“Nothing to say?” I taunt, my eyes still closed as a shadow covers me, blocking out the sun. My skin prickles with anticipation as I slowly open my eyes.
And freeze.
For endless seconds we just stare, and in those seconds, I’m made acutely aware of my position, my cape coloring red by eyes so penetrating, they grip me like a hand to the throat.
“We don’t want to let the wolf get a whiff.”
There’s no mistaking it. I’m staring directly into the eyes of said wolf.
He hovers over me, in complete contradiction to my attire in a tailored black suit. Hair the color of a raven’s wing, dark olive skin deepened by the sun, thick dark brows slashed over hostile eyes. Below, a strong prominent nose resting on a chiseled face, thick, God-kissed lips, broad shoulders, defined pecs, a trim waist beneath his open jacket, and muscular thighs that strain against his suit pants.
That’s when I know that knowledge truly is power, and I’ve been utterly stupid to think I had anything figured out.
I’ve been so fucking blind.
I’m drowning in fiery amber depths and nowhere near strong enough to withstand it. It’s the most I’ve ever felt under a man’s gaze in my life. I shuffle to cover my bare breasts as his eyes trail down my body. He’s ready to pounce, his posture livid, his fists clenching at his sides. I’m positive if I were standing, my knees would have buckled under the weight of his blistering gaze.
I’d gotten it totally wrong—one step forward, ten steps back.
“You’re The Frenchman.”