Propositioned Into a Foreign Affair: Propositioned Into a Foreign Affair

Of course, most people had no way of knowing how hard an actress had to fight to stay competitive in an absurdly weight-conscious business. Bella had never been one of those stars accused of being anorexic, after all, she liked her food. But to remain in an industry where she was photographed constantly, she had to be extremely disciplined. One day, when she’d had enough of Hollywood, she planned to celebrate with a ten-day doughnut spree. All doughnuts. All the time.

He toasted her with his coffee, the bone china absurdly delicate in his large hand. “I’m a no B.S. kind of guy.”

“I guess there’s honor in that.” She forced down miffed feelings and savored another bite, her eyes closing in ecstasy. “I love food, but it’s true what they say about the camera adding pounds. I work out a lot. I decided early on I would not spend my life living on rice cakes and cocaine.”

“Admirable.” He seemed surprised, darn him. “Did your personal trainer come along?”

She snorted and quickly dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Don’t have one. Sure I consult with trainers on how to target problem areas, but honestly, I have such a large entourage following me around with a camera documenting everything I do, I prefer to exercise alone. Well, except for Muffin of course. Muffin needs lots of exercise too or she misbehaves. So when I walk on the treadmill, she runs circles around me. I enjoy bike rides and she trots alongside. If she gives out, I have a carrier attached to the back of the seat…”

She paused mid-ramble and stared across the table at Sam who was watching her intensely. The sunset through the window cast shadows on his leanly handsome face. Had he truly been listening or was he a B.S. artist after all? Because she truly didn’t have a clue why he’d signed on for a shopping trip today. Most men would have avoided this like the plague.

Bella ducked closer to him, careful to keep her voice low so the waiter angling past wouldn’t overhear. “Why are we doing this? What do you hope to gain?”

“I enjoyed last night,” he said simply. “I don’t see why it has to be a one-time deal.”

She’d been wondering, half expecting this all day, but hadn’t wanted to face the inevitable discussion. Spending time with him had been more fun—laid back and easy—than she’d expected.

Now that was coming to an end. “Weren’t you listening to me when I poured my heart out to you over supper? My life is a mess. I’m not in any shape for a relationship.”

She wasn’t in any shape to withstand more hurt.

“I never said I wanted a relationship.” He set his coffee back on the small café table and leaned on his elbow, closer, intent. “No offense meant, but I am most definitely not looking to marry you.”

She leaned back, her cheeks puffing out a sigh that played with the flickering candle in the middle of their table. “Wow, no need to soft soap it.”

“You’re the one who asked for reassurance.”

She was mad at herself even more than at him. She resented the pull of attraction even as she seemed unable to back away. “I didn’t ask for anything except a change of clothes to get back to my room. You don’t seem to understand.” She struggled for the right words. “I am hurting, really hurting. Despite how it seemed last night, I’m not the casual-sex sort. What we did was…an anomaly.”

“Stupid me.” He grinned. “I thought we ate strawberries off each others’ bodies.”

She slapped her napkin on the table. “Quit trying to make me laugh.”

“Why? You just said again how much you’re hurting. Is it so wrong of me to want to make you smile?”

“As long as I still have my clothes on.” Was that possible around him? Even with her defenses on full-scale alert, she couldn’t help but notice the ripple of muscle under his shirt as he’d carried her packages.

Or how the appealing scruff of his five-o’clock shadow along his jaw gave him an edgier, sexy appeal. She itched to test the texture beneath her fingertips.

Against her better judgment, her fingers began crawling across the table. The very small table. Another couple of inches and she would throw caution to the wind—Snap, snap.

The unmistakable click of cameras sounded behind her. Damn it. Her stomach clenched in frustration—and disappointment.

Sam’s face hardened. “Head down.”

So far the photographer had yet to get in front of her. Sam pitched cash on the table and looped his arm around Bella’s shoulders. She ducked into the strength of his protective embrace. Luckily, they’d already stored all their shopping bags in the car, so they were unencumbered to make a break for it.

He raced straight toward the restaurant’s kitchen door, hurrying her alongside while shielding her face. They pushed through the double swinging doors, steam blasting through carrying the scent of frying meats. Pots clanged loudly as voices shouted instructions back and forth. A humidity-limp plaid Christmas bow hung over the clock marking six o’clock.

Sam pointed across the crowded kitchen, past the cooking island down the middle. “The back exit is that way.”

“Our coats?” The winter temperatures felt all the colder to her after a lifetime in sunny California.

“Already taken care of.” He rushed her past a chef in a tall white hat, the industrial stove sizzling with sliced vegetables.

An attendant stood by the back door, their coats draped over his arms. Sam had obviously made contingency plans for evading the press. She had to admire his thoroughness.

“Merci.” Sam shrugged into his black coat while their accomplice helped Bella with her longer one of white wool.

He shuttled her out into the empty back lot, the crisp air echoing with cathedral bells chiming “Silent Night.” The lot was very empty other than their waiting transportation, thank goodness.

Sam’s arm around her shoulders, he sprinted toward the Mercedes parked nearby, exhaust chugging into the early evening. “Hurry up, Cinderella, before this sucker changes into a pumpkin.”

The chauffer swept open the door. Bella slid in as Sam launched into the other side. Her heart pounded from the exertion as much as the threat. She knew too well how quickly a frenzy of reporters could cause an accident by jumping all over a car. Once their car pulled out onto the main road, two motorcycles roared away from the curb.

The press had found them.

Their driver raced through the streets of Paris at a breakneck speed, motorcycles speeding closer behind. Her pulse thudding in her ears, Bella double-checked her seat belt. Sam pulled out his cell phone, issuing instructions for the crew on his plane to be ready for takeoff. Otherwise, silence hovered heavily in the vehicle as she checked anxiously over her shoulder.

Mere minutes later, they pulled into the small private airport, through a security gate. Sam’s silver private jet waited, the crew prepped and ready outside.

She leaped from the vehicle. A few yards away, the paparazzi on motorcycles screeched to a halt behind the fence. They wouldn’t get any farther, but their cameras had mighty powerful lenses.

“Hurry!” He ushered her up the airplane steps. “That security guard isn’t going to hold up much longer.”

Two men wearing vests with reflective tape unloaded her packages from the trunk at lightning speed while she raced up the metal stairs.

Inside, she unlooped her scarf and sunk into the leather seat. Gasping for air, she couldn’t recall feeling this breathless in a long time. She should have been frustrated, angry even.

Yet for some reason it had felt more like an adventure with Sam at her side.

Because she’d never doubted he would take care of the situation? “I can’t believe you managed to elude them all day.”

Sam sidestepped the media center dominating most of the space. He secured his seat belt near the wine refrigerator at an old-fashioned bar. Sparkling cut-crystal glasses hung upside down above a black, granite prep area. “It helps that you speak fluent French when shopping or ordering meals.”

“As do you.”

His fluency in the language shouldn’t have surprised her since he worked here, but it did make her wonder what other surprises he had in store.

“People see what they expect to see. We appeared to be two locals finishing up last-minute Christmas shopping.”

Still, Sam had a knack for ditching the press beyond anything she’d seen before. And given the high-profile Hollywood sorts who made up her regular circle, she’d seen some mighty adept press dodgers.

The airplane engines roared louder, the craft easing forward, faster, until the nose lifted off. With a smooth swoop they were airborne. The neat pile of her shopping bags barely moved from where they rested in a corner.

And it was quite a hefty pile.

She’d checked off everyone on her growing list of family members. Buying for her grandmother had been particularly difficult—and sad. What did you get for a person who wasn’t expected to live much longer?