Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

Freshman year French.

He wrapped his hand around the knob, opened the door, and roamed his eyes across the sea of desks. Nerves whipped through him. He wasn’t a natural at languages. He was good at business, at strategy. Those were his skills. But he’d taken a night class during his senior year of high school, and he was committed to seeing this through. He wasn’t so romantic that he believed his father had left a dying wish. His dad had no notion that he was going to be killed and surely if he had, he wouldn’t have left such a practical note.

Michael was wise enough to understand what the note was—one of the many reminders his father had left for himself. Get milk. Pick up Shannon at 6:15. Remind Michael to study for math.

But even so, this reminder was bigger. More important than a day-to-day item on the to-do list. This note was part of the plan—the plan he’d discussed and hatched with his dad. The plan to apply to school in France, to be with Annalise, to make a life with her.

He hadn’t been able to get into college in France, and she’d had no luck in the United States.

But he could keep trying. Because…there was always a someday.

“Reminder: Tell Michael he’s signed up for French classes in the evening. A gift to him. He needs to learn the language for when he goes to school there. He needs to learn French for Annalise. So he can find his way back to her.”

That was it. That was all. But that was enough. His father’s wish for him. Dead or alive, it didn’t matter. Michael would fulfill it.

He stepped into the classroom, daunted but ready, and started working his ass off to learn another language.

Six years later, at age twenty-four, he was fluent. During those six years, he and Annalise had lost touch, but by the time he was done with school, on his own, serving his country, he was ready to find his way back to her.

He tracked her down and sent her the letter. Je n’ai jamais cessé de t’aimer.

He didn’t have to turn to Google to translate his heart.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


She sat up in bed, staring at him like he’d skydived in from another planet and landed kaput on her bed.

“Michael?” She raised an eyebrow.

He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “Yeah?”

“Did you just have a conversation with me in French?”

His shoulders tightened, and he silently cursed himself. There was no denying it. He’d done nothing wrong, but he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t said those things. Not just the whole I’m crazy for you declaration, but after she’d said, “Yes, like that, just like that,” every single word that tumbled from his lips had been in French.

“Not a whole conversation. Just a few words,” he said, desperately trying to sidestep.

“How did you know what to say?”

His heart slammed against his chest. He didn’t want to tell her. Not yet. He didn’t want to expose himself like this. He didn’t want to reveal the full extent of what he’d done for her. That his desire to find her again, to be with her again, had driven him to learn a whole new language. “Just a few words. That’s all,” he said, then glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “You have an early flight. Let’s get some sleep.”

“Okay,” she said in a strained voice.

He turned out the light. “Come here. Come closer,” he murmured, and wrapped his arms around her.

“I’m already close.”

She snuggled into him, giving in on this count.

“Closer still,” he said.

“Michael,” she said, her tone pleading as she pressed her warm body to his, skin to skin.

He kissed her hair. “Not now.”

“I want to know.”

“Just let me hold you.”

She sighed, relenting as she wriggled closer, giving in. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“For taking my picture.”

He smiled into her neck and kissed her there, inhaling her scent. Tonight she was rain and sex and him. “I want you to be happy. Tell me you won’t regret this. Or me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t regret you. I could never regret you. But I want to know—”

He whispered into her hair. “Shhh…”

He just couldn’t go there tonight. He would break.

*

His breathing evened out, and soon he was asleep. She stared at the bright green letters on the hotel clock. After midnight. She had a five a.m. wake-up call, and the world’s earliest flight to Paris.

Back home.

Her chest ached. She missed him already.

She hadn’t realized when she sought him out how much she needed this. Contact. Emotion. Passion. She’d been so shut down, but one flip of the switch from him, and the electricity was powered on, bright and shining, lighting up a whole city.

Perhaps that was why she’d searched for him when she went to Vegas. Yes, she had neatly tucked him away when she’d married Julien. She hadn’t thought about Michael at all while she was another man’s wife. But with that bond severed, she was free to roam, to return to wondering what if. To her first love.