Free Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) by Michelle St. James

He’d given her a nod as she slid into the car and hadn’t so much as looked at her since.
    She was nervous about going to Vienna with Christophe Marchand, was putting off the moment when she would get in the car next to him, board a plane that would take them away from Paris and toward a situation whose outcome couldn’t be determined. It was more than the ring; it was Marchand. He threw her off-balance, and that was something she couldn’t allow.
    Off-balance was her mother. It was putting all of your hopes and dreams in the hands of a man who was only looking for a taste of beauty. It was her father and men like him who would move onto the next fine thing the moment they got bored with the one in their hands.
    Charlotte wasn't an off-balance kind of person. She was strong and steady. Practical and intelligent. Knowledge and reason guided her decisions.
    Which is why she was going to Vienna with Christophe Marchand.
    He offered her the protection she might need, and a man with his resources could likely open doors that would remain closed to her alone. Plus, it was part of their agreement — the joint trip to Vienna, the information about Stefan Baeder, the eventual return to Paris and protection for her father’s store. It was an agreement that would allow her to put this behind her and return to her life and job in L.A. knowing she had done all she could to protect her father’s legacy and do right by Baeder.
    It all made perfect sense.
    She exited the shop and turned to lock the door, then hurried purposely for the car. Julien was at the back door before she reached it. He took her bag, then waited for her to slide in next to Christophe before closing the door behind her.
    Christophe’s presence was like a black hole sucking the oxygen out of the vehicle. He seemed to occupy every inch of the backseat, his essence reaching beyond his physical person like smoke. His scent was like a drug, the hint of rain and wool mingling into an elixir that made her feel slightly light-headed. She focused on her seat belt to avoid looking at him as Julien put the bags in the trunk. Then the car was starting and they were pulling into traffic, moving through the city as the sun set over Paris.
    “Did you give Mademoiselle Masson her holiday?” Christophe asked when they’d been driving for awhile.
    “Yes,” she said, daring a look at him and immediately regretting it.
    He had gone upstairs to pack his bags while they’d waited for Julien and had returned dressed in perfectly tailored trousers and a white button down. The shirt would have been boring on anyone else, but the fabric hugged his broad shoulders, the arms that were deceptively lean, the muscle rippling when he reached for something. A sliver of bare skin was visible at the top of his chest, and she’d had to look away, a flash of him naked, her tongue skimming his heated skin momentarily stealing her breath.
    She inched her thigh away from his, glad she’d changed from her dress into slacks. She already felt too exposed in his company. Now her clothes were like armor.
    And the more barriers the better.
    “Have you known her long?” Christophe asked.
    “Who?”
    His smile was knowing, like he knew what she’d been thinking. Heat rose to her cheeks.
    “Mademoiselle Masson.”
    “Oh, yes,” Charlotte said, trying to recover. “She started working for my father about two years ago, I think.”
    “I must confess I always found her rather… high-strung,” he said.
    “That’s one word for it.”
    “What would you call her?”
    She was surprised by the note of curiosity in his voice, the way he looked into her eyes. Like he genuinely wanted to know the answer. Like there was nothing in the world on his mind except what she was about to say.
    Charlotte thought about it. “Vibrant,” she said. “Passionate.”
    “Passionate?”
    She nodded. “About beauty.”
    He held her gaze. “That I can understand.” A moment later he spoke again. “Although I