Pleasure Games. Daire St. Denis

learned in a self-defense class, forcing the man to drop the gun. She grabbed the strap of the satchel, pulling it off his shoulder.

      “Salope!” The man swung the crowbar catching the side of her head.

      The pain in her temple was so sharp and stinging, that warrior-Jasmine drained out of her system as she curled on the ground, gripping the satchel like a beloved teddy bear, feeling like she might vomit from the pain. What happened next would have confused her at the best of times, but her head was still spinning from being clocked and her body was still pumping with adrenaline, lack of sleep and jet leg...

      There was a crash.

      Followed by a wet thunk and a man cried out in pain.

      A body crumpled heavily half on, half off her.

      A hand appeared in front of her face, gesturing for her to take it in order to help her to her feet. “Ça va?”

      And then Jasmine was standing on noodle-y legs, gazing into the face of a stranger. The man wore a black leather jacket and a black helmet with the visor raised, revealing a face with a scruffy beard, dark brows and...the clearest, bluest, most amazing eyes she’d ever seen.

      And then there were four eyes, then six...

      “Mademoiselle?” He snapped his fingers in front of her face.

      She shook her head, and then wished she hadn’t as stars appeared, dancing in front of her open eyes. She would have fallen if not for the strong hands gripping her arms, holding her up.

      However, there were equally strong hands tugging on the strap of the satchel she was still clutching. The thug on the floor grappled for the bag and two things happened simultaneously. The bag slipped from her hands, spilling the contents on the tile floor just as a black leather boot swished past her line of vision, kicking the thief in the face and knocking him out. The rest happened in slow motion. Rings, earrings and necklaces scattered, jumping and skittering across the polished tile floor like live things freed from captivity. Jasmine caught sight of her ring bouncing along the hard floor, ricocheting off the bottom corner of the counter and landing—plunk—inside the passing boot of the stranger.

      Without thinking, Jasmine lunged for the man’s leg, reaching into the top of his boot for her ring, but he shook her off, glaring down at her and speaking harshly—probably cursing—in French. Then the man stilled, his head jerked toward the door and the street and Jasmine became aware of the sound of sirens approaching.

       “Merde!”

      With one powerful shake, the six-eyed man dislodged Jasmine from his leg and strode toward the door.

      “Wait!” Jasmine scrambled to her feet and hurried out after the stranger in black. Once on the street, she saw him jogging toward a corner and Jasmine took off after him, calling, “Please, wait! You’ve got my ring!”

      However, running in high heels was nearly impossible on the cobblestone street, so Jasmine paused to pull off her sling-back sandals and hurl them away—she’d grab them later. Then she ran the rest of the distance in bare feet. Her head pounded like a drummer was between her ears, playing a solo at a heavy metal concert.

      When she got to the corner, her legs wobbled and she could barely see straight.

      There.

      The man with her ring was straddling a motorcycle, the engine roaring to life as she stumbled toward him, stepping onto the road, holding her hand up to stop him.

      Her brain must not have been functioning, because just as the man revved the engine of the motorcycle the world went sideways, and where once there was a street, a man and a motorcycle, there were now only quaint French rooftops, an impossibly blue sky and a bird flying at an odd angle.

      Then everything went black.

       CHAPTER THREE

      JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.

      Why couldn’t Luca mind his own damn business? Not only had he found himself caught in a robbery, the police were only a block away and now a foreign woman—based on the fact she was shouting in English—had fainted right in front of his bike.

      “Non. Non, non, non.” Luca put the bike in neutral, jumped off and bent down beside the crumpled woman. He shook her shoulder. “Reveillez-vous.” Wake up.

      The woman moaned, her lids fluttered and then she passed out again. He could see the beginnings of a bruise blossoming along her hairline.

      “La vache!” The words scraped the back of his throat. Glancing up and down the street, Luca weighed his options. What if he propped her unconscious body in a doorway...

      A quick survey of the street revealed that the two closest doors were covered in paper with signs in the window advertising space for rent.

      Not good.

      The sirens were loud and close.

      Dammit. He couldn’t leave her. And he definitely couldn’t get caught at the scene of a crime. He’d wind up in another media shitstorm.

      Luca fit his hands beneath the woman’s arms and lifted her to her feet. She briefly came to, giving him just enough time to instruct her to straddle the bike. However, once she was astride, she slumped forward.

      The sound of more sirens approaching from another direction got Luca’s pulse racing. He scooted the woman’s body forward on the seat—God, she wasn’t very big, was she?—and then straddled the seat behind her. He shifted into first and then wrapped his left arm around the woman’s waist to hold her steady while he slowly drove the seven blocks, down side streets and alleys, to his rented flat. The ride only took ten minutes and would have been faster if he could have shifted into a higher gear, but that was impossible to do while holding on to an unconscious woman.

      The fact she was still out cold was not a good sign.

      She better not die.

      What the hell was he doing, bringing an unconscious foreigner back to his flat? He must be out of his mind. Luca could see the headlines smeared across the papers and news channels: Dead Foreigner Found in Luca Legrand’s Secret Residence. Foul Play Suspected.

      But what choice did he have?

      Luca parked his motorcycle in the underground lot, carefully scooped the woman up into his arms and carried her to the elevator that would take him to the fifth floor.

      Once inside the flat, he laid her on his bed, got an ice pack out of the freezer—one he kept for when his leg ached—wrapped it in a towel and placed it on the woman’s temple.

      “Ne me quitte pas,” he whispered, brushing hair off her forehead and temple so he could press the cold pack against her wound.

      “What does that mean?” she asked softly, her eyes still closed.

      Oh, thank God. “I’m asking you not to die. Please.”

      A small smile touched her lips and she covered his hand with hers. Her touch was light and cool, and Luca felt a stirring of tenderness toward this complete stranger.

      “Okay,” she murmured. “I’ll try.”

      Then she passed out again.

      Rubbing his temples, he gazed down at the slight woman who took up less than a third of his bed. She was showing all of the signs of a concussion; he’d seen it too many times to count on the racing circuit, and although he couldn’t risk taking her to a hospital or calling an ambulance, he had to get her medical help.

      Back in the bedroom, in the drawer of the small bedside table, was his old phone, the one he hadn’t turned on in two weeks. He grabbed it, booted it up and typed a name into his contact list. Then he pressed the call button. As the phone rang, his heart beat fiercely in his chest.

      It