Fifth Avenue Devil

Chapter 28

Twenty-Eight

Annalise

“W ow,” I breathe. I stand at the window of the hotel room that Nate surprised me with, unable to believe it. I’m staring directly at the Notre-Dame de Paris, or the Notre-Dame Cathedral as Americans usually refer to it. The other window has a view of the river Seine, with a corner of the Louvre at the edge.

It’s early in the morning in Paris, but I still feel like it’s the middle of the night because of jet lag. Still, I am thrilled to be here. Nate couldn’t have known this, but I’ve never been to Paris as a fully realized adult. I’ve never strolled the beautiful streets, bought a French pastry, or even visited the Eiffel Tower on my own.

And now I’m here . One private jet flight later, I’m spending my morning in a spectacular Parisian apartment. The place is a quarter block and decorated with large windows, chic white furnishings, and Parisian coffered ceilings. Even, thin, gold flourishes are painted around the panels of the white wood walls. And when you step outside onto the balcony, you get this view.

It’s breathtaking . I don’t know if Nate intended to sweep me off my feet, but I am decidedly impressed by this casual Parisian vacation. Nate says that we’re here to attend a conference on geothermal energy… but we’re in Paris, for God’s sake.

My phone buzzes in my skirt pocket. I pull it out with a sigh, not wanting to look away from this multi-million-dollar view.

The text is from Nate. Where are you? The conference starts in a few minutes.

Right. I’m supposed to meet him at the conference hotel. I check the time and realize with alarm that drinking in the Paris skyline has made me quite late. I text Nate that I’m just about to leave the apartment.

It’s not strictly true. I have to change into a business-appropriate yet chic white linen dress. I pile my curls on my head and clip them there, then add a little blush and lipstick. After I slip on a stylish pair of Manolo Blahniks and add a set of pearl earrings, I grab my purse and rush out the door.

The Parisian sun glares off the pavement as I dash through the bustling streets. I weave around tourists and locals alike. I probably look insane. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. This is the first time that I have to meet Nate at a business function. And I’m late. How shockingly gauche, as the French would say.

"Excusez-moi!” I narrowly avoid a collision with a street vendor selling vibrant bouquets. The scent of roses and lilies mingles with freshly baked baguettes wafting from a nearby boulangerie. My stomach growls. I should have had breakfast at the apartment, but I was too busy daydreaming.

"Get it together, Annalise," I chastise myself.

At times like this, I can practically hear my mother's disapproving voice in my head. The voice berates me for not being more like her ideal version of a daughter. A young woman who’d marry rich. A woman who’d let someone else handle the responsibilities of Gellar Industries.

It’s hard to tell that ever-present voice to shut up already .

I turn a corner and slow down as the smooth pavement ends and lapses into uneven cobblestones. Shit. In my high heels, this bit of street presents a challenge. Should I just flag down a cab?

In my haste and indecision, I misjudge the distance between two cobblestones. My foot gets caught, and my ankle twists painfully beneath me. I stumble, biting back a cry of pain as I fall to the ground. The world seems to blur around me as my ankle throbs with pain, sending waves of agony shooting up my leg. I blink back tears, gritting my teeth as I try to stand up.

There is no one around. I pull my heels off and hop toward a set of steps only a few yards away. Sitting down, I examine my ankle. Even the gentlest probing touch sends a bolt of pain up my leg.

“Fuck.” I dab at my eyes, taking a calming breath. There is no way I can navigate a large conference today.

Pulling out my phone, I tearfully text Nate. I feel like a stupid little girl as I explain what happened and where I am. I’m letting Nate down. Not to mention the fact that my company probably needs the kinds of contacts that I would make at this conference. Great. What kind of stupid, flighty CEO skips the conference she’s in Paris to attend?

When Nate doesn’t text me back immediately, I wonder if I should try to get back to the apartment. Can I hobble? I try to stand, but the waves of shooting pain send me back to the pavement.

Should I Uber? Do they have Uber in France?

"Annalise?" A voice cuts through the haze of my distress. I look up to find Nate jogging toward me, his gray eyes filled with concern. The sight of him momentarily throws me off guard. We're rivals in the business world. And our competitive natures are constantly clashing. But his usually smarmy smirk is absent.

Instead, his look is one of genuine worry.

"Are you all right?" he asks, crouching beside me. His towering presence makes me feel even more vulnerable. I struggle to keep my composure.

"Fine," I answer weakly. "I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. Then I tripped."

"Let’s get you up," he says. His strong arms pull me up and steady me. I wince at the pressure on my injured ankle. What a wounded baby deer I am.

"Thanks," I say softly. “I didn’t think you would come.”

He shoots me a look like I’m crazy. “Did you crack your head? You’re not making any sense.”

My entire face heats. “I’m fine.”

He looks at me, his eyes narrowing. A calculating look comes over his face. "Can you walk?" Nate questions. “I think I should get you back to l’appartement .”

"I probably can’t make it alone," I admit reluctantly. I close my eyes. God, I hate the vulnerability and weakness in my voice.

"Let me carry you," he offers, without hesitation. My eyes open, and I start to protest, but he gently lifts me into his arms.

“You can’t carry me!” I squawk. “Nate, this is ridiculous! I thought you were going to call a cab or something.”

My breath catches as I feel the warmth of his body against mine. His strong arms wrap around me protectively. From here, I can smell his cologne. “It’s only a few blocks. Just relax.”

"Put me down, Nate," I demand half-heartedly. The truth is that I don't want him to let go of me just yet. The feeling of being cradled in his arms sends shivers down my spine. My traitorous heart demands more .

"You can argue with me later."

As Nate carries me through the bustling Parisian streets, I question everything I thought I knew about him. His usually arrogant demeanor has given way to a surprising tenderness. I feel stupid for thinking that he would just leave me on the side of the road.

"Thank you, Nate," I say softly.

He doesn’t respond, but I hear a contented rumble from his chest. He’s enjoying this.

Without complaint, Nate carries me back to the apartment building and up the ancient elevator. I expect him to put me down when he sweeps into the living room. But he carries me back to the bedroom and deposits me on the bed. He drops my forgotten high heels by the foot of the bed. Then he looks down at me.

"All right. Let's take a look at that ankle." Nate kneels beside me. His gray eyes darken with concern as he gently lifts my injured foot. "Does it hurt when I do this?"

He applies the slightest pressure. I wince, biting back a gasp of pain. "A little," I mumble, trying to sound tough. The truth is, my ankle hurts like hell.

"Sorry," he says softly. His fingers skate in light circles over my sensitive skin. "We need to get some ice on your ankle."

"Thanks, Dr. Fordham," I joke. "But I don't need you to fuss over me."

"Too bad," he retorts, smirking as he gets to his feet. "You’re hurt. Now I’m here to baby you until you feel better."

"Fine," I huff. I still feel incredibly silly.

My heart pounds as I watch Nate stride from the room. He reappears a minute later, waving a bag of ice. I bite my lip as he props my ankle up on a pillow and arranges the bag across it. As much as I hate to admit it, there's something undeniably thrilling about having Nate Fordham at my beck and call.

Even if it is only for a little while.

The ice slowly does its job. Soon my ankle is chilly, verging on numbness. I flip through the pages of a Parisian style magazine for a while. The warm glow of the afternoon sun bathes the room in a golden haze, casting shadows across the room.

Nate returns, sits at the end of the bed, and checks on my ankle. The cold compress numbs the pain, but when his fingers graze my skin, I feel flames licking up my thighs that have nothing to do with my injury. I almost can’t reconcile the gentle way Nate touches my ankle with how he usually behaves. It’s so different from his usual brash demeanor.

"Your ankle should be fine," he announces. "Just try to stay off it for a bit."

"Thanks," I reply softly. I lick my lips, acutely aware of how close he is to me. A charged silence fills the room.

“What should we do now that attending the conference isn’t on the agenda?” I ask.

Nate smiles. “The conference was just an excuse to take you to Paris for a weekend.”

“I knew it!” I laugh. “I have to admit, this little getaway is romantic.”

“Isn’t it?” He grins and splays out on the bed next to me. “It’s nice being here with you. There aren’t any VPs breathing down my neck. No pressure from my brothers. No expectations at all.”

Nodding, I agree with him. “Yeah. It’s nice to get away. I know my mom is scheming at this very moment to marry me off to some troglodyte who wants twenty babies and zero backtalk. But the view from this room allows me to forget about that for a while.”

Nate frowns. For a long moment, he’s quiet. He seems lost in thought. Then he says, “My parents have always expected greatness from me. My mom told me once that I was expected to run for president, even though I have never shown the most remote interest in politics. In her view, running for president was the next linear step in my evolution. First a kid, then a young man, then CEO of my company, then president of the whole country.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You’d be a terrible president. No offense.”

He shakes his head and smiles. “You’re right. I have too much of a temper.”

I lean closer, appreciating the way that Nate is talking to me. At the moment, he’s a confidante, not a rival. “It sounds like we both have controlling parents,” I say softly.

He sighs. “Having parents with extremely high expectations is an odd thing. Like I’m boxed in, and told what to do and how to feel about it. Like my wants and needs don’t even matter."

"Even if it means hiding who you actually are?" I question. My heart pounds in my chest as I realize the vulnerability we're both displaying. This conversation feels as dangerous as it is exhilarating.

"Sometimes," he confesses with a shrug. “I doubt either of my parents knows who I am. They can list my business accomplishments with no problem, though.”

I had no idea that he felt that way. Prompted by his openness, I confess, "You know, I'm constantly trying to prove myself. Not just to the board but to my mom as well. Before my dad got sick, he was no better. My parents have such high expectations for me. I feel like I'm drowning under their weight."

"Annalise," he says softly, his hand reaching out to brush a stray curl from my face. "You don't need to prove anything to anyone. You're more than capable, and I know you'll do great things."

"Thank you," I whisper, my breath hitching as our eyes meet again.

"Maybe we're just two people who happen to be good at hiding their true selves." He tilts his head.

"Is that what you've been doing all this time? Hiding?"

He pauses, thinking. "Isn't that what we all do, to some extent?"

"Maybe," I concede. "But sometimes, it's worth removing the mask. It’s a risk, but you have to let others see the real you. Maybe just one person."

"Is that what you're doing right now?"

I take a deep breath. "I’d like to show you.”

We’re drawn together like two magnets. The moment our lips meet, it feels like the world catches fire around us. It’s a struggle to breathe, yet I can’t be bothered to do so; I am consumed by hunger, a primal need. Our tongues tease and explore. His kiss is hard and demanding. Each taste of him sends shivers down my spine.

I need him. I’m desperate, starving.

Nate sees me. Really sees me. And I’m not hiding anymore.