I was slightly caught up in the story of poor Raskolnikov and his murderous urges when some faintly familiar scent assaulted my nostrils. I knew exactly what it was I was smelling, but I just couldn’t fathom that it was part of my actual reality. That smell belonged to one person and one person only; Saxon Maclean.

I forced myself to look over the edge of my book, and there he stood, larger than life. Saxon in the flesh. What was he doing here? Why was he suddenly right in the middle of my Paris adventure?

“Saxon?” He looked at me, a long hard look that gave me absolutely no clue about what he was feeling or thinking. His black eyes were completely dark, his mouth set in a firm line. He held himself stiffly, uncomfortable in the middle of this group of people, who he obviously considered alien and offensive. I felt myself buck under his dark stare, daring him to keep looking so openly. But Saxon, being Saxon, didn’t have the good sense to look away from my angry gaze. He stared straight at me, moved right to me like he was a ship lost at sea and I was the bright blink of a lighthouse.

“Blixen.” He fell into the seat next to me. I noticed a fabulously beautiful woman with long, dark hair and bright, laughing eyes, the same color as Saxon’s, but with none of his sardonic nastiness. She was slight and bubbly, confident and lovely. She gravitated right to my mother and kissed both her cheeks, like some chic European woman. “I see you noticed my mother.”

“You never told me your mother was a professor.” My wide eyes followed her as she flitted around the sterile airport longue like some kind of dazzling little sprite.

“You never asked.” Saxon’s lazy voice dripped and oozed sexily. How did he do that? How did he take the most commonplace words in the English language and turn them into something undeniably sexy? I hated him for it, and hated him more because I felt like rubbing up against that thought. My brain didn’t even have the power to link him to Paris, but it bubbled around that possibility, and it was as powerfully delectable as it was toxic.

“You’re going to Paris?” I asked, even though the answer stared me in the face.

“Looks that way.” He flicked his eyes over my face.

I hated that I felt relieved to have put makeup on this morning. What did I care what he saw, what he approved of? Saxon and I had no business even attempting any type of relationship with each other. We were gunpowder and one hell of a spark, and I wasn’t about to test our combustibility.

“I can’t believe this,” I muttered, and I knew myself enough to admit that I hoped he heard me mutter it and would respond. He did.

“Can’t believe what? That I’m crashing your mommy-and-me Paris trip? Trust me, it wasn’t my choice.” He slumped lower in the molded plastic chair and pressed his fingers to his temples.

I tried hard not to notice how good he looked in his slightly wrinkled button-down and fraying jeans. His hair was a little too long. One piece needed to be pushed back from his eyes. Not that I was about to do it. It just needed to be done. That was just an observation.

That’s all.

“What would your choice have been?” I closed my thick Russian book over my finger and tucked my legs up under me.

“To be in between Sara Olsen’s legs.” His mouth curved into a wicked smile. He wanted to shock me, but I refused to let him. My facial muscles didn’t budge. “But mi madre said it was Paris or rehab. And I’m not living for two weeks without a cigarette or a decent meal. So Paris it is.”

“Rehab for what?” I asked, even though I didn’t want to ask. What did I care what he’d been smoking/snorting/inhaling/shooting up? I didn’t. But I asked anyway.

“Rehab for drugs and drinking.” Saxon looked right at my breasts. I crossed my arms over them. “She’s cool with rock n’roll. And a little sex, just as long as it’s safe.”

“I wish you’d gone to rehab,” I griped. I clutched my novel until my knuckles went white and reminded myself that throwing it at his handsome head would get me kicked out of the airport. I was not about to miss Paris because Saxon was acting like the ass I always knew he was.

“Don’t lie, Brenna.” His voice was velvet rubbing along my neck and against my ears. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“You really think I’m happy you’re here?” Screw the repercussions; smacking him upside the head with 400 pages of Russian tragedy would be worth any price.

“I know you wanted Jakey, but maybe you’ll accept my sloppy seconds.” He looked down at Jake’s ring on my finger. “Let me guess. Autre ne Veuil? C’est tout Mon Deuir?

I ignored how Saxon’s French snaked around his tongue and spilled into my ears like warm honey. “ A Vila Mon Coer, Gardi Li Mo,” I bit out.

“Well, well.” Saxon’s smile was hard. “So you’re Jake’s heart now? Or am I misreading the sentiment? Keep guard, Blix. I would hate to see my baby brother hurt.”

“Fuck off, Saxon,” I hissed. “You don’t give one damn about Jake, and I know it.”

“Yep.” He flipped his words out so they would seem casual, but I could hear that he cared right down to his marrow. “I bet a spoiled little brat knows exactly what it’s like to have a sibling you can’t talk to because a girl got in the fucking way. Spare me the lecture.”

“Spare me your conversation in general, you asshole. I don’t want to talk to you again.” I felt my blood actually boiling in my body.

“Done,” he snapped and sat up with an irritated jerk of his long limbs. “And likewise. I would really appreciate it if you could keep the hell away from me.”

“Take your own advice.” I gathered my carryon, ready to storm away from his idiotic company. “I want nothing to do with you.”

Just then, I noticed Saxon’s mother standing over us. “Hello, Brenna.” Her face looked ageless and remarkably lovely. She smiled at me like a real-life Renaissance angel. “I’m Lylee, and I’ve heard so much about you from Suzanne.”

“I’m sorry if my mom was a little crazy,” I apologized. “She doesn’t realize that not everyone on earth wants to talk about me all the time.” I returned her smile, despite the fact that she was Saxon’s mom. Or maybe because of it. There was something undeniably attractive about her.

“Not at all.” She looked me up and down, and there was naked approval in her black eyes. I was sure of it; I had seen the exact same thing in her son’s eyes often enough. “Everything she tells me meshes with all the things my son has said. And hasn’t said.” She winked at Saxon.

He rolled his eyes. “Very deep, Mom. How long until we board?”

“Don’t be a jackass, Saxon,” his mother advised cheerfully. “You’re not seriously going to be upset about a vacation to Europe, are you? I mean, I know teen angst is cool with guys, too, but that would be a little extreme, wouldn’t it? We are, after all, going to Paris. Try to keep that at the forefront of your thoughts, little man.” She made a move to brush that errant piece of hair back, but he ducked her touch.

“Thanks, Mom,” Saxon ground out.

“So nice to meet you, Brenna.” She floated back in my mother’s direction.

“Oh shit.” Saxon let his elbows fall forward onto his knees and hung his head.

“What?” I felt particularly snarly and nasty.

“She likes you.” He rubbed his temples like that fact gave him an instant headache.

“How could you possibly know that? She only talked to me for a few minutes.”

“I could tell by the way she looked at you.” His voice was so low I could hardly hear it. “She looked at you the way I do. Like she wants to eat you alive.” He slouched back in his seat, a general air of belligerence cocooning him from any more of my questions.

So Saxon looked at me like he wanted to eat me and was fine admitting it? I wanted to feel offended, but I didn’t. If I was totally honest, I felt completely thrilled by his confession. I wanted to know what it would feel like to have Saxon devour me. Even as that thought crossed my mind, I rubbed my thumb over the ring Jake put on my finger the day before yesterday.