The Curvy Waitress and the Billionaire French Count (He Wanted Me Pregnant!) Read Online Free PDF Page A

something.
    “I’m sorry—what?”
    He said it again, smiling but still looking faintly ashamed.
    The French for millionaire is, funnily enough, millionaire. But Erard said something different. “ Milliardaire.”
    Billionaire.
    I blinked at him, but there was no question that he was serious.
     
    ***
     
    On any other day, I would have been focused on the food. I would have been thinking about how the slivers of truffle melted into the braised mushrooms, or how the butter melted on my tongue. But all my attention was on Erard. I kept watching his broad shoulders move under his jacket and the way his thick forearms stretched out his shirt. Even sitting down, he was noticeably taller than me. He made me feel small and…feminine, if that makes any sense. And every few seconds, he’d raise his eyes from his plate and—
    “Why do you keep looking at me?” I blurted at last.
    He blinked and considered. “Why do you think? ” he asked.
    I flushed and shrugged helplessly.
    He shook his head and swore gently under his breath. “You really have no clue, do you? Not an inkling?” He leaned forward. “What happened to you, that it made you so out of touch with…this?” And he stroked my cheek. My neck. My shoulder.
    I stiffened and sat back. “Don’t!” I shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean! I’m not—I’m not anyone you should be looking at!” I clutched my arms around myself, suddenly cold. While we’d been eating, the clouds had covered the sun and the sky was turning an angry, dark gray.
    He frowned almost angrily. “Holly,” he said firmly, “You’re beautiful.”
    It was out before I could protest. It hung there like a mocking, shining jewel, one I didn’t deserve. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. “I’m not!” I insisted.
    Erard sat back in his seat. “I wish that I could kill him,” he told me solemnly.
    “Who?”
    “The man who made you feel this way.”
    I stared at him, feeling something open up inside me, something that had stayed nailed shut for a long time. I thought of my father, and how I’d felt when he bailed. When he’d left because his wife and, especially, his daughter, hadn’t measured up. I blinked back tears. “It’s not—“ I started. I didn’t even know what I wanted to say. “I can’t just—“
    He put one finger to my lips, silencing me. And then he kissed me.
    It wasn’t like in the elevator. This was slower and warmer, connecting on a different level. I could feel the energy rippling down through my body, but along with the arousal was something else: a sense of security I hadn’t known I could feel. I trusted him. I knew instinctively that he’d never hurt me, but it was more than that. I knew he’d never let anyone else hurt me.
    Erard dropped some bills on the table, took my hand and stood up, pulling me to my feet.
    “Where are we going?” I asked in a small voice. I was hovering between running for the door and throwing myself into his arms.
    “Somewhere I can convince you of how beautiful you are,” he told me.
     
    ***
     
    There’s a sequence of images in my brain: the elevator, the limo, the hotel lobby, another elevator. I know they must have happened, but they went by so fast we might as well have teleported. We barely spoke for the entire journey. We just stared into each other’s eyes, communicating that way. I’m scared, I was saying. I don’t know what’s going on. And he’d lean forward and brush my cheek with the thumb of one of his huge hands and his eyes would say Hush. It’s alright.
    When we opened the door to his suite, though, when I saw the king-sized bed and it hit me that I was in a hotel room, in the middle of the afternoon, I stopped dead. “I can’t do this,” I said.
    “Do what? What do you think we’re going to do?”
    I reddened.
    “All I’m going to do,” he told me, “is show you how beautiful you are.” And he bent down and kissed me, a kiss that just barely brushed my lips. He held