Chapter 2

Isabel had always been careful with men like Raphael—men who carried temptation like a second skin. But when he invited her for a midnight drive through Montmartre, she didn't refuse. The air between them crackled with tension as he brushed a stray curl from her cheek. "Do you always let strangers this close?" he whispered. "You don’t feel like a stranger," she admitted. The first touch was a whisper against her wrist, the second—a featherlight caress along her collarbone. When his lips finally claimed hers, it was not a question but a demand.