Page 55 of Sinful Desires
I had enough chaos in my life already?…?and something told me Théo LeRoy could turn every last piece of it into something much, much worse.
Chapter
Sixteen
“The fear of not being remembered is a dangerous thing.”
? Carla H. Krueger
Scarlett
“Welcome aboard, Miss Harper,” the stewardess said, all glossy lips and fake warmth, handing me champagne like it could wash the blood ties off my tongue. I gave her my coat, nodded, and stepped inside.
Cold leather. Dim lights. Too polished to feel real.
I went straight to the jet’s bedroom, dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed onto the bed. God, I hated Christmas.
Over the years it had turned us into smiling corpses with family names, pretending we didn’t want to set the table on fire. Cousins with glassy stares and weaponized compliments. Aunts whispering like strangled snakes. Uncles sighing like I was a failed investment.
But Angelo was bringing his COO this year, Jade Whitenhouse. I’d met her once. She was amazing—sharp tongue,killer heels, allergic to bullshit. Honestly? I hoped she’d sit next to me. I needed backup. Or a distraction. Or someone to make fun of her boss with over cocktails.
My stomach growled. I got up to call the stewardess, head pounding, ready to beg for pasta?…?or poison.
My body was still humming from last night. From the pool. From the underground range. From his hands locked over mine and the scent of gun oil, sweat, and steel. The sound of his voice still haunted my ears:“Aim for the heart or the head.”
And then how he’d walked away, claiming he had a plane to catch.
So, when I opened the door and saw him there—solid and unbothered, openingthe overhead compartment—my stomach dropped.
LeRoy.
As he lifted his bag, his hoodie rode up just enough to show the edge of his muscles and the soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.
I swallowed, my throat going dry. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in Paris. Or somewhere else in France. Somewhere far away from me. Somewhere that didn’t feel like this, didn’t make my pulse race, didn’t make every inch of my body ache with something I had no business feeling.
But there he was—calm, unbothered, too close. Then he looked up and his eyes found mine.
I shut the door.Hard.Leaning against it, I let out a heavy sigh laced with confusion. He had said he was leaving for France, but he washere?
The man was a walking contradiction. Or maybe just a beautifully armed bipolar episode with a jawline.
Fuck.
I was supposed to have had a week to mentally prepare myself to see him again. But nope, apparently, I was just supposed to dive right back into the humiliation.
Okay. I can do this. I can face him.
I opened the door and padded slowly down the aisle, the hush of my socks barely louder than my heartbeat. I slid into the seat directly opposite him.
His eyes were fixed on his laptop, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing a map of tattoos across his forearms with numbers, dates, and fragments of sentences. One in particular caught my eye:Mon étoile dans l’obscurité.
The stewardess appeared, placing two glass bottles of water on the table between us. Her smile was sweet and practiced, but her gaze lingered far too long on LeRoy. I watched the pink rise in her cheeks as she backed away.
“Do women always melt when you breathe in their direction and beg you to toss them a scrap of attention?”
That earned me a flicker at the corner of his mouth, just enough to tell me he was holding back a smirk. “Depends on the woman.”
I let out a scoff. “So, yes?”
