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I flutter a grand, princess-y hand through the air and put on a facial expression of bored disdain. “Oh, yes, Maman and I used to pop over to the French countryside quite often,” I say in an obnoxious accent. “The summer jams are simply todiefor.”

Lukas’s face doesn’t change whatsoever, and yet I get the distinct feeling that this is his version of a laugh. “What a coincidence. That’s where we’re going now.”

I splutter and all sense of cool disaffectedness goes out of the window. “We’re goingwhere?!”

“Bordeaux,” he says. “I have a vineyard there.”

“A vineyard,” I repeat flatly. “In France.”

“Several, actually. Not just in France. But this one is my favorite.”

I press my palm to my forehead. “Let me summarize what we’ve just established: You’re taking me to France. For dinner.”

“Dinner, yes. Among other things.”

“… That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He takes a slow sip of his whiskey. “I told you the evening would be worth five million dollars, Ms. Everett. A mediocre steakhouse in Midtown hardly fits the bill.”

“Neither does flying six hours across the Atlantic!”

“Seven, actually. But my pilot is good. We’ll make up time.”

I stare at him. He’s not joking. I mean, he’s never joking, but he’sespeciallynot-joking right now.

“I don’t even have a passport,” I say weakly.

Lukas sets his drink on the side table, clasps his hands between his knees, and leans closer. It’s like being approached by a skyscraper. The concept of something being this big and this in my face makes my brain do weird, fuzzy screeches.

“Things like that don’t matter for a man in my position.”

I shudder as I lean away and turn my face toward the window, mostly so he can’t see the high points of red blush that are undoubtedly shining in my cheeks.

“You think of everything, don’t you?” I mutter. “Everything except for ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’”

Lukas actually chuckles at that. It sounds like boulders sliding down a mountainside. “Things like that don’t matter for a man in my position, either.”

He settles back in his seat, for which I’m grateful, because it means that his scent isn’t scrambling my head to quite the same degree.

Then he fixes me with a strange glance. “Besides,” he murmurs, “I don’t think you’d be particularly interested in a man who has tobegfor what he wants, would you, Rae?”

The use of my first name is one surprising little gut punch. But the real one, the one that shuts me up for a minute, is the obvious answer to his taunting question.

Wasn’t it just a few nights ago that I sat and swiped through the finest algorithmically-approved men that New York City had to offer, and found them all lacking? That feeling offinewas just so overwhelming. I knew without having to find out myself that, if I did swipe right and go out on a date, they’d all be so perfectly fine. They would all hold doors and pick up the bill and tell me I looked pretty.

But not one of them would make mefeelanything. No flutter, no spark, not even mild curiosity about what might happen if they tried to kiss me.

Then there’s Lukas Lazarev, who has never once asked my permission for anything, who has just taken and taken… and taken and taken andtaken…

He makes me feeleverything.

“You don’t have any idea what I’m interested in,” I try to protest.

Lukas’s smile sharpens. “I disagree. I think I know exactly what interests you.”

“Well, I’d love to be in on the know-how for once,” I say, crossing my arms stubbornly. “Since you’re apparently the world’s foremost expert on all things Rae Everett. Go on then. Explainmeto me.”

Lukas doesn’t hesitate. “You’re interested in control.” He picks up his whiskey again and rolls the glass in his huge palm. “Not having it—but rather, giving it up.”