He looked down the hallway toward Celia’s room. Once he was confident the door wouldn’t open with an angry Celia, he sat as Conrad dealt the cards.
“Claim her?” the casino magnate repeated. “I can almost hear my wife laughing at you if she heard that. Brother, they claim us. Body and soul.”
Elliot grimaced, “You’re sounding like one of those sappy songs of Malcolm’s … ‘Playing for Keeps’? Really, dude? Be straight with us. You wrote that one to get some action.”
Malcolm bit back the urge to haul him out of the chair and punch him the way he’d done when Elliot ran off at the mouth in school. Only the image of Celia’s pained face made him hold back, humbling him with how much he’d screwed up somehow. “Hope you’re going to be happy growing old alone with your race cars and a cat.” He gathered his cards. “Now, are we playing poker or what?”
Even as he pretended to shrug off what his friends had said, he couldn’t deny their words had taken root. For tonight, he would let her cool down. But come morning, he needed to quit thinking about seducing Celia and actually get down to the business of romancing his way back into her bed. Romancing her, seducing her, was not the same as falling for her. He could make the distinction and so could Celia.
And by learning that, they could both quit glorifying what they’d shared in the past and move on.
Celia tipped her face toward the morning sun, the boat rolling gently under her feet as it chugged along the Seine River. Hillary Donavan told her they’d set up a private ride for their group to see some of the city before they flew out for the next stop on the tour. Such a large group of friends and their wives. While she understood their school connection, she wondered why Malcom’s entourage included such luminaries. Usually artists traveled with lesser folk, always remaining the star of their circle. But Malcolm traveled with very high-placed friends from an array of backgrounds. His lack of ego was … appealing.
Gusts channeled down the canal, fluttering her gauzy blouse against her oversensitive skin. She needed this breather before she saw Malcolm again. He hadn’t been in the limo with them this morning, and she’d pushed down the kick of disappointment. No doubt he must be sleeping in, exhausted after the performance.
Taking in the image of the Eiffel Tower set against the backdrop of the historic city, she appreciated the thoughtfulness, as well as the chance to escape the hotel suite. She needed this opportunity to air out her mind before they climbed onto the claustrophobic luxury jet again.
The restless night’s sleep hadn’t done much to settle her tumultuous nerves over how Malcolm had used that piece of their history—onstage, no less—to play with her emotions. He’d always been driven, but she’d never expected him to be ruthless. Her hair lifting in the breeze, she gripped the brass railing of the boat powering along the canal.
“Why are you ignoring me?” a male voice rumbled behind her.
Malcolm’s voice.
Rich, intoxicating tones that sent a shiver down her spine.
Her toes curled in her sandals.
Celia turned on her heel to face him, leaning back against the rail. How much longer before his voice stopped making her knees go shaky? Plus the sight of him? Equally dreamy. The past and present blended in his look of faded jeans with designer loafers and a jacket. He wore a ball cap and sunglasses, likely to hide his identity, but she would have known him anywhere.
And just her luck, all of his buddies were making tracks to the other side of the boat, leaving her here. Alone. With Malcolm.
She blinked back the sparks of the morning sun behind his broad shoulders. “I thought you were still at the hotel asleep when I left.”
“I came to the boat ahead of the rest of you, slipped on board with the boat captain to reduce the chances of the press finding me.” He captured a lock of her hair trailing in the wind and tucked it behind her ear. “Back to my question. Why did you avoid me last night, after the concert?”
“Ignoring you?” She angled her head away from his stirring touch. “Why would I do that? We’re not in junior high school.”
“You haven’t spoken to me since those few brief—vague—words after the concert last night.” He frowned, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Are you pissed because I kissed you on the plane?”
“Should I be upset that you kissed me without asking?” A kiss that still made the roots of her hair tingle. “Or should I be angry about the photos of us together plastered all over tabloids and magazines? Oh, and let’s not forget TV gossip shows. We’re—and I quote—‘The Toast of Paris.’”
“So that is why you’ve refused to talk to me.” He pressed a thumb against his temple, just below the ball cap.
“Actually, I got over that. But the way you mocked me by playing a song you wrote about us in high school—” her anger gained steam “—a song you recently called a puppy-love joke? Now, that made me mad.”
“Damn it, Celia.” He hooked a finger in a belt loop on her jeans and tugged her toward him. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“Then what did you intend?” she asked, unable to read his eyes behind those sunglasses. She flattened her palms on his chest to keep from landing flush against him, body to body. Still, with their faces a breath apart, her heart skipped a beat.
“Hell, I just wanted to pay tribute to what we shared as teenagers. Not to glorify it, but certainly not to mock it,” he said with unmistakable sincerity. “We did share something special back then. I think we can share that again.”
Air wooshed from her lungs, making it almost impossible to talk. The sound of the flowing water alongside the boat echoed the roar of blood rushing through her veins. Her fingers curled in the warmth of his jacket. “You missed the mark big-time in getting your meaning across on the stage, Malcolm.”
“Let me make it up to you.” Pulling off the shades, he rested his forehead against hers, the power of his deep blue gaze bathing her senses.
“You don’t have to do anything. You’re protecting me from a stalker. If anything, I owe you.” She squeezed his jacket tighter. “But that’s all I owe you.”
His hand slid around her. “I don’t want you feeling indebted to me.”
Her face tipped to his, so close to kissing, so close to bliss. Her mouth tingled in anticipation. It was getting tougher and tougher to remember why this was a bad idea. The roaring of the water and her pulse grew louder and louder until she realized it wasn’t the river or her heartbeat.
“Damn it, the press,” Malcolm barked softly, stepping back and sliding his sunglasses on again.
Paparazzi ran along the shore with cameras in hand. Shouts carried on the wind, disjointed phrases.
“—Douglas.”
“Kiss her—”
Celia raced alongside him toward the captain’s cabin. “I thought you intended for us to kiss for the camera.”
“Changed my mind,” he called, pulling open the door. “Keeping you happy
