Novels by matchalatte

“Let go of me,” she said shakily, not sounding convinced it was what she wanted, even to her own ears. “You should be glad I do let go and worry about the day I don’t.” Her chin went up, pride and anger and hurt battling for room in her consciousness. “I’m not afraid of you.” He pulled on her, drawing her closer, so that her body brushed against his hard length and the fullness behind his fly. He scorched her with that almost otherworldly stare. She waited on a sharp ledge of anticipation, her breath burning in her lungs, when he lowered his head until their mouths were just inches apart. “You’ve always tested me. You’ll always be that girl I remember, foolishly poking at a sleeping snake. You’d better get out of here. You’ve been begging without words to be disciplined since you were a girl, and you have no idea how much I’d love to give you what you so richly deserve . . . what you need.” He noticed her wide-eyed, shocked expression and smiled grimly. “Not so sure of your

She’d left her companions and sought out a private meeting with Lucien that Saturday night two years ago, nervous, but eager to reconnect with her childhood infatuation now that she was a woman. True, she’d known he was in Paris for a while, but her parents’ pushy desires about Lucien had made her standoffish about approaching him. She’d been embarrassed, lest he think she was just enacting her parents’ wishes like some kind of robot socialite, bent on marriage to one of the most eligible males in the country. She’d tapped lightly on the only door in the hallway, taking a moment to realize when she got no response that the door only led to a shorter hallway—an entryway of sorts. It led to the true door to Lucien’s office. The outer door had been shut, but as she went through it, she’d seen that the inner one was cracked open an inch. Standing in the entryway, she’d accidentally overheard that puzzling conversation between Lucien and a German-accented stranger. “I’ll need top-not

“I put him in a cab. Now—what to do with you?” he asked, his gaze dropping over her. Her nipples tightened beneath a stare that was fire and ice at once. Her spine stiffened; her throat froze. The truth was still ricocheting around her skull: Lucien Sauvage owned Fusion. She’d unknowingly put her future in the hands of a man who had rejected her. And nobody rejected her. Well, hardly anybody, at least when she wanted otherwise. She’d definitely wanted “otherwise” with Lucien. Just my luck. Of all the restaurants and gin joints in towns all over the world, she’d had to walk into his, she thought with a panicked sense of amusement. “You’re going to do the only thing you can do with me,” she replied, her voice cool enough for someone who was playing the poker game of a lifetime with a crap hand. It was a mark of their shared past—their onetime friendship—that they spoke English to each other. Both of their mothers were English, their fathers French. It was a commonality they shar

“I . . . I’m sorry. Surely one glass wouldn’t hurt,” Mario was sputtering. Lucien dragged his gaze off Elise’s face. “I know it’s your personal stock, but—” “You’re fired,” Lucien interrupted succinctly. Mario blinked. Lucien started to walk away. “Lucien, you can’t do that!” Elise exclaimed. He whipped around at the sound of her voice. For a second he just stared at her. “How long has it been?” he asked her, his quiet question for her, and her alone. He saw a strange mixture of emotions cross her beautiful face—discomfort, confusion . . . anger. “It’s been close to two years since that night at Renygat,” she said, referring to his successful nightclub and restaurant in Paris. He had to hand it to her. Despite the riot of emotion that’d flickered across her face, she was all cool aristocrat by the time she spoke. Damn her. Any man who tried to decode the enigma of Elise was doomed to a lifetime obsession. Who was she? Uncontrollable bad-girl heiress or luminous, golden, e

It was past midnight when Lucien opened the rear entrance to his restaurant and immediately went on high alert, hushing his movements. In the distance he heard the sound of a low male voice. An intruder had breached his restaurant’s security. Although Fusion was frequently bustling with the chic late-night dinner and nightclub crowd, it was closed on Sunday and Monday. There definitely shouldn’t be anyone inside. Quietly, he closed the rear door, his fist tightening around the polo mallet he carried. He’d been planning on replacing this cracked one with an intact one from his storage closet at Fusion. He had different plans for it now. For the most part, Lucien maintained the vaguely amused, cynical stance of an experienced, world-weary libertine, a man who claimed no family, no country, no creed, and few of the worldly possessions to which he was entitled by law, which were many. But what he did claim, he fought for. Always. He just hadn’t realized that the restaurant he’d recent