One Week With The French Tycoon. Christy McKellen

but there was something so commanding about this man. He made her feel safe, somehow.

      Oh, get a grip, Indigo!

      The honeymoon suite was exquisite, decorated in those amazing heritage colours that Italians employed so effortlessly, the furniture simple but refined, with an art deco theme tying the room together. Romantic aspiration seemed to ooze from the walls, as if they’d been infused with the happiness of all the newlyweds that had stayed there over the years. She felt sure this place had to have been included in every World’s Best Honeymoon Suites article written for the glossy magazines she judiciously avoided buying these days.

      After thoroughly investigating the suite with her eyes, she turned to look at Julien and realised that he hadn’t even glanced around him and was instead staring down at the screen of his phone.

      Clearly he was already au fait with the finer things in life.

      Shaking her head at his lack of interest, she went to explore the bedroom, which was just as overwhelmingly beautiful as the rest of the suite. This whole experience was like stepping into a fantasy.

      Despite her protests about it being a waste of money, Gavin, her ex, had insisted on booking the first night of their stay in this expensive hotel—he’d wanted to start the holiday in style—before spending the rest of the week moving between smaller, more basic places. So this would be her only chance for luxurious pampering.

      She was going to have to make the most of it.

      After grabbing a blanket and pillow for Julien from the wardrobe, she floated back out of the bedroom and dumped them on the sofa before turning to find he was still staring down at his phone, lost in his own world.

      ‘Stay in the honeymoon suite a lot, do you?’ she asked, edging her voice with dry amusement.

      He glanced up at her and for a split second a dark expression flickered across his face. ‘Only once.’

      His change in demeanour unsettled her. ‘You’re married?’ she asked to cover her discomfort.

      ‘Not any more.’

      She could have sworn the temperature dropped a few degrees.

      ‘Oh. Sorry to hear that.’

      He flipped her his teasing grin again, breaking the tension. ‘You English are always sorry for something.’

      ‘I was just being polite,’ she said, bristling.

      His grin deepened.

      She cocked an eyebrow back at him.

      He looked at her for a moment longer with amusement in his eyes before turning away to drop his bags next to a mosaic-tiled coffee table in the middle of the room. ‘Well, I’m going to—what do you English say?—crash out,’ he said.

      That was her cue to leave. And not a moment too soon. Her whole body felt hot and tingly with the awareness of being alone with him.

      ‘Me too,’ Indigo said, backing towards the bedroom. ‘So I guess I won’t see you in the morning.’

      ‘Probably not,’ he said, flopping down on to the sofa and stretching his arms above his head.

      She came to a halt in the doorway and watched with fascination as he put everything he had into the stretch, the pleasure of it rippling across his face as he released the tension in his muscles. Forcing herself not to run her eyes up and down the powerful length of his body, she gave a stiff bob of her head, then turned to walk into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her, pushing away the ridiculous urge to lie down on top of him—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—just to feel the solid strength of him beneath her.

      It brought it home to her how much she’d missed being touched, being held, just being physically close to someone since Gavin had left her. Now she had the time and space to think about it, the after-effects seemed to be coming out in the strangest of ways.

      She turned the key decisively in the lock, hearing it click.

      Flinging herself at Julien was definitely not the way to deal with things.

      Okay, time to put the sexy Frenchman out of her mind and get practical.

      Striding purposefully away from the door, she dropped the small rucksack she’d used as hand luggage on to the bed. Thank goodness she’d had the forethought to pack a few essentials into it for just such an occurrence.

      Even so, after spending a lot of time planning for this trip, it was unnerving to find herself without all her carefully thought-out trekking gear. She didn’t even have her walking boots with her, so she would have to walk for at least five hours each day in the trainers she’d changed into at the last second at the airport because her feet were so hot. What an unfortunate decision that had been.

      Hopefully the airline would find her bag soon and send it to one of the hotels on the route. She’d left her details and itinerary with the lost luggage desk at the airport and they’d promised—after what seemed like hours of form-filling—to send it on once it had been located.

      The biggest problem she faced was that she’d put half of her money and her emergency credit card into the lost backpack too, not wanting to carry it all in her hand luggage in case that was stolen. At least her breakfasts were already paid for, so she could eat heartily in the morning and maybe skip lunch in order to eke out what little cash she had to feed herself in the evenings. Just until her backpack turned up. Which would be okay. She was used to budgeting and eating frugally.

      It would all be part of the adventure.

      Emptying out her rucksack on to the bedspread, she took an inventory of what she had with her: one extra pair of knickers and one pair of socks—that she’d have to alternate with the ones she had on and wash each day—a toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste, a spare T-shirt and a short cotton skirt which she’d interchange with the shorts and vest she had on, a pack of mints, a mascara that promised to give you ‘Hollywood eyes’ and her trusty liquid eyeliner, a packet of painkillers, her wallet and passport and a book on walking the Amalfi coast. She didn’t even have her mobile phone with her, she realised with a lurch, because she’d packed that into her missing luggage too, determined to only use it for emergencies on the trip so that she’d make the most of the scenery and social life and not be constantly diverted by the online world.

      After packing everything carefully back into the bag, she took a refreshing shower in the floor-to-ceiling marble bathroom, lathering herself with the zingy-smelling complimentary shower gel, before sliding between the crisp cotton sheets of the bed.

      What luxury!

      Stretching herself into a starfish shape, she brushed her fingertips over the smooth mahogany headboard and sighed hard, painfully aware of how much empty space there was on either side of her.

      The cruel irony of staying in the honeymoon suite had not been lost on her.

      In a parallel universe—where Gavin hadn’t fallen in love with another woman—she’d be tumbling into bed with him right about now.

      What would he have said about staying in this room? She pictured them laughing about it, ribbing each other about how much sex they should be having to keep up with all the former inhabitants. Out of nowhere a feeling of utter desolation hit her right in the chest. It had been three months since they’d split up and she’d not allowed herself to fall apart since the day it had happened, keeping herself busy and using this holiday as a bright spot to look forward to when she felt glum. But the realisation that this was it—that she was here now, on her own, and this was the reality of her situation suddenly brought her low.

      She thumped the mattress on either side of her. She was not going to let it get her down.

      As she’d learnt from an early age, crying and whinging didn’t get you anywhere. That was what growing up in an all-male household and having four smart, alpha, and now highly successful older brothers would teach you. She’d never won an argument or topped a challenge by turning on the waterworks or asking for special dispensation,