”

I jumped to my feet and clapped. “Excellent. I’ll grab my chapeau , and off we’ll go!”

I led Alistair downstairs to the dining room, monologuing about everything from the hotel’s plethora of crystal chandeliers to the glorious September weather outside. He didn’t say a word until a waiter informed us that the restaurant was closed but would reopen at lunchtime. An hour and a half from now. Shit .

“Oh, that’s dreadful,” Alistair said. “Thank you for inviting me. We’ll try again another time.”

“No, no. I have a better idea. Let’s walk through the park and get a little something at a café.”

I took his hesitation as a yes and didn’t give him a chance to shake me off. I hooked my arm through Alistair’s, bypassing the elevators and heading straight for the exit .

Did I mention that it was a beautiful day? The sky was an impossible shade of blue with fluffy cotton ball clouds. I inhaled deeply as I glanced up at the French flag billowing in the breeze and the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Perfect.

We walked across the street to the Jardin des Tuileries through the grand iron gates and into the park. This was easily my fifth or sixth jaunt through the gardens. I’d strolled along the tree-lined wide dirt paths, bumping elbows with tourists and Parisians taking detours on their way to work. It was a nice place to sit with a cup of coffee near the fountain, drinking in the scenery before deciding if I wanted to visit the Louvre to my left or stroll the Champs élysées on my right.

Today, I steered us to a café hidden in the canopy of trees and chose a table for two. I wasn’t hungry at all, but I took the liberty of ordering Alistair a bowl of soup and a jambon et fromage on a baguette and tea for both of us.

“You ordered for me?” he inquired, cocking his brow curiously.

“Sorry, but you were making a meal out of that menu, and sipping tea on an empty stomach can’t be good for you.”

He frowned. “On the contrary, tea is beneficial to the digestive system.”

“So is food. And I don’t think you’ve eaten anything decent in days, so have a damn sandwich. My treat. I haven’t been to this café yet, but if it’s anything like the one I ate at yesterday, the bread alone is haute cuisine.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. And this will be better for you than eating cookies for breakfast,” I retorted, quickly adding, “Never mind. I’d rather eat cookies too, but it’s not a healthy choice for a guy who uses his brain so much.”

He pursed his lips in amusement as he fiddled with his glasses. “Thank you for thinking of me. Unnecessary, but…very kind of you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Our eyes met and held for a beat. Two seconds later, my face felt flush as a swarm of butterflies fluttered against my rib cage.

Odd reaction. I mean, sure…the professor was hot as fuck. Under his sad beige and brown exterior was a masculine specimen of pure beefy hotness. But that was a simple observation. Nothing more.

Alistair glanced up as the waiter deposited two individual teapots and cups, soup, and the sandwich on the table. He thanked him in French, reaching for his teapot like a junkie desperate for his next hit. He added milk and sugar, stirred the liquid—three times in each direction, clinking the spoon in a perfect triangle. Then he set the spoon on the saucer and sipped.

I observed his careful ritual while I poured my own tea.

“You’re staring,” he commented, picking up the ham-and-cheese baguette.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to. How’s your work coming along?” I asked politely.

“Well enough,” Alistair replied, biting into his baguette with a moan. “This is very good.”

Okay, the flash of heat returned in full force. I cradled my teacup, tearing my gaze from the hungry man eliciting sexy noises with every other bite. This was what blue balls did to a guy. It wasn’t possible to get turned-on watching someone eat a fucking sandwich, was it?

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, but thank you.”

“I could organize your paperwork or do some basic data entry or—oh, my God, if you don’t quit having sex with that damn jambon baguette, someone’s gonna call the creep police on us,” I whisper-hissed.

He quirked a brow, dabbing his chin with the thin white napkin. “The creep police? Has anyone told you that you’re a very unusual person, Winnie?”

“Often. So how’s this gonna go? If you’re going to continue being a workaholic, I’m going to have to stage an intercourse to make sure you eat. Don’t think I won’t do it,” I warned.

Alistair’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he dug into the soup. “I believe you mean intervention…not intercourse.”

“Oops. Anyway, give me something. What can I do?”

“Unfortunately, you don’t have the training to help with my research, but I appreciate the offer.”

“ Hmm . Can you at least tell me what you’re working on?”

He eyed me over his soup spoon for a moment as if weighing the wisdom of sharing Egyptian secrets. His intensity was jarring for someone who seemed determined to blend in with his surroundings. It was in the set of his jaw and his shoulders and his razorlike stare. This man was fierce.

“All right. I’m in the midst of contributing to a rather extensive exhibit detailing the everyday life of ancient citizens of Egypt, throughout a number of dynasties. A recent archeological dig in Saqqara turned into a treasure trove with thousands of new artifacts. As you can imagine, it’s a daunting task.”

“Oh. How does that work? Did you bring artifacts with you to Paris or?—”

“Good Lord, no!” Alistair glanced around as if to be sure no one within hearing distance would think for a second that he would do anything so ridiculous and possibly illegal. “These treasures belong to Egypt. We work with the country and their team, studying artifacts that have been buried for centuries.”

I squinted behind my Prada knockoffs. “What can you find in a chunk of rock or an old piece of pottery? ”

“A portal through time.”

I wanted to laugh at his dramatic tone, but Alistair was dead serious. In fact, his eyes had taken on a rapturous glossy hue I associated with major events, like scoring front-row tickets to a Beyoncé concert, including backstage passes and complimentary parking.

“Professor, please tell me you’re not attempting to build a time machine to transport yourself to ancient Egypt. If I’m about to have a Back to the Future moment, I’m sure as hell not going to waste it hauling rocks up the side of a pyramid. No, thank you,” I huffed in my sassiest tone.

“I’m not building an actual time machine.” He chuckled, his eyes bright with humor. “But something like it.”

“How do you mean?”

“Every artifact holds clues to the past. A single piece of tile provides a gold mine of insight. We use infrared imaging to ascertain age and composition. Analyzing the paint tells us about the materials used and where they originate from. The rarer the substance, the more likely it belonged to a person of means. We can slowly puzzle together its use based on the thickness of the shard, the break point, and the other objects discovered with it.”

“Really? All from a piece of tile?”

“Yes, and the Egyptians effectively left us time capsules all over the desert. It’s not just a matter of excavating the tombs of pharaohs, either. Archeologists have found well-preserved mudbrick houses that tell us about the people who worked for the aristocracy too. Everyday people weren’t usually mummified, so we don’t know as much about their diets or the diseases they dealt with, but there are clues…everywhere.”

“That sounds interesting.”

Alistair agreed. “Very. It’s an excess of information, to be honest. I’m concentrating on religious artifacts found at a site we think was a village chapel or place of worship. A perfectly preserved mummy of a man was found nearby, and that is highly unusual.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “You’ll never run out of things to do, will you?”

“Never,” he said gleefully. “I should get back. Now you know that I have a lot to do before the conference and?—”

“Hang on. You haven’t finished eating, and it’s”—I glanced at my watch. Eleven-fifteen a.m.—“brunch time. Eat and enjoy the sunshine. Vitamin D is good for the soul…and so is putting your work on hold for a couple of hours to nourish your body.”

He patted his belly and scoffed. “I don’t think anyone would suggest I’m in danger of starving.”

“You’re hot, Professor,” I replied, unthinking. “Don’t go changing.”

Alistair blushed. An honest-to-God pink-cheeked blush.

“I—that’s…thank you,” he sputtered. “That’s enough about me. Have you enjoyed Paris so far?”

“Oh, yeah! It’s a gorgeous city. I might go to a museum or two today. How about you?” I raised a hand. “No, let me guess…Egypt is calling.”

“Yes.”

“If you must, you must.” I sighed theatrically. “You don’t get a reputation for being an expert without busting your booty for it. Raine warned me that you’re a hard worker. So did Gerard, the sexy French archeologist. I believe his exact words were, ‘dedicated expert, tireless researcher.’ Your reputation has followed you to France and?—”

“Gerard?” he intercepted, dropping his spoon onto the table with a clang . “Gerard…who?”

“I don’t remember his last name.”

“Poitier?”

I snapped my fingers. “That’s it! I met him in the dining room earlier. We chatted on the way to the lobby and realized we both knew you. Small world, huh?”

“Gerard Poitier is at our hotel?” Alistair leaned forward, his brow creased in consternation. “Right this very moment?”

“Uh…well, I didn’t ask about his plans. I just met the guy.”

“In the lobby?”

“Yes, he said he was spending one night in Paris.” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

“And you told him I was here…in the city?”

I frowned. “Did I do something wrong?”

Alistair released a jagged breath. “No, of course not. But I can’t go back to the hotel now.”

“Why not? Is he dangerous? He didn’t seem dangerous. He seemed…nice,” I reported in a rush. “Though I guess the most dangerous people are master manipulators who can fool anyone. But I didn’t get bad vibes from him, and I’m damn good at reading vibes. And he only had complimentary things to say about you. Nothing murder-y or?—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the professor interrupted. “We’re not enemies, and Gerard is not a murderer, Winnie. Don’t get yourself worked up.”

“Okay, I won’t, but…why are you avoiding him?”

“Because if Gerard knows I’m here, he’ll want to see me, and I’m not prepared to prematurely divulge any details regarding my research. We agreed to meet at the end of the month prior to the conference, and we shall. But not a moment sooner.”

I nodded as if that made complete sense. It didn’t explain his sudden agitation or…his pink-tinged cheeks. Wild speculation here, but I got the impression there was something personal between the silver fox and the professor. And for reasons I couldn’t begin to dissect, I felt a twinge of something that felt vaguely like…jealousy.

Ew .

“I’m too curious and gauche to bite my tongue like a good assistant. I gotta ask…is Gerard your ex?”

“My—what? N-no,” he sputtered. “Absolutely not!”

I held my hands up in surrender. “Sorry. It’s just that you seem as upset as I was the time my summer fling showed up at my salon to pick up his new boy toy, who spilled the beans about his amazing sexy older man while I’d shampooed his hair and prepared his platinum color treatment. Imagine my shock when the cheap-ass scrub I’d kicked to the curb waltzed in the door like a damn white knight. I’d never told him where I worked ’cause that relationship wasn’t going anywhere good, but I could have done without the confrontation and the yucky feeling that someone else inspired the kind of gallantry I’d wanted. Why was he a better man for the faux-blond twink than he ever tried to be for me?”

Alistair opened and closed his mouth. “Uh…I don’t know, Winnie.”

I snorted. “That was a hypochondriac question. No answer required.”

“You mean hypothetical…or more accurately, rhetorical.”

“Yes! That’s the one.” I sipped my now-cold tea, wrinkling my nose as I pushed the cup to the middle of the table. “I didn’t mean to veer so far off topic. No one needs to hear another version of the ‘always a bridesmaid’ blues. So boring. I don’t need a man to complete me, and neither do you. Or…a woman. I shouldn’t assume you’re gay or straight or?—”

“I’m gay,” he intercepted.

And now we were cooking with fire. I felt oddly proud of myself for sussing out information Raine hadn’t been able to after years of working for the professor.

“Me too.” I beamed. “Surprise!”

Alistair’s lips twisted in reluctant humor. “Thank you for sharing, but it’s neither here nor there. I need access to my room without running into Gerard Poitier. There must be an alternate entrance to the hotel or?—”

“There’s not, but that shouldn’t matter. What are the chances of bumping into him again?”

“Famous last words. I’m not risking it. Not now, anyhow. I need to plan a speech in the event of an accidental encounter, but I’m certainly not ready now.” He furrowed his brow and stared at something over my shoulder. “I can discuss the amulets with him. Those are of interest, and I can?—”

“Whoa. You’re all up in your head, Professor. Leave the speech planning for later. If you must stay away from the hotel, do something fun like…see Paris.”

“I’ve seen Paris.”

“Not with me, you haven’t.” I squeezed his hand and stood. “Come on, we’ll take a walk. It’ll be great!”

Alistair didn’t respond. His glassy-eyed gaze indicated that he was deep in thought, so I honestly wasn’t sure he’d heard me at all. Or maybe he was trying to think of a nice way to get rid of me. I hoped not. I was conversation starved and desperate for company other than my own. We didn’t have to do much. A stroll along the Seine, maybe pop into the shops on the Avenue Montaigne, or?—

“Have you been to the Louvre?”

“I tried, but the line was insane. Too bad, ’cause I’d love to meet Mona Lisa in person. She’ll have to wait. Shuffling along like cattle to look at art is not my idea of a good time.”

He stood abruptly. “We’ll go now.”

“Trust me on this one. It’s too—Professor, where are you going? Professor?”

He strode away, hands in his pockets, head held high…a man on a mission.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I grumbled, waving over the waiter so I could pay for our meal .

I caught up to Alistair at the crosswalk and tugged on his sleeve. He flashed a smile my way and absently tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow, as if walking arm in arm was something we did. I hated to admit it, but I liked that a little too much.

We arrived at the twin grand glass pyramids of the Louvre and as I’d warned, it was a sea of humanity. People taking photos, children hopping off pedestals, and the general hullabaloo associated with lines that snaked on and on.

I had my “I told you so” locked and loaded, but Alistair continued past the pyramids to an archway and pushed a series of buttons on a pad affixed to the stone wall. The door clicked and was opened by a fierce-looking bald man in a suit I assumed was a museum guard.

“Monsieur?”

“Dr. Creighton.” He released my arm to rummage through his pockets. “Now where did I put my—oh, here we are.”

The professor pulled an ID from his pocket and spoke in French to the guard who examined the card, conferred something on his computer, then ushered us inside.

And just like that, I was in the fucking Louvre…via a secret entrance, no less.

I followed Alistair and the man through a narrow stone corridor. The guard bowed, gesturing for us to move ahead of him into a cavernous space filled with statues.

I whirled with my hands on my hips. “We’re in the museum.”

“We are. Antiquities wing, to be precise.”

“How did you do that?”

He shrugged. “I have credentials to come and go whenever I choose. Come along. I’ll show you the crypt.”

Did he know how to show a guy a good time or what?

I followed the professor through room after room, occasionally stopping for him to point out a few pieces, like the statues of Karomama and the goddess of Sekhmet, a reconstructed chapel with hieroglyphic inscriptions he said offered insight into planting and harvesting in the daily lives of rural ancients, and the Great Sphinx of Tanis.

We passed mummies and sarcophagi that looked interesting, but they were popular exhibits, surrounded by tourists snapping photos I’d bet my next paycheck they’d forget about the second they walked out the door.

We moved down a long staircase to the tomb of Ramses III, where he pointed out the red stone crypt with violent hieroglyphics. Alistair explained that the tomb had been placed on the lower level because of its size and weight before turning to a colorful statue in a loincloth and elaborate Egyptian cat eyes with marble-like pupils.

“Who’s he?” I asked, casting my gaze around the dimly lit room.

“This is the ‘Seated Scribe.’ The quality of this piece, from the materials used in the ink work, attention to detail, and the composition itself are extraordinary.” Alistair tapped the glass barrier. “He’s well fed and in good health, which means he was a person of great power—an influential officer or perhaps a relative of the pharaoh. He certainly didn’t do any physical labor.”

“Why isn’t he wearing clothes?”

“It was bloody hot in Egypt that day,” he deadpanned.

I spun on my heels and swatted his elbow. “That was a joke. Look at you showing your silly side in front of Egypt’s social media guru.”

Alistair’s lips twitched in amusement. “The scribe would have been more concerned with numbers and figures than entertainment. They were one of the few who were skilled at reading and writing. A pharaoh would want to be sure to take his scribe along with him to the next life to handle his affairs. This isn’t the only such statue. Many have been excavated over the past two centuries, but the detail on this one truly sets it apart.”

I clandestinely studied my companion. The professor suddenly seemed taller, more confident and imposing. This was his domain, and he was a true master. Obviously.

I mean, c’mon…he had a secret code and credentials to get into the freaking Louvre, for fuck’s sake. Color me impressed.

“Did you work on any of these artifacts?”

Alistair tilted his chin. “Yes and no. I gather information that helps archeologists and curators catalog their findings and collections. So yes, I’ve personally examined some of these artifacts, but I’m the middle man, if you will.”

“No, you’re the brains,” I corrected, stepping aside to give a tourist room to snap a pic. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. The archeologist finds the special rock, gives it to the museum, who gives it to you to do the intellectual legwork. You tell them why it’s significant, connect it with other pieces, and hand it over to the curator…who takes all the credit.”

“That last part is incorrect. I work with archeologists and curators, but I don’t take the place of either.”

“ Hmm .” I gave him a thorough once-over. “You’re really, really smart, aren’t you?

“Well, I…” Alistair blushed, an honest-to-God, sexy-as-fuck blush.

“That was a statement. Nothing rectoral about it.”

“Rhetorical,” he supplied.

I pointed at him. “Yes! There’s that word again.”

We shared a smile and don’t quote me, but I think I was the one blushing now.

“Um, I’m happy to show you the antiquities rooms, but perhaps you’d like to see the more famous works, like the Mona Lisa and the Nike of Samothrace.”

I slipped my arm through his. “Show me everything, Professor. I’m all yours.”