The Paris Affair by Kristi Lea

under her nose, demanding that she elaborate on the tersely worded notice of his departure.
    Claire heard Helmut’s deep laughter echo across the small reception room. She stiffened her shoulders. Everywhere she went, it seemed, he was there, too. Chatting with her suppliers and competitors like they were old pals. Heads together with various government heads—higher-ups from the FAA, and the British and French equivalents. He knew everyone.
    That was the biggest rub. Even Claire’s memory for names and faces was taxed by meeting hundreds of Important Contacts in two days. With virtually no sleep. And Helmut seemed to know them all. He would have been the perfect person to have by her side, to help with introductions and smooth over awkward silences. But he talked to everyone in the room except her.
    This was some kind of damned vacation for the man.
    Claire’s calves ached from the spike-heeled Monolo Blahniks she wore with her black Anne Klein cocktail dress. Suddenly her vision went blurry, and she frowned at the balloon wine glass in her hand.
    Networking opportunity or no, she had to sleep.
    She politely excused herself from the debate and headed toward the door. They barely seemed to notice her departure.
    Before she could reach the hallway that led back toward the main portion of the hotel, Claire’s small black clutch vibrated. She pulled her cell phone out of the evening bag and frowned at the urgent flag on an incoming email. She clicked the button to read it as she walked.
    A crisp white shirt and the olive tweed of a sport coat slammed into Claire’s vision. She squealed in surprise as she ran straight into a man’s broadly muscled chest. Her phone and evening bag skittered to the floor and she clutched at the lapels of his jacket as one of her narrow-heeled shoes twisted out from under her.
    “Whoa,” a deep baritone said as strong hands gripped her around the waist, steadying her.
    “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” she sputtered, and then stopped. She recognized the warm spicy scent of Helmut’s cologne before she lifted her gaze to his laughing eyes.
    “Fancy running into you here,” he said, still holding her close to his body.
    The heat of his hands burned her through the smooth silk of her dress, and she fought the urge to melt into those familiar arms.
    “Let go, Helmut.” Claire put the palms of her hands on his chest and pushed lightly. He relinquished a scant inch.
    “How is your first Air Show?” His eyes swept downward, lingering on the swell of her breasts.
    Claire’s nipples hardened, the peaks straining against the layers of bra and gown. Desire pooled in her lower abdomen, making her knees weak. It annoyed the hell out of her. “It’s nice to see you, too, Helmut,” she said through gritted teeth. “Don’t create a scene. Please.”
    “No, we can’t have that. It would be such a shame to drag the lofty name of Sheffield & Fox through the mud.”
    Claire peeled his fingers from her waistline. She backed away from the acrid tone of his voice as much as the longing she felt to wrap herself around this man. She had already risked the reputation she was building for herself in the industry once. Giving in again now would be worse than foolish.
    “Mademoiselle.”
    A black and white clad waiter materialized next to Claire, calmly holding her purse and cell phone. Claire took a deep, refreshing breath and smoothed the fabric of her skirt. She took her things and thanked the waiter with a hasty “Merci.”
    “Good night, Helmut.” She lifted her head high and staunchly refused to glance at the cocktail reception behind her. If anyone had noticed her scene, she would not add jet fuel to the fire by looking guilty.
    “Do you mind if I walk with you?” Helmut fell into step beside her without waiting for a reply. “How are you enjoying the Air Show?”
    “Didn’t we already cover that?” Claire rounded the corner into the hotel’s main lobby, her