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From the back cover:
Heartbroken and deceived, Chloe Swanson, looking for a distraction to mend her broken heart, accepts a job offer, helping a friend to open an art gallery in Paris, France.
Her trip to Paris launches an avalanche of adventures, that leaves little to the imagination. Will Chloe ever forgive Patrick Collins for breaking her heart, or will Paris, the City of Love, provide her with new opportunities?
Excerpt from Deceived Part 2 Paris:
“Welcome to Air France,” the smiling blond flight attendant said with a cute French accent, extending her arm guiding me to the left. As I inched my way down the cabin aisle past her, I tried not to bump my carry-on bag into her sharply dressed figure.
Friday had finally arrived. The last couple of days had been a whirlwind trying to pack for my trip with Ryan to Paris. I always had a hard time consolidating all my clothes into the limited amount of luggage allowed. It baffled me how some people could do the, “I’m only bringing a carry-on bag”, thing to avoid going through baggage claim. I had laden myself with bags, jacket, scarf, purse and anything else I could manage to hang on my body, in an attempt to use it like a pack mule, and extend my “allowable luggage” to include my body itself.
“Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me...” I apologized my way down the first class cabin craning my neck to find my seat number.
“Chloe, we sit over here to the left,“ Ryan said. “I’ll be up front and your seat is a little farther back,” he said pointing with his chin.
Ryan had booked his ticket weeks ago and fortunately, he managed to get me a seat on the same flight, however we were not seated next to each other. That didn’t matter though, I was ecstatic. Ryan had generously booked us in First Class. Not only had I never been to Europe, I had never flown First Class before. Who knew what other “firsts” I would encounter on this trip? I felt like my cocoon days were over and I finally morphed into a butterfly...well maybe not a butterfly, but I was ready to be adventurous and try new experiences. I guess I had found the remedy to help me get over Patrick. This trip to Paris was the magic potion I needed.
“Sure Ryan,” I said as I clunked past the restroom, my gaudy oversized tote bag obnoxiously scratching the wall.
“They’ll take good care of you here. Be sure to reserve the complementary neck massage and by the way, all the drinks and meals are free but go easy on the champagne, he jokingly warned. “I don’t want to have to carry you and all your crazy bags off the plane.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll behave on the flight but I can’t promise anything after that,” I replied with one eyebrow raised.
I had to pinch myself and give a mental "woo-hoo" as I turned to search for my seat number. Finally, I spotted my seat completely in the back, the last row of First Class and someone was already sitting in the seat next to mine, hunched over, arranging a bag or something. I groaned to myself, hoping it would not be an oversized old guy with bad teeth and greasy hair, who would want to talk my ear off the entire flight. As I approached my row, the huddled figure in the seat looked up and my eyes were met by a pair of dark deep set eyes, framed in a very handsome square face. He pushed back a few strands of long dark hair that fell out of place as he got up and my eyes froze on his powerful chest and shoulders.
Failing miserably in an attempt to be nonchalant, I literally choked out my words. “I, I, think this is my seat,” I rasped out in a freakishly high hoarse voice due to the moisture stuck in my throat, pointing at the seat next to him.
“No problem.” He graciously moved aside allowing passage.
Making a fool of myself like a clumsy circus clown, I nearly collided with his taut body and I blundered my way to my seat.
As he was leaning his torso back to avoid getting sucker punched by my tote bag, he mockingly said, “Ha, I thought weapons weren’t allowed on planes.”
My blood flashed red in my cheeks as I fumbled with my gear, stowing the largest part in the overhead bin but keeping all the important sundries nearby.
“Sorry, I’m an over packer, seriously luggage challenged. I never have enough,” I mumbled in a feeble attempt at humor between my intermittent glances to check him out.
He stood at the seat next to me and watched as I was settling in, his dark eyes were riveting, boldly assessing my every move. Each time I looked up from my shuffling, I noticed he was watching me intently. His perusal of me added to my feeling of self-consciousness and something intense flared through our interaction. He was hot... Extremely hot!
My stolen “peeks” revealed a skin tight T-shirt that hugged his body. The muscles rippling under his shirt quickened my pulse, tempting my hands to reach out and stroke his well-built physique. His firm biceps bulged out from the short sleeve of his shirt, pushing the sleeve up just a little to accommodate the girth of his upper arm, the tip of a tribal tattoo escaping. My nerves were beginning to show in my sweaty palms.
I also discerned that he was tall, about six feet - two, just the right height for me. His hair was trimmed in the back but long on top so that when it became unruly, wavy strands fell forward. He ran his hand through his hair in a fruitless attempt to restrain the unruly locks. The gesture was unnerving. Each time he made it, the motion drew my attention to the muscle on his upper arm as it flexed, when pushing his hair back into place. This guy was more than hot! He was sexy as hell!
Scooching past him to finally take my seat, I avoided eye contact, for fear of revealing the lust in my eyes, or maybe the drool on my chin. He was young, early twenties, gorgeous and sooo fresh. My will power waved goodbye and much like Elvis Presley, left the building.
As the stewardess’s went through all the standard procedures preparing to take off, I powered off my cell phone, vigilantly aware of the hunky guy next to me, oozing copious amounts of invisible pheromones for the reptilian part of my brain to process. Humans have a lower part of the brain that reacts involuntarily, often referred to as the reptilian brain, which handles functions we don’t have to think about like breathing. Mine was gladly working overtime and got harder to keep under control. Damn those chemical substances!
“So, first time going to Paris?” He prodded for more info. “You are going there for a model shoot, or something, right? I mean, you look like a model.”
“Me? Oh no...pffft...hardly,” I replied. “Business trip.”
“Oh, okay. My name’s Jesse...um....” He trailed off waiting for my name.
“I’m Chloe, nice to meet you Jesse,”
He stuck out a hand sideways to shake and I met the hand along with the smile that was offered. The warmth of personal contact in his hand projected tingling electricity of which I became acutely aware.
“You are gorgeous, you could be a model. Your eyes are amazing,” he continued looking up from under half hooded eyes.
I felt the heat rise to my face again and little flutters in my stomach. This guy’s fiery gaze cut right through me like a knife and boy, he made that knife feel good.
I was falling for him quickly. After all, I had all the symptoms of a girl with a broken heart and this guy had no trouble reeling me in. He leaned back comfortably in his seat. I was careful not to let my arm touch his on the armrest. I had many more hours to sit in his near proximity and that realization made my breathing uneven. Thank God for free drinks in First Class. I was in dire need of one.
The flight finally got underway and I relaxed into my spacious seat. I was grateful when the stewardess finally came to our row taking drink orders. When I discovered that French champagne was offered, I gave the stewardess a nod to bring it in my direction. Jesse ordered, in like manner and with glasses in hand, we tipped the edges together in a toast “to Paris”.
“This is good,” I said enjoying the mellow zing of the bubbly as it smoothed its way over my tongue and down my throat.
“It should be. It’s Dom Perignon.” he smiled.
“Nice.” I made a mental note to profusely thank Ryan again for putting me in First Class.
“So, what’s the mysterious business trip you’re on?”
“It’s not mysterious, far from it. I’m going to Paris with my boss, he’s sitting up there,” I pointed with my champagne glass to the front. “I am his assistant and we are opening an art gallery in Paris. You know, I’m going there to help set things up, work on promotions and the usual stuff,” I explained.
Ah, the velvet smooth relaxation of the fermented grapes was having its anticipated effect on me. Wine, and champagne, which is really a sparkling wine, always came through for me. I could count on it giving me a buzz, time and time again. I couldn’t tell you much about pairing wines with meals, but I could tell you this, it delivered its effects every time and it never let me down unlike people, sad to say. However, life was looking better now and I turned to chat up my newfound friend, Jesse, drinking in the pleasurable visual stimulation I was enjoying from his drop dead gorgeous good looks.
“How about you? What do you do for a living?” I had contemplated what a young hard body like him would do for a living, fantasizing possibilities such as UFC fighter, bodybuilder, male model....
“I race motocross,” he replied taking a sip of his champagne and resting his arm on the center console between us, like I should have knowledge of this sport.
“Motocross? Hmm. I don’t know much about that sport.” I felt stupid but then I hadn’t really had much guy sport references growing up an only child.
“Motocross is like dirt bike racing,” he explained. “My older brother, Jimmy got me started riding when he gave me his 65 and moved up to 85’s...” He lost me there and I had to interrupt.
“Wait, what? 65, 85. What’s that?”
“He smiled a beautiful smile and chuckled, “Those are engine sizes. Anyway,” he continued, “I started riding at a pretty young age, about seven but then my dad passed away and I had to grow up fast. No time for kids’ stuff. Instead I had to put all my effort into my riding. I wanted to go to the Pro Am circuit, find sponsors and be able to help support my mom and brothers.”
“And well, did you?”
“Here I am, on my way to race in Supercross de Paris.”
“Wow, your family must be proud of you.”
“Yep, my brother always said that it’s not only about the race if you want to make it as a pro rider. It's also about your relationship with other riders and your sponsors.”
“That’s so true. Same thing in business, it is all about, relationships with sponsors, or clients.” For being so young this guy was wise beyond his years. But oh my, he was a fine specimen of a young man. Probably too young for me but sometimes girls just want to have fun.
The more champagne I drank, the more I leaned on the armrest in Jesse’s direction, that marvelous tattooed bicep practically under my nose, calling my name, begging to be touched. I wondered what his chest looked like, or his abdomen. I bet he had a fantastically cut, and I wanted my eyes on his aesthetically pleasing “V”.
“You must work out a lot,” I quipped as I became fixated on the idea of seeing him shirtless, using those pumped up guns to push my arms over my head while he ravished me, his unruly hair falling down on his forehead as he leaned over me.
“Well, yea. I train on the track and off the track, but let’s talk more about you. Are you sure that you’re not a model?”
Hope you enjoyed the excerpt. You can continue reading here: http://amzn.to/13v8ZuR