Seven Nights to Surrender

Book 1: Art of Passion

by Jeanette Grey

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

"Jeanette Grey has become a must-read voice in romance. Seven Nights to Surrender is lyrical, stunningly sexy, and brings swoons for days."--Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author

By day, he'll show her a side of Paris not found in any guidebook. By night, he'll introduce her to a passion beyond her wildest dreams. In this sensuous story of indulgence and desire, Jeanette Grey delivers one of the most romantic reads of the year and proves why she is fast becoming a must-read star.

SEVEN NIGHTS TO SURRENDER

Kate arrives in Paris hoping to find inspiration. Instead she finds Rylan. In a swirl of stolen kisses and hot, tangled sheets, Kate is quickly swept away by the sexy stranger, longing to surrender to his expert touch. With Rylan, nothing is forbidden-except the truth.

An American ex-pat worth millions, Rylan never flaunts his fortune. Rather, he guards his identity from everyone, especially women. No strings, no commitments, no complications. But the second his lips taste Kate's soft, sweet skin, everything changes. For the first time, Rylan has found someone to share his every want and need. Yet he knows that secrets stand between them. To keep her, he'll need to confess the truth before it's too late . . . even if doing so could mean losing Kate forever.

The Art of Passion series:

Seven Nights to Surrender

Eight Ways to Ecstasy

Nine Kinds of Naughty

Release date: November 3, 2015

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter ONE

It was ridiculous, how pretty words sounded on Kate’s tongue. Right up until the moment she opened her mouth and spoke them aloud.

Worrying the strap of her bag between her forefinger and thumb, she gazed straight ahead at the woman behind the register, repeating the phrase over and over in her head. Un café au lait, s’il vous plaît. Coffee with milk, please. No problem. She had this. The person ahead of her in line stepped forward, and Kate nodded to herself, standing up taller. When her turn finally came, she grinned with her most confident smile.

And just about had the wind knocked out of her when someone slammed into her side.

Swearing out loud as she was spun around, she put her arm out to catch herself. A pimply teenager was mumbling what sounded like elaborate apologies, but with her evaporating tenth-grade knowledge of French, he could have been telling her off for running into him, for all she knew. She was going to choose to believe it was the apologizing thing.

Embarrassed, she waved the kid away, gesturing as best she could to show that she was fine. As he gave one last attempt at mollifying her, she glanced around. A shockingly attractive guy with dark hair and the kind of jaw that drove women to paint stood behind her, perusing a French-language newspaper with apparent disinterest and a furrow of impatience on his brow. The rest of the people in line wore similar expressions.

She turned from the kid, giving him her best New Yorker cold shoulder. The lady at the register, at least, didn’t seem to be in any big rush. Kate managed a quick “Désolé”—sorry—as she moved forward to rest her hands on the counter. She could do this. She smiled again, focusing to try to summon the words she’d practiced to her lips. “Un café au lait, s’il vous plaît.”

Nope, not nearly as pretty as it had sounded in her head, but as she held her breath, the woman nodded and keyed her order in, calling it out to the girl manning the espresso machine. Then, completely in French, the woman announced Kate’s total.

Yes. It was all she could do not to fist-pump the air. She’d been exploring Paris now for two days, and no matter how hard she rehearsed what she was going to say, waiters and waitresses and shopkeepers invariably sniffed her out as an American the instant she opened her mouth. Every one of them had shifted into English to reply.

This woman was probably humoring her, but Kate seized her opportunity, turning the gears in her brain with all her might. She counted in her head the way her high school teacher had taught her to until she’d translated every digit. Three eighty-five. Triumph surged through her as she reached for her purse at her hip.

Only to come up with empty air.

Oh no. With a sense of impending dread, she scrabbled at her shoulder, and her waist, but no. Her bag was gone.

She groaned aloud. How many people had cautioned her about exactly this kind of thing? Paris was full of pickpockets. That was what her mother and Aaron and even the guy at the travel store had told her. An angry laugh bubbled up at the back of her throat, an echo of her father’s voice in her mind, yelling at her to be more careful, for God’s sake. Pay some damn attention. Crap. It was just— She swore she’d had her purse a second ago. Right before that kid had slammed into her…

Her skin went cold. Of course. The kid who’d slammed into her.

Tears prickled at her eyes. She had no idea how to say all of that in French. Her plans for a quiet afternoon spent sketching in a café evaporated as she patted herself down yet again in the vain hope that somehow, magically, her things would have reappeared.

The thing was, “watch out for pickpockets” wasn’t the only advice she’d gotten before she’d left. Everyone she’d told had thought her grand idea of a trip to Paris to find herself and get inspired was insane. It was her first trip abroad, and it was eating up pretty much all of her savings. Worse, she’d insisted on making the journey alone, because how was a girl supposed to reconnect with her own muse unless she spent some good quality time with it? Free from distractions and outside influences. Surrounded by art and history and a beautiful language she barely spoke. It had seemed like a good idea. Like the perfect chance to make some really big decisions.

But maybe they’d all been right.

Not wanting to reveal the security wallet she had strapped around her waist beneath her shirt, she wrote off all her plans for the day. She’d just head back to the hostel. She still had her passport and most of her money. She’d regroup, and she’d be fine.

“Mademoiselle?”

Her vision was blurry as she jerked her gaze up. And up. The gorgeous man—the one with the dark, tousled hair and the glass-cutting jaw from before—was standing right beside her, warm hand gently brushing her elbow. A frisson of electricity hummed through her skin. Had he really been this tall before? Had his shoulders been that broad? It was just a plain black button-down, but her gaze got stuck on the drape of his shirt across his chest, hinting at miles of muscle underneath.

His brow furrowed, two soft lines appearing between brilliant blue eyes.

She shook off her daze and cleared her throat. “Pardon?” she asked, lilting her voice up at the end in her best—still terrible—attempt at a French accent.

He smiled, and her vision almost whited out. In perfect English, with maybe just a hint of New York coloring the edges, he asked, “Are you okay?”

All those times she’d been annoyed when someone spoke English to her. At that moment, she could have kissed him, right on those full, smooth lips. Her face went warmer at the thought. “No. I—” She patted her side again uselessly. “I think that guy ran off with my wallet.”

His expression darkened, but he didn’t step away or chastise her for being so careless. “I’m sorry.”

The woman at the register spoke up, her accent muddy. “You still would like your coffee?”

Kate began to decline, but the man placed a ten-euro note on the counter. In a flurry of French too fast for her to understand, he replied to the woman, who took his money and pressed a half dozen keys. She dropped a couple of coins into his palm, then looked around them toward the next customer in line.

“Um,” Kate started.

Shifting his hand from her elbow to the small of her back, the man guided Kate toward the end of the counter and out of the way. It was too intimate a touch. She should have drawn away, but before she could convince herself to, he dropped his arm, turning to face her. Leaving a cold spot where his palm had been.

She worked her jaw a couple of times. “Did you just pay for my coffee?” She might be terrible at French, but she was passable at context clues.

Grinning crookedly, he looked down at her. “You’re welcome.”

“You really didn’t need to.”

“Au contraire.” His brow arched. “Believe me, when you’re having a terrible day, the absolute last thing you should be doing is not having coffee.”

Well, he did have a point there. “I still have some money. I can pay you back.”

“No need.”

“No, really.” Her earlier reservations gone, she reached for the hem of her shirt to tug it upward, but his hands caught hers before she could get at her money belt.

His eyes were darker now, his fingertips warm. “As much as I hate to stop a beautiful woman from taking off her clothes. It’s not necessary.”

Was he implying…? No, he couldn’t be. She couldn’t halt the indignation rising in her throat, though, as she brushed aside his hands and wrestled the hem of her top down. “Stripping is not how I was going to pay you.”

“Pity. Probably for the best,” he added conspiratorially. “The police are much more lenient about that kind of thing here than they are in the States, but still. Risky move.”

Two ceramic mugs clinked as they hit the counter, and the barista said something too quickly for Kate to catch.

“Merci,” the man said, tucking his paper under his arm and reaching for the cups.

For some reason, Kate had to put in one more little protest before she moved to grab for the one that looked like hers. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Of course I didn’t.” Biceps flexing, he pulled both cups in closer to his chest, keeping them out of her reach as she extended her hand. “But it sure did make it easier for me to ask if I could buy you a cup of coffee, didn’t it?”

For a second, she boggled.

“Come on, then,” he said, heading toward an empty table by the window.

This really, really wasn’t what she’d had planned for the day. But as he sat down, his face was cast in profile against the light streaming in from outside. If she hadn’t lost her bag, she’d have been tempted to take her sketchbook out right then and there, just to try to map the angles of his cheeks.

As she stood there staring, all her mother’s warnings came back to her in a rush. This guy was too smooth. Too practiced and too handsome, and the whole situation had Bad Idea written all over it. After the disaster that had been her last attempt at dating, she should know.

But the fact was, she really wanted that cup of coffee. And maybe the chance to make a few more mental studies of his jaw. It wouldn’t even be that hard. All she had to do was walk over there and sit down across from him. Except…

Except she didn’t do this sort of thing.

Which might be exactly why she should.

Fretting, she twisted her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. Then she took a single step forward. She was on vacation, dammit all, and this guy was offering. After everything, she deserved a minute to let go. To maybe actually enjoy herself for once.

Honestly. How much harm could a little conversation with a stranger really do?

  

Rylan Bellamy had a short, well-tested list of rules for picking up a tourist.

Number one, be trustworthy. Nonthreatening. Tourists were constantly expecting to be taken advantage of.

Number two, be clear about your intentions. No time to mess around when they could fuck off to another country at the drop of the hat.

Number three, make sure they always know they have a choice.

Lifting his cappuccino to his lips, he gazed out the window of the café. It hadn’t exactly been the plan to buy the girl in front of him in line a cup of coffee or to pick her up. It definitely hadn’t been the plan to get so engrossed in the business section of Le Monde that he’d managed to completely miss her getting pickpocketed right in front of him. But the whole thing had presented him with quite the set of opportunities.

Trustworthy? Stepping in when she looked about ready to lose it seemed like a good start there. Interceding on her behalf in both English and French were bonuses, too. Paying for her coffee had been a natural after that.

Clear about his intentions? He was still working on that, but he’d been tactile enough. Had gotten into her space and brushed his hands over her skin. Such soft skin, too. Pretty, delicate little hands, stained with ink on the tips.

Just like her pretty, pale face was stained with those big, dark eyes. Those rose-colored lips.

He shifted in his seat, resisting looking over at her for another minute. The third part about making sure this was all her choice was necessary but frustrating. If she didn’t come over here of her own free will, she’d never come to his apartment, either, or to his bed. He’d laid down his gauntlet. She could pick it up right now, or she could walk away.

Damn, he hoped she didn’t walk away. Giving himself to the count of thirty to keep on playing it cool, he set his cup back down on its saucer. Part of him worried she’d already made a break for it, but no. There was something about her gaze. Hot and penetrating, and he could feel it zoning in on him through the space.

He rather liked that, when he thought about it. Being looked at was nice. As was being appreciated. Sized up. It’d make it all the sweeter once she came to her decision, presuming she chose him.

Bingo.

Things were noisy in the café, but enough of his senses were trained on her that he could make out the sounds of her approach. He paused his counting at thirteen and glanced over at her.

If there’d been any doubts that she was a tourist, they cleared away as he took her in more thoroughly. She wore a pair of purple Converse that all but screamed American, and a dark skirt that went to her knees. A plain gray T-shirt and a little canvas jacket. No scarves or belts or any of the other hundred accessories that were so popular among the Parisian ladies this year. Her auburn hair was swept into a twist.

Pretty. American. Repressed. But very, very pretty.

“Your coffee’s getting cold,” he said as he pushed it across the table toward her and kicked her chair out.

A hundred retorts danced across her lips, but somehow her silence—and her wickedly crooked eyebrow, her considering gaze—said more. She sat down, legs crossed primly, her whole body perched at the very edge of her seat, like she was ready to fly at any moment.

He didn’t usually go in for skittish birds. They were too much work, considering how briefly they landed in his nest. He’d already started with this one, though, and there was something about her mouth he liked. Something about her whole aura of innocence and bravery. It was worth the price of a cup of coffee at the very least.

She curled a finger around the handle of her cup and tapped at it with her thumb. Wariness came off her in waves.

“I didn’t lace it with anything,” he assured her.

“I know. I’ve been watching you the whole time.”

He’d been entirely aware of that, thank you very much. He appreciated the honesty, regardless. “Then what’s your hesitation? It’s already bought and paid for. If you don’t drink it, it’s going to go to waste.”

She seemed to turn that over in her mind for a moment before reaching for the sugar and adding a more than healthy amount. She gave it a quick stir, then picked it up and took a sip.

“Good?” he asked. He couldn’t help the suggestive way his voice dipped. “Sweet enough?”

“Yes.” She set the cup down. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She closed her mouth and gripped her mug tighter. Reminding himself to be patient, he sat back in his chair and rested his elbow on the arm. He looked her up and down.

Ugh. Forget patience. If he didn’t say something soon, they could be sitting here all day. Going with what he knew about her, he gestured in her general vicinity, trying to evoke her total lack of a wallet. “You could report the theft, you know.”

Shaking her head, she drummed her finger against the ceramic. “Not worth it. I wasn’t a complete idiot. Only had thirty or forty euros in there. And the police won’t do much about art supplies and books.”

“No, probably not.”

The art supplies part fit the profile. Matched the pigment on her hands and the intensity of her eyes.

He let a beat pass, but when she didn’t volunteer anything else, he shifted into a more probing stance. Clearly, he’d have to do the conversational heavy lifting here.

Not that he minded. He’d been cooling his heels here in Paris for a year, and he missed speaking English. His French was excellent, but there was something about the language you grew up with. The one you’d left behind. The way it curled around your tongue felt like home.

Home. A sick, bitter pang ran through him at the thought.

He cleared his throat and refocused on his smolder. Eyes on the prize. “So, you’re an artist, then?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess?”

“I just graduated, actually.”

“Congratulations.”

She made a little scoffing sound. “Now I just have to figure out what comes next.”

Ah. He knew that element of running off to Europe. Intimately. He knew how pointless it all was.

Still. He could spot a cliché when he saw one. “Here to find yourself, then?”

“Something like that.” A little bit of her reserve chipped away. She darted her gaze up to meet his, and there was something anxious there. Something waiting for approval. “Probably silly, huh?”

“It’s a romantic notion.” And he’d never been much of a romantic himself. “If it worked, everybody would just run off to Prague and avoid a lifetime of therapy, right? And where would all the headshrinkers be, then?”

She rolled her eyes. “Not everyone can afford a trip to Europe.”

Her dismissal wasn’t entirely lighthearted. Part of his father’s old training kicked in, zeroing in on the tightness around her eyes. This trip was an indulgence for her. Chances were, she’d been saving up for it for years.

Probably best not to mention his own resources, then. Mentally, he shifted their rendezvous from his place to hers. Things would be safer that way.

“True enough,” he conceded. “Therapy’s not cheap, either, though, and this is a lot more fun.”

That finally won him a smile. “I wouldn’t know. But I’m guessing so.”

“Trust me, it is.” He picked up his cappuccino and took another sip. “So, what’s the agenda, then? Where have you been so far? What are your must-sees?”

“I only got here a couple days ago. Yesterday, I went out to Monet’s gardens.”

“Lovely.” Lovelier still was the way her whole face softened, just mentioning them.

“I mostly walked around, this morning. Then I was going to sit here and draw for a bit.”

Asking if he could see her work some time would be good in terms of making his intentions clear. It was also unbearably trite. He gave a wry smile. “A quintessential Parisian experience.”

“And then…I don’t know. The Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay, of course.” The corner of her mouth twitched downward. “Everything else I had listed in my guidebook.”

Ah. “Which I’m imagining just got stolen?”

“Good guess.”

Eyeing her up the entire time, he finished the rest of his drink. She still had a little left of hers, but they were closing in on decision time. He didn’t have anything else going on today—he never really had anything going on, not since his life had fallen apart. But was he willing to sink an entire afternoon here, offering to show her around?

He tried to be analytical about it. Her body language was still less than open, for all that she’d loosened up a bit. Given her age, probably not a virgin, but he’d bet a lot of money that she wasn’t too far off. Not his usual fare. He preferred girls who knew what they were doing—more importantly, ones who knew what he was doing. What he was looking for.

This girl…It was going to take some work to get in there. If it paid off, he had a feeling it’d be worth it, though. When she smiled, her prettiness transcended into beauty.

There was something else there, too. She was romantic and hopeful, and between the story of her lost sketchbook and her delusions about Paris having the power to change her life, she had to be a creative type. Out of nowhere, he wanted to know what kinds of things she made, and what she looked like when she drew.

He kept coming back to her eyes. They hadn’t stopped moving the entire time they’d been sitting there, like she was taking absolutely everything in. The sights beyond the window, the faces of the people in the café. Him. It was intriguing. She was intriguing, and in a way no other woman had been in so long.

And the idea of going back to the apartment alone made him want to scream.

Decision made, he pushed his chair out and clapped his hands together. “Well, what are we waiting for then?”

“Excuse me?”

“Travel guides are bullshit anyway. Especially when you’ve got something better.” He rose to his feet and extended his hand.

Her expression dripped skepticism. “And what’s that?”

He shot her his best, most seductive grin. “Me.”

Chapter TWO

Kate stayed firmly planted in her seat as he offered to help her up. Trying her best to appear unaffected, she arched one eyebrow. “Does this usually work for you?”

The guy didn’t pull his hand back or in any other way appear to alter his strategy, and Kate had to give him points for that. “Yes, actually.”

“Interesting.”

The sad truth was, his offer was beyond tempting. The attention was nice, especially after her self-esteem had been beaten down the way it had in the past year. Hell, in the past twenty-two. It wouldn’t hurt to have someone who spoke fluent French showing her around, either. That he was as attractive as he was just made the deal sweeter.

“Not working so well on you, then?” he asked as she considered him.

“Not so far.”

His smile only widened. “Good. I like a girl who’s hard to crack.” Standing up straighter, he held his palms out at his sides. “Come on, what have you got to lose?”

“I’d say my wallet, but that’s already gone.”

“See? Low stakes. Listen, you don’t trust me.” That was an understatement. Was there a man left on earth that she did? “I don’t blame you. Devilishly handsome man wanders into a café and buys you a drink without asking? Offers to show you around town? Very suspicious.”

“Very.”

“So let’s make this safe. You said you wanted to see the Louvre? Let’s go to the Louvre. I’ll show you all my favorites, and then if I haven’t murdered you by suppertime, you let me take you someplace special. Someplace no guidebook in the world would ever recommend.”

She was really running out of reasons to say no. It was a good plan, this one. They’d be in a public place. She’d have time to feel him out a little more. And if he wasn’t too much of a psycho, well, everyone had to eat, didn’t they?

Still, she kept up her air of skepticism. She rather liked all his efforts to convince her. “I don’t even know your name.”

The way his dimples shone when he lifted up one corner of his mouth was completely unfair. Extending his hand again, he offered, “Rylan. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Rylan. That was unusual. She liked it.

“Kate,” she volunteered in return, and with no more real excuse not to, she accepted the handshake, slipping her palm into his. Warm fingers curled around hers, his thumb stroking the side of her hand, and oh. The rake. He bent forward as he tugged on her hand, twisting ever so slightly so he could press his lips to the back of her palm.

“Charmed.”

“I’ll bet you are.” But her pulse was racing faster, and the kiss felt like it seared all the way to her spine.

This man was dangerous.

He straightened up but he didn’t let go. Sweeping his other arm toward the door, he asked, “So?”

She hummed to herself as she gazed up at him, as if there was any question of what she was going to do. His blue eyes sparkled, like he already knew her answer, too.

“Well.” She rose from her seat, feeling taller than usual. More powerful. Maybe it was all the flattery of a guy like this hitting on her. Maybe it was the headiness of making this kind of a decision. Either way, it made her straighten her shoulders and insert a little sway into her hips.

“Well?”

“Lead on,” she said.

He didn’t let go of her hand. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” With a squeeze of her fingers, he took a step toward the door. “Let’s go look at some art.”

External pressures aside, she had come to Paris to be inspired by beauty. She could find it on the walls of a famous museum. And she could find it in the lines of this man’s shoulders and throat. The latter might not have been what she’d had in mind when she’d set out, but what was a little bit of a diversion?

You couldn’t find yourself without taking a couple of side trips, after all.

  

The girl—Kate—wiggled her hand free as they approached the front of the café. Disappointing, but not really a problem. Rylan reached forward to get the door for her and shepherded her through it with a gentle touch at the small of her back. Following her out onto the sidewalk, he gestured down the street. “It’s only a little ways. You up for walking?”

“Sure.”

Good. Paris came alive this time of year, with the trees and flowers in full bloom, the sky a brilliant blue. Even the traffic seemed less suffocating now that summer was on the horizon. The influx of tourists made the walkways more congested, but at least the travelers occasionally smiled.

As he led them off in the direction of the museum, she fell into step at his side. He pressed his luck whenever the crush of pedestrians got thick, keeping her close with a hand on her hip, letting his fingertips linger. She fit so well against him, every brush of their bodies sending zips of awareness through him. Making him want to tug her closer in a way he hadn’t entirely anticipated.

The whole thing seemed to amuse her, but her efforts to act like she wasn’t affected were undercut by the flush on her cheeks. The way she allowed him to keep her near.

Until they paused to wait for a light to change, and she pulled away, turning so she was facing him. “So. Rylan.”

A rush of warmth licked up his spine. His name sounded so good rolling off her tongue. Far better than Theodore Rylan Bellamy III ever had. He’d rid himself of the rest of his father’s burdens only recently, but he’d shed the man’s name years ago. And yet it still made him smile whenever someone accepted the middle name he’d taken as his own. Didn’t question it the way his family always had.

Ignoring the ruffle of irritation that thought shot through him, he met her gaze and matched her tone. “Kate.”

She looked him up and down. “What’s your deal?”

Right. Because this wasn’t all just flirtatious touches. He’d asked her to a museum for God’s sake, not back to his bed. She wanted conversation. To get to know him.

Just the idea of it made him feel hollow.

He put his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight, glancing between her eyes and the traffic going by. “Not much to tell.” Liar. “Jaded expat skulking around Paris for a while. Ruthlessly showing lonely tourists around the city in exchange for the pleasure of their company.”

“What makes you think I’m lonely?”

Shrugging, he put his hand to the base of her spine again as the light switched to green, feeling the warmth of her through her jacket as they crossed the street. “You have that look.”

“For all you know, I could be here with a whole troop of friends, or my family. My”—her breath caught—“boyfriend.”

And there was a s. . .