One Kiss in... Paris: The Billionaire's Bedside Manner / Hired: Cinderella Chef / 72 Hours. Robyn Grady

enjoy this time they had here as lovers. Still, she was mindful of keeping this whirlwind romance in perspective. It would be ridiculously easy to fall in love with an amazing man like Mateo Celeca only to be left behind.

      After this time together, that he was so successful and she was so definitely not didn’t worry her so much. His state of mind, as far as commitment was concerned, did. She’d briefly wondered whether he might want to find a wife and adopt that little boy he’d spoken about. But Mateo was married to his career and wanted to keep it that way. He’d confessed he was too busy for a family of his own. Too selfish.

      Despite his mansion back home and all his lavish possessions, she couldn’t believe he was self-centered. Although Mateo kept him well hidden, the orphaned boy he’d once been was still there deep inside. The boy who’d had no one and nothing. She felt the bracelet heavy on her wrist and smiled softly. People had different ways of dealing with the past.

      The adjoining door fanned open and Bailey, brought back, pushed herself to her feet. Mateo entered the room carrying a silver service tray holding two champagne flutes and a dish of sliced pear. At the sight of him, the tips of her breasts tingled and her blood instantly heated. But for the white serving cloth draped over his forearm, he was naked.

      Her gaze drank him in … tall, toned and completely comfortable in his own gorgeous bronzed skin.

      “I hope you didn’t answer the door to room service dressed like that,” she said, holding off tightening her robe’s sash.

      “I doubt they’d bat an eye.”

      With his gaze lidded and hot, he sauntered closer. After placing the tray on a ledge next to the bath, he poured the champagne then handed over a flute. The glasses pinged as they touched.

      “To Paris,” he said.

      “To Paris,” she agreed and sipped.

      As the bubbles fizzed on her tongue then slid down her throat, Mateo selected the largest piece of pear, bit in and watched juice sluice down his thumb.

      “Delicious,” he said and licked his lips.

      He offered her a taste. But when she moved to take a bite, he lowered the fruit and touched the piece to the hollow of her throat, drawing a calculated circle before sliding the pear farther down.

      Pulse rate climbing, Bailey closed her eyes and waited for the cool to glide between the dip of her cleavage, under the folds of her robe. Instead Mateo lowered his head and sucked at the juice slipping a single line down her throat.

      Soaking up each and every thrilling sensation, Bailey sighed and let her neck rock back.

      As his mouth slid lower, the sash at her waist was released. A moment later, cool air feathered over her exposed breasts, her thighs, at the same time a big palm trailed the plane of her quivering belly then higher, over her ribs and tender swell of each breast.

      He nipped her lower lip and spoke of the near overflowing tub. “That bath needs attention.”

      Winding her arms around his neck, she whispered in his ear, “Me first.”

       Nine

      Although the morning was far too fresh to leave the top down, Mateo arranged a late model French convertible for the road trip.

      From Bailey’s wide-eyed expression as they cruised beyond the city limits, she was in thrall of the unfolding country scenes … roads lined with trees whose leaves had been kissed with the russets and reds of autumn and far-reaching vineyards busy with the business of harvest. She marveled at the colombage houses with their geometric half-timber patterns. Mateo had obliged when she’d begged to stop at a rustic farmhouse with a leaded-glass feature that highlighted a coat-of-arms on the lintel above.

      And there was so much more ahead of them.

      He didn’t dwell on the niggling doubts that had surfaced since she’d accepted his invitation to join him on this trip, although at times he had found himself wondering if he’d acted too quickly—whether he was a fool believing Bailey was cut from a different cloth than Linda. But they were here now, and he intended for them both to make the most of it.

      “After we visit the children,” Mateo said, stepping on the gas, “we’ll go back to Paris and spend a couple of days. Longer if you want.”

      “Two days will be wonderful,” Bailey said, focused on a tractor trundling over a patchwork of fields. “I told Natalie I’d be back on deck by next Monday.”

      “She won’t mind—”

      “I know she wouldn’t,” Bailey said, looking over at him, “but I’ve taken up enough slack. Natalie was good enough to offer me a job. I need to step up to the plate.”

      Changing down gears to take a bend, Mateo was deep in thought. That Natalie had offered Bailey a job didn’t bother him in the least. What did rankle was the fact that she scrubbed floors to pay back money he would never miss. After the time they’d spent together, the intimate moments they’d shared, if he didn’t know that she’d argue, he’d tell her to forget the debt. He’d much rather set her up in an apartment and, if she followed through with the idea, finance her way through university, like Ernesto had done for him.

      Of course he’d be clear that any arrangement would not include a marriage proposal. From what she’d told him of her experience with Emilio Conti, she’d be glad of the clarification. She’d had one close call. She wouldn’t be looking forward to the sound of wedding bells.

      That made two of them. He liked children but he did not want the responsibility of bringing his own into this world. Life was too uncertain. No one could convince him otherwise.

      They reached the town by eleven. Five minutes later, the convertible made its way up the long dirt ruts that led to the Ville Laube Chapelle, a fine example of early French architecture which had been restored over time and transformed into a children’s home last century. Bailey sighed, taking in the hundred-foot steeple and angels carrying the instruments of Passion adorning the ornamental gables. Unpolished strong buttresses contrasted with the intricate foliage friezes and elevated stained-glass windows that captured then speared back the sun’s late morning light.

      Mateo’s throat thickened enough he had to clear it. So many years on and still, whenever this scene greeted him, he was six again … feeling uncertain again.

      As they parked and slid out from the car, a girl with short-cropped, blond hair, standing beneath the enormous oak Mateo remembered, gawped, dropped her skipping rope and raced inside. A moment later, children poured out through opened double doors that near reached the sky. Eager women, alternatively clapping hands to order the scattered children and patting down their dresses, followed. One lady, with chestnut hair that bounced on the shoulders of her yellow blouse, hurried to line the children up in the yard. Madame Nichole Garnier, Mateo’s contact and current director of the orphanage.

      Many girls held bouquets, flowers plucked from the home’s gardens or nearby meadow. Every boy had their shoulders pinned back. When the assembly was reasonably quiet, beaming, Madame Garnier swept up to greet her guests.

      “Monsieur Celeca, it is wonderful to see you again,” she said in French. Light green eyes sparkled as she came forward and kissed him, first on one cheek then the other. She turned to Bailey. “And you’ve brought a friend.”

      “Madame Nichole Garnier.” Mateo spoke in English, knowing Madame would follow suit. “This is Bailey Ross.”

      “Mademoiselle Ross.”

      “Call me Bailey.”

      Madame held one of Bailey’s hands between the palms of her own. “And you must call me Nichole. I’m very happy you are here.” Smiling, Madame held Bailey’s gaze a moment longer before releasing her hand and speaking again with Mateo. “The children have been eager for your arrival.”