Tim stuck his lower lip out. “Ten, twelve more hours.”

Exeter turned away from the map. “Cutting it close, Noggy.”

The big man’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling and over to the map. “You’re telling me . . . Doc.”

“Where’s Ping?”

“He’s having a walk through the catacombs from the Outremer.” Valentine offered.

“I expect Prospero has some sort of forbidding presence in the Outremer.” Exeter fished in his pocket and opened a gilt-edged envelope. “A formal invite from the La Contessa di Castiglione . . . who likely worked as a spy for Napoleon the third—no doubt she—”

“Got the hotel name from Charles Worth.” Mia pressed her lips together and stifled a laugh.

Exeter moved on to the next message, but not before he shot Mia a look across the table—the spanking look. “This one is— ah! We are all welcome to visit the exhibits at the exposition grounds, including Mr. Eiffel’s Tower, compliments of L’Hôtel Claude.”

Exeter crumpled the notepaper and opened the next. He read the words once to himself, and then read them again, out loud. “ ‘Meet me at L’Enfer tonight.’ Signed, Phaeton Black.” Exeter surveyed the room and didn’t bother to pose a question. It was obvious the note was a tempting trap of some kind.

America’s tawny cheeks drained of color. “Phaeton wants us to meet him in Hell?”

Chapter Fifteen

“IT APPEARS HELL HAS A STREET ADDRESS.” Exeter handed the missive to America. “Fifty-five Boulevard de Clichy.”

Valentine read the note over America’s shoulder. “If memory serves, Boulevard de Clichy is in Montmartre.”

Exeter searched for the bell pull. “Perhaps one of the staff can enlighten us further.”

“A café of ill repute, messieurs.” The young maid stated in a whisper. “In Montmartre—the Pigalle—le secteur de lumière rouge.”

“The red-light district.” America’s almond-shaped eyes perused the ceiling. “Phaeton shall feel right at home.”

“As well as the devilishly wicked Prospero.” Exeter handed the girl a few coins and saw her out of the suite. This last invite was intriguing, but more than that, the message felt . . . diabolical. It deliberately dared them to come after Phaeton. As Exeter paced the dining room, he noted a small black dot, high up on the wall. The dot moved—just a fly. He changed direction, and halted.

Just a fly . . . on the wall.

Pivoting slowly, he lifted his index finger. A flash of potent energy struck the tiny intruder. “I believe this may be one of ours.” Exeter picked up the smoking insect and turned to a table of openmouthed Nightshades.

Tim Noggy pulled an enlarging glass out of his coat pocket. “Blimey! He’s one of ours all right. You zapped him good—not even a twitch.”

“This would indicate we have more than one spy in our midst—Prospero has likely turned the flies against us. God knows how long he has been listening in on our plans, feeding us transmissions that were sure to lure us to Paris.” Exeter scanned a room full of sober faces.

Jersey rose from the table. “We’ll do a sweep of the apartment. You and Mia need to get some rest.”

Exeter grunted. “The nightlife in Paris starts fashionably late and goes well into the early morning hours. Shall we meet here in the parlor, at say—the stroke of nine?”

America brightened, as her gaze moved from Jersey to Exeter. “We’re going then—to meet Phaeton.”

“I’m afraid this evening’s adventure is fraught with danger, but it is our best chance, thus far, to extricate Phaeton.” Exeter eyeballed the supra-metallic daggers Jersey and Valentine carried. “I do hope those things are fully charged.”

Tim Noggy pulled out a revolver. “Just in case Prospero knocks out our aether.”

A sharp rap at the door brought them all into the parlor. Jersey’s hand was on his dagger. “Entrez.”

A bellhop opened the door. “Delivery for Baron de Roos.”

Exeter waved in the man, who dipped a bow and presented a red leather case stamped in gold roman letters.

There was a quiet gasp and a full complement of stares from the ladies, who spied the Cartier’s jewelry case from across the room. Exeter dug in his pocket for a tip. This was excellent timing indeed. He tucked the box under his arm and turned to his . . . wife. “Shall we try to get some rest, Mia?”

Those same large eyes followed them, as Exeter escorted Mia through the parlor, down a short hallway, and into their room,

Being together, alone in a bedchamber, was beginning to feel . . . normal. Mia sank onto the settee and unbuttoned her shoes, while he moved to the windows. He released a sheer under drape and the effect was—just enough light.

“I don’t suppose you care to attend La Contessa’s soiree tonight?” Mia pulled up her skirts and wiggled her toes before tucking long limbs beneath her.

“I have every intention of crying off.” Moving across the room, his gaze narrowed. “Do you wish to attend?”

She moistened her lips and tilted her head. “No, but I believe you might be less averse to her invitation were it not for the likely attendance of Etienne Artois.”

He came to a glaring stop in front of her. “Why are you so fascinated by him?”

“Why are you?” She met his gaze for an angry moment, and then looked away with a sigh. Exeter placed the jewel case on top of the counterpane and took the seat beside her. Lifting her feet onto his lap, he massaged small toes through silk stockings. “Mmm.” She exhaled a soft moan. “I thought there might be a strategy in attending. Quiet the gossip.” Mia swept a few loose hairs into her topknot and refastened a hairpin. “Would you say Etienne Artois is dashing to look at?”

Exeter stared. “No doubt the Contessa thinks he’s a crusher—for a gigolo.” He felt a surge of . . . he was not sure what he would call it, certainly not jealousy. Alarmed by the very notion that he might harbor covetous feelings for Mia, he changed the subject. “That lovely diaphanous blue confection, we purchased today will be stunning on you. All your young suitors will wish to ravage you on the spot.” Exeter loosened his tie and removed his collar.

Mia opened her mouth, then quickly pressed her lips together. She appeared to consider his words. “Do you say these things to torture me, or is it more of a punishment—for the feelings I inspire?”

Exeter stared. “You’re keyed up from shopping.”

“I am not . . . keyed up from shopping.” Her eyes flashed with anger. “I am displeased with you.”

“I’ve just spent a king’s bloody ransom on your wardrobe.” He sagged against the damask stripes of the settee. “What do you want from me?”

Mia reached over and grabbed him by his waistcoat. “I want you, inside me,” she hissed. Luminous dark eyes flashed green, as pupils narrowed into slits.

His gaze dropped to her lips. “I see.” A pink tongue swept the pert curve of her upper lip. It seemed he was speaking with the cat.

“Whether you wish to admit it or not,’ she murmured, “these intimacies between us are real, and far beyond the physical.” Mia slid a fingernail down his jawline.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes.” He unbuttoned her dress and helped her step out of the several layers of overskirt and petticoats. Tossing the gown across the sofa, he scooped her up in his arms and made it as far as the dresser.

Good God, he wanted her so badly he was near delirium. Using the nearby wall to steady her back, he cupped her buttock cheeks, and brought her pelvis against his. “Put your legs around me, Mia.”

“Do not refuse me, Exeter.”

“Mia—we have been over this.” He groaned, still denying her—denying himself.

“Stop flogging yourself over your attraction to me—I like it—I want you to want me . . . and I will not ask again.” The cat nuzzled his neck and licked his ear. “Please, Exeter, it has to be you,” she whispered, her trembling body underscored her raw desire.

“Mia—of course I want you. You are quite the loveliest young woman in all the world.” He inhaled a harsh breath and exhaled ready to surrender. “But—”

“No buts—or I will go out and find a certain young gentleman who will be happy to service me.”

“That popinjay?” Exeter’s dark gaze sparked to angry life. “Never, Mia.”

“Then . . .” She ripped open his shirt and raked sharp fingernails over his chest. “I believe some ferocious sex and no arguing would be lovely right about now.” She tugged off his shirt and brushed her lips against his chest and neck. She licked his nipples, biting and suckling until he groaned his surrender.

Her hands moved lower, unbuttoning his trousers. The stroke of her fingers caressed his phallus like a whisper of wind. “You are ready for mating, sir. So hard and yet this broad sword feels like velvet,” she purred.

Exeter swallowed. “Use your nails—lightly.” His entire body quaked with mounting pleasure. He tore at her corset, lifting a breast to his mouth—tonguing her areola, he sucked the tip into his mouth and nibbled. She arched and cried out as he moved from one nipple to the other—he needed to see red from his suckling—his mark, his possession of her.

Sliding down his torso, Mia knelt in front of his rigid member. “Mon Dieu,” Exeter rasped out the words, for he was breathing hard from the feel of her tongue on his lower anatomy. Gazing down, he watched moist lips move timidly over his tightly drawn, engorged flesh. Sweet, crescent-shaped eyelashes resting on flushed cheeks. Her pretty lashes lifted, revealing such . . . wide-eyed loveliness. He could not help but plunge deeper into her mouth and quickly shot to the edge of climax. “That’s enough,” he gasped, and drew her up from her knees.