she’s making an appearance here tonight?” Lucas asked eagerly.
“So I’ve heard.”
“My ladies tell me she’s a right old hag covered in gaudy baubles,” Lucas said.
“So?”
“So, I’m afraid you won’t be finding a new bed partner tonight, Harry.”
“This is business, as I told you.”
The words had barely left his mouth when a gust of fresh air announced the arrival of the very woman herself. Both men turned to observe the commotion, their eyes widening.
The Parisian Widow was not even remotely elderly! In fact, she was as young and tender-looking as any college girl. She was tall, slim and willowy, with jet-black hair cut into a severe bob and fair, nearly translucent skin. Her lips were painted a daring red, and her sharp blue eyes were framed by dark, heavy eyelashes. She walked into the club confidently, the tassels of her slinky, glitzy dress brushing her bare knees.
A smirk worked its way up Harry’s lips. He definitely knew how to handle women—and weaving his way into this particular woman’s life could be both lucrative and enjoyable.
“A mix of business and pleasure,” he mused aloud as he rose from his seat.
Harry moved through the crowd effortlessly. Just as the widow reached the bar, he slid up behind her and placed his palm at the small of her back.
“What are you drinking tonight?” He asked as he suavely maneuvered his way into her field of vision.
The woman turned to look up, her blue eyes widening. A rosy blush bloomed on her cheeks as she took him in.
Yes, Harry thought to himself smugly. That was the exact reaction he had been hoping for.
“Barkeep!” Harry called, leaning his forearm on the bar, “Something sweet for the lady!”
He turned back to the young woman. She was still staring at him, her plump red lips slightly parted in surprise. He cocked an eyebrow and leaned closer. The scent of her sweet French perfume filled his senses, and he inhaled deeply.
“Like what you see?” Harry murmured huskily, savoring the way she blinked and reddened even further.
To his surprise, the widow pulled back a fraction, a cloud passing over her fine features. She arched a slender brow and lifted her dainty chin.
“Oh, you’re the bee’s knees, all right,” she said in perfect English...with not a trace of a French accent.
Harry frowned—could he have been mistaken? He handed her the drink.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said carefully, “I thought you were Madame Rousseau.”
“The Parisian Widow? At least I hear that’s what they’re calling me.” The woman laughed dryly. “You’re not mistaken. I am indeed Elise Rousseau.”
“But your accent-”
“I came from Paris,” Elise cut in, eyes narrowing, “but I wasn’t born there.”
“Well, forgive my rudeness, Madame Rousseau,” Harry said, inclining his head and holding out his hand. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Harry McMahon.”
Elise Rousseau did not immediately accept his handshake; rather, she stepped back a pace, her eyes assessing him from top to bottom. And just when it began to feel awkward, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to squeeze her small fingers in his large palm. Then, with a mischievous half smile, she tipped back her drink, draining it in one gulp, and pulled him away from the bar and into the fray of the dance floor.
“Great,” she said with a sly wink. “Now shut up and dance!”
Harry let himself be towed away by the girlish heiress. Together, they easily slid into a frenzied Charleston rhythm. Elise whooped and shouted with the rest of the dancing women, her movements practiced and confident. Not your average widow, Harry thought wryly as he hungrily devoured the sight of her long, creamy white thighs as they peeked from her flapper dress with each dance step. She shimmied and shook with the best of them, her smile electric. Then the band switched to a slower, sultrier blues piece, and Harry slid his arm around her tiny waist, pulling her close. It was an almost intimate embrace, their bodies twining together in time to the deep bass notes—and Harry knew immediately what he had to do.
He would take her body. Then her heart. And finally...her money.
Chapter 2
Elise Rousseau did not know whether to be relieved or irate. Harry McMahon had not recognized her—he, of all the people in New York! At the bar, they had stood close enough to kiss, and there hadn’t even been a flicker of recognition in his eyes!
She studied him from under her thick, black lashes. It was obvious that he fancied her—from his overtly flirtatious gestures to the subtle way his fingers lingered at her waist. How interesting, she thought bitterly, that he should find her so irresistible now.
No, he did not recognize her, but Elise certainly recognized him!
Aristocratic prat. Audacious. Arrogant. Presumptuous, lazy and entitled. A list of unflattering adjectives raced through her mind as she observed his self-assured demeanor, carefully schooling her own features so that her thoughts remained secret.
Not that he wasn’t the epitome of physical perfection. That simply could not be denied. He was tall, and his trim figure was accentuated by his tailored, three-piece suit. His gleaming dark hair was carefully combed back, and he had fiercely set, intense brown eyes and a strong, clean-shaven jaw. Yes, he was a very desirable man.
After all, Elise had once fallen in love with him.
Four years ago, she would have given anything to have him look at her the way he was looking at her now. Four years ago, she would have swooned at the thought of his hand touching her waist. Four years ago...
Four years ago, she had confessed her love to him at their college graduation ceremony—and he had cruelly brushed her off, leaving her with nothing but the broken pieces of her innocent heart.
Granted, she had been a different creature then; a gangly mess of thin limbs with mousy-brown hair and a slight stutter. But then she had escaped her shame across the ocean—to Paris to study—and everything had changed. In France, she had been courted by a rich, older French gentleman. They’d come to an understanding, the two of them. He needed a young wife on his arm, and she needed to reinvent herself. And so, within a year, she had transformed from Miss Elise Burke, bumbling college girl from New York, to Madame Elise Rousseau of Paris, fashionista and high-society gal.
As they swayed to the bluesy tunes, Harry let his hands drift from her slim waist, and his heated palms molded firmly to the swell of her hips. With a deft jerk of his arms, he pulled her deeper into his embrace, his thighs rubbing sensually against hers. He leaned in with a smile, letting his lips graze her ear as he whispered meaningless flatteries in her ear. Elise threw her head back and laughed aloud.
Who would have thought that swanky Mr. Harry McMahon would ever be fawning over little Miss Elise Burke?
Let
