Claimed by the Millionaire: The Wealthy Frenchman's Proposition. Michelle Celmer

      “Oh, my God.”

      “I don’t think praying will help,” Tristan said in a quiet voice.

      “What do you recommend?” she asked, desperately wishing she could go back in time.

      He put a hand on her shoulder. It was big and warm and as he squeezed so slightly, she felt a little better. Not much, mind you, with her face and the ecstasy she’d felt in his arms clearly on display for the world to see.

      Tristan’s expression wasn’t visible, as his face was buried in her hair. Her hands shook as she looked at the picture.

      “I don’t look like myself,” she said, tracing a finger over her face. Her eyes were half-closed and she was clutching at Tristan as he kissed her. Thank goodness his broad shoulders covered her naked chest fairly well.

      He reached around her to take the paper. “You look like a woman in the arms of her lover.”

      “Yeah, ya think?” Sheri said, unable to help herself. She wished she could get good and mad. But this wasn’t Tristan’s fault. It was only that fact that was helping her keep it together. That and the strong belief that if she let go of her control she was going to crumple to the floor and never get up.

      “Cheeky is cute, Sheri. Sarcastic is not,” he said, his accent very strong and pronounced.

      She hated when he did that arrogant thing. Actually it was attractive at times, but right now, while she was grappling with the shock of seeing her scandalous picture in a major newspaper, it wasn’t.

      “Sleeping with you was fun while it was our little secret,” she said, mirroring his tone. “Having the entire tabloid-reading world know about it is not.”

      “Sheri—”

      She cut him off and turned away, walking farther into the elegantly appointed living room. She stood underneath a painting, a large oil by someone famous, she was sure, but she didn’t know art. Her aunt Millie’s taste had run more to prints of the Brooklyn Bridge than real art.

      “Sorry, was that too sarcastic? I’m not used to dealing with the paparazzi the way you are.”

      “You’re right,” he said. “This is my mess. I will take care of this.”

      “How, exactly?” she asked.

      “Leave it to me.”

      “Do they know my name?” She pivoted to face him. The morning sunlight streamed through the glass doors behind him, keeping his face in shadow.

      Tristan lifted the paper and read the article.

      “You haven’t read it yet?” she asked.

      “Not all of it.”

      “What does the headline say?”

      “‘Snagged. Elusive bachelor found in love nest.’”

      “Oh, my God.”

      “If you’re going to pray, you should at least ask for something.”

      “Tristan, I’m going to ask for lightning to strike you.”

      “Not a wise course of action,” he said.

      “You don’t think so?” she asked, trying to keep the panic she felt rising inside her from her voice.

      He wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her into his body. “I don’t. You need me, Sheri Donnelly, and I’m going to get you out of this mess.”

      This close to him, it was hard to keep the distance she’d been struggling to maintain since she came down for breakfast.

      “I can’t believe this,” she said.

      “What?”

      “I took a chance last night… Man, I knew that leaving the reception with you was a bad idea, but I was only thinking about what you might think when you saw me naked.”

      Tristan drew back and tipped her head up toward his. “What I might think when you were naked?”

      “Yeah, you know, stuff like, ‘she’s a lot flabbier than the women I’m used to….’”

      “Ma petite, you were perfection in my arms last night.”

      “You don’t have to lay it on that thick, Tristan. I look in the mirror every day and what I see staring back at me isn’t perfection.”

      “Your mirror is not the best. Otherwise you’d never leave your flat in the clothes you wear.”

      “Um…are you trying to make me feel better?” she asked.

      He gave her a quick pat on the backside and stepped away. “I was, smart-ass.”

      “So how are we going to deal with this?”

      “We are not. I am.”

      She shook her head. No way was she going to leave everything to Tristan. Thus far he hadn’t exactly been successful in getting the paparazzi off his own tail. And she wasn’t like him. She couldn’t afford a security detail, or a chauffeur. She took the subway to work and walked seven blocks from the station to her office.

      “Tristan—”

      “Enough. I said I will deal with it. Trust me.”

      Tristan wasn’t surprised by the flash of temper in Sheri’s eyes. But he was surprised that she backed down. She crossed her arms over her chest, and he saw tears gleaming in her pretty brown eyes.

      He was angry. At himself for not anticipating that photographers would be bold enough to take advantage of an intimate moment. At Sheri for looking up at him with wounded doe eyes that made him realize he had to fix this. She simply wasn’t as sophisticated as the heiresses and actresses he usually brought to his bed, and laughing off this kind of scandal was beyond her.

      And mostly he was mad at the tabloid that had decided to print this picture. He suspected it was because the publisher, Gabrielle Damienne, was an ex-lover of his and they hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

      “Sheri?”

      “Yes.”

      “Will you trust me?” he asked.

      Distantly he heard the doorbell ring, but knew the housekeeper would answer it. He had the feeling that anyone who came to the door today he wasn’t going to want to see.

      “I’m not sure.”

      Was her trust really important to him? She was more than a one-night stand, she was a woman he cared for, but he wasn’t going to love her. So was trust really that important?

      Yes, he thought. He wanted her to say she trusted him to handle this for her. He wanted to demand it. To make her admit that she would rely on him to handle this media mess.

      “You seemed sure last night.”

      She narrowed her eyes and then tipped her head to the side. “Last night was lust. Surely you knew that.”

      He felt the burn of her words and that sickly sweet tone she used. He knew he’d been rushing her out the door until he’d seen the paper. He hadn’t really cared if she’d picked up on that fact earlier. But now, hearing those words come from her lips…he realized he already cared more for Sheri than was prudent.

      She was dangerous because she made him feel way more than lust for her sexy little body, which she kept hidden under the ugliest clothing he’d ever seen on a woman.

      Today, dressed in his sister Blanche’s blouse and trousers, she looked…almost beautiful. Actually, the only thing detracting from her beauty were those wounded eyes of hers. She was hurting, and a different man, a man who still had a romantic heart, would soothe her.

      There was a rap on the door. “Mr. Sabina?”

      “Please