Page 67 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

For a second, I forget what I’m doing. “Unnhhh. That feels…like heaven.”

“Oui,” he murmurs. “It does. You do.”

Another sigh. “Can I just bottle you up and take you home with me?”

“I will go even without the bottle, mon miracle.”

Shit.

I’m in such serious trouble with this god.

“Okay, what was I saying again?” I laugh, but the sarcasm hits a blank wall with Max—until the second my phone lights up with a familiar face and phone number. Too damn familiar.

Rae’s timing is impeccable, as usual. But while I groan, Max’s smile could light up the sky clear to Paris. “Ah! It is Mademoiselle Raegan!”

“Oh, yes,” I deadpan. “Just look at that.”

“Such a brilliant likeness.” My quip has shot right past him. I wish I could claim a shred of shock about it. “Who is the painter? I see no signature on the portrait…”

“Aggghhh. Don’t touch—”

But my yelp is too late. He’s already reached over and swiped the screen.

“Ventrebleu. What kind of paint is this? It is smoother than glass!”

“Can’t answer, darling. Somebody answered my phone.” After a short huff, I grit into the device, “What?”

Rae huffs right back. “Hey. Where are you?”

“Busy.”

“Well, get unbusy.”

Her tone carries more meaning than just ignoring my implication. As in major-emergency meaning.

“Why?” I sit straight up while demanding it. Max rises with me, though his stare is riveted to the phone. “Are you guys okay?”

“We’re okay,” Raegan fills in. “But there’s been a new…development…down here.”

Before I can ask what she’s talking about, Max snatches the phone out of my hand and places it flat in his own. In the process, he inadvertently activates the speaker feature.

“What the hell, Max?”

My censure goes ignored as he gapes at the thing as if it’s a brick of gold covered in fairy poop. Under normal circumstances—if there’s such a thing as normal with this man—I’d lose myself in his adorable allure all over again. But Rae’s urgency dictates my focus.

“Can you just get your cute little ass down to the foyer?” she charges in a tone that’s too sticky sweet, even for her. “Preferably clothed. And preferably now.”

“Damn it, Rae,” I bite out.

“Not going to work this time, Allie Bear.”

“Okay, then. I’m pulling birthday girl privilege. You have to fill me in just a little. What the hell is it?”

“You mean who the hell is it? As in, who else besides Drue and me has the ability to track you down in the middle of the French countryside?”

I expel rough air from my nose. Well, I did ask—and have certainly received. But now a more urgent perplexity has replaced its predecessor.

What ignited such a hot flame under Dmitri Thorne’s ass that he hauled himself all the way from New York to here?