riot. But you’re right,” she had to concede with a quick, nervous glance toward the little group in the booth eyeing her. “If we don’ get movin’, we’re goin’ to be here for a long while.”
Remy threw money on the table, glided to his feet as silent and as fluid as any cat she’d ever seen. There was something feral about the way he moved, muscles playing subtly beneath his clothes. Every movement was graceful, and yet masculine.
Bijou knew she was falling further under his spell. He’d been the only man in her life that had ever counted for anything and she’d allowed him to grow into a fantasy hero. He was sixteen years older than she was and he saw her as that broken child. He had no way of knowing she’d always been too old for her age—she’d had to grow up fast and learn to be responsible.
Remy’s body shielded hers as she rose from the seat, his roped muscles and wide shoulders blocking her from the view of the others in the café. He took her hand and her heart sang. There was nothing she could do about her reaction to him. Her pulse raced, and he had to have known, but he simply moved against her, guiding her without words, just with his body, back toward the kitchen, away from the others.
She allowed herself to indulge her fantasy for just a little while. Remy made her feel safe and cared about, when she’d never had that, not once in her life since that moment when she was eight and he’d come for her and saved her from herself. She fit beneath his shoulder and when he moved her in front of him, his hands on her hips, she was never so conscious of a human being as she was of him.
Bijou inhaled. She should have taken in all the smells of the kitchen, but instead, there was only the scent of Remy drawn deep into her lungs. She swore she’d be able to pick him out of a crowd by scent alone. He seemed to invade every part of her, rushing through her bloodstream like a firestorm.
Thereze held the door for them as they hurried through. Emile was waiting, his smile eager, gaze on Bijou.
“I hope you enjoyed your meal,” he greeted.
“The food was fantastic,” Bijou said. “You’re an amazin’ chef. In all honesty, and I’ve eaten in some really great restaurants, clearly you are a master at what you do.”
It was easy to sound sincere, because she really meant it. He didn’t seem like the prima donna chefs she’d met, although she noticed his kitchen staff didn’t make a move toward her, not even when he handed her his apron to sign. Someone had gotten a special pen to write on the material with and clearly that was brand-new. Emile had made certain he was prepared.
Bijou took the pen and carefully wrote a short note, praising his café and the amazing food, adding that it was wonderful to meet him and then scrawling her name under the message.
“I hope you’ll come back,” Emile said, nearly glowing.
“We need a picture,” Thereze insisted, holding up a camera.
“No, no need. I don’ want to bother you,” Emile said, but he stepped up to Bijou’s side and wrapped a long arm around her shoulders.
Bijou glanced toward the kitchen door. Thankfully no one could see them, and the flood of people asking for pictures wouldn’t come. She looked up at Remy’s face. His eyes had gone from a deep blue to a strange, startling green, almost glowing. His eyes were fixed on Emile, and he looked . . . dangerous. There was no other word for it. He looked as if he might tear Emile limb from limb.
She was suddenly afraid. He looked more animal than man, his face and body utterly still, his entire being focused on Emile. The hair on her neck stood up and something wild deep inside unfurled and stretched. She could feel the languid stretch and that same steady focus on Remy as he had on Emile. She blinked and the strange wildness in her faded, gone as if it had never been. Sometimes she felt she had faulty wiring, that elusive feeling blinking on and off.
Remy’s gaze jumped to
Remy threw money on the table, glided to his feet as silent and as fluid as any cat she’d ever seen. There was something feral about the way he moved, muscles playing subtly beneath his clothes. Every movement was graceful, and yet masculine.
Bijou knew she was falling further under his spell. He’d been the only man in her life that had ever counted for anything and she’d allowed him to grow into a fantasy hero. He was sixteen years older than she was and he saw her as that broken child. He had no way of knowing she’d always been too old for her age—she’d had to grow up fast and learn to be responsible.
Remy’s body shielded hers as she rose from the seat, his roped muscles and wide shoulders blocking her from the view of the others in the café. He took her hand and her heart sang. There was nothing she could do about her reaction to him. Her pulse raced, and he had to have known, but he simply moved against her, guiding her without words, just with his body, back toward the kitchen, away from the others.
She allowed herself to indulge her fantasy for just a little while. Remy made her feel safe and cared about, when she’d never had that, not once in her life since that moment when she was eight and he’d come for her and saved her from herself. She fit beneath his shoulder and when he moved her in front of him, his hands on her hips, she was never so conscious of a human being as she was of him.
Bijou inhaled. She should have taken in all the smells of the kitchen, but instead, there was only the scent of Remy drawn deep into her lungs. She swore she’d be able to pick him out of a crowd by scent alone. He seemed to invade every part of her, rushing through her bloodstream like a firestorm.
Thereze held the door for them as they hurried through. Emile was waiting, his smile eager, gaze on Bijou.
“I hope you enjoyed your meal,” he greeted.
“The food was fantastic,” Bijou said. “You’re an amazin’ chef. In all honesty, and I’ve eaten in some really great restaurants, clearly you are a master at what you do.”
It was easy to sound sincere, because she really meant it. He didn’t seem like the prima donna chefs she’d met, although she noticed his kitchen staff didn’t make a move toward her, not even when he handed her his apron to sign. Someone had gotten a special pen to write on the material with and clearly that was brand-new. Emile had made certain he was prepared.
Bijou took the pen and carefully wrote a short note, praising his café and the amazing food, adding that it was wonderful to meet him and then scrawling her name under the message.
“I hope you’ll come back,” Emile said, nearly glowing.
“We need a picture,” Thereze insisted, holding up a camera.
“No, no need. I don’ want to bother you,” Emile said, but he stepped up to Bijou’s side and wrapped a long arm around her shoulders.
Bijou glanced toward the kitchen door. Thankfully no one could see them, and the flood of people asking for pictures wouldn’t come. She looked up at Remy’s face. His eyes had gone from a deep blue to a strange, startling green, almost glowing. His eyes were fixed on Emile, and he looked . . . dangerous. There was no other word for it. He looked as if he might tear Emile limb from limb.
She was suddenly afraid. He looked more animal than man, his face and body utterly still, his entire being focused on Emile. The hair on her neck stood up and something wild deep inside unfurled and stretched. She could feel the languid stretch and that same steady focus on Remy as he had on Emile. She blinked and the strange wildness in her faded, gone as if it had never been. Sometimes she felt she had faulty wiring, that elusive feeling blinking on and off.
Remy’s gaze jumped to
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