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Then he released her elbow and continued up the steps, leaving her staring after him. She brushed off the pang of disappointment. Fancy dress aside, she was but a regular, average-Joe American girl who, through no choice of her own, had found herself at this glittery event. On any other day, he wouldn’t give her a second glance. Ordinarily, she’d never cross paths with a man like that. Him? Walking into her little store in the Tenderloin district? In a Hallmark romance, maybe.

The doorman looked expectantly in her direction, and Grace snapped out of her swoon and back to her purpose for being here. Find Alain d’Louncrais and steal an ancient grimoire from him in whatever way necessary. Mustering every ounce of determination she had, she stepped into the function room.

The thrum of voices, the clack of heels and the clink of wineglasses echoed across the vast space as ladies in evening gowns and men in suits mingled, nibbled on appetizers and chatted about whatever people discussed at fundraisers like these. Grace accepted a glass of champagne she had no intention of drinking from a circling waiter and pretended to take a sip, surveying the crowd of wealthy patrons of the Cluny Museum. Which one of the twenty or so men in suits was Mr. d’Louncrais? What did a witch powerful enough to land a seat on the Council of Witches look like?

She wished she’d been brave enough to ask Cordelia for more information. She’d Googled him and come up with zip. Not surprising. A witch wealthy enough to afford a shindig like this would have a team of techies scrubbing his existence from public record. He wouldn’t be young. Only the most accomplished witches would have a seat on the council. Cordelia King was the most powerful witch Grace knew, and that woman was ancient. One foot in a grave she couldn’t fall into fast enough, as far as Grace was concerned. She scanned the room. That would rule out half of the men here tonight.

She weaved her way through the crowd, offering smiles and pardons as she went. He was French, she knew that much. So that eliminated anyone without a French accent. That wasn’t of much help. Not in Paris. A waitress offered her a plate of mini cheesy pastries.

“Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît. I’m sorry, my French isn’t that great.” The waitress sniffed, but Grace plowed on. “Would you know which one of these gentlemen is Alain d’Louncrais? I’m meant to be meeting him here.” Could she sound any more like a Tinder date? “My boss, he had to cancel at the last moment. Food poisoning. He sent me in his stead,” said Grace, making up her story as she went. “Lucky me. I got a nice dress and expensive champagne, but I’m supposed to be meeting this Alain d’Louncrais here and I have no idea what he looks like.” Grace smothered a cringe. Even to her ears, it sounded lame.

Fiddlesticks. If she couldn’t fool a waitress, how was she going to outsmart a witch resourceful enough to secure a position on the Council of Witches?

“Non, I do not.” The French had perfected the art of looking down their noses at someone. This waitress excelled at it. She held her tray out to Grace. “Gougères?”

Grace waved her off. “Non. Merci.”

Merci for nothing. The waitress moved away. Darn this stupid mission. And darn Cordelia. What was so important about this grimoire, anyway? Grace wistfully eyed the door. She had little to no chance of success, despite all her precautions. Grace had never had the capacity or the inclination to be a good liar. She wasn’t raised that way. Alain d’Louncrais would see through her and her spells. He would know in an instant why she was here.

As for stealing this grimoire… Witches protected their grimoires like a dragon protected his hoard. An ancient grimoire coveted by other witches? It wouldn’t be lying around for her to take. D’Louncrais would have it locked up and warded to the eyeballs.

The memory of her mama’s pleading eyes held her in her place. She took another pretend sip of her champagne. Why, oh why had her mama had to go and fall in love with a member of the King family? If she hadn’t, her mama would never have left Alabama. She’d be lonely, but safe. And Grace wouldn’t be standing here in a pair of heels high enough to give her a nosebleed, in a dress that wouldn’t have looked out of place at the Academy Awards, planning to seduce a man old enough to be her father.

“I believe the man over there is Alain d’Louncrais.”

Grace turned to the woman behind her, with coiffed gray hair and a pair of diamond earrings worth enough money to feed a small country, her champagne glass directing Grace across the room. “The man with the goatee?”

A tinkle of a laugh. “Non. Non.”

The gentleman with the goatee and hair more white than gray moved away to greet someone.

“Him.”

She followed the woman’s appreciative gaze to a tall man with a full head of brown hair, his broad shoulders filling out his suit. As if he knew he was the object of speculation, the man turned, and Grace’s heart stuttered.

Witches on a broomstick.

It was him. Her gallant savior on the steps. The man with the gorgeous smile and two different colored eyes.

Son of a chocolate biscuit.

Chapter Three

Alain took an appreciative sip of Veuve Clicquot champagne and studied the beauty across the room. She didn’t belong here. There was an innocence about her, a freshness rare amongst the carefully crafted smiles and the studied poise of a room that dripped pedigree as much as it did jewels. A wild daisy in a field of heritage roses, untrained in the art of schooling one’s expression, her thoughts flashed loud across her delectable body and her beautiful face.

It was her. The woman in his vision. The yellow satin, the shimmering crystals, her expressive brown eyes, and lips that were perfect to wrap around his— Alain reined his thoughts in. His cock had been on duty since he’d gripped her elbow on the stairs. If it had had its way, he would’ve turned them both around then and there, bundled her into his car and had her back in his apartment and in his bed. Maybe not his bed. His groin tightened at the thought.

But despite the general perception of him, his cock did not overrule his mind, or his werewolf senses. Both of which were telling him this tres belle femme was worth further investigation. And not because of the vision of her tied to his bed. D’acc. Not only because of his vision. He was self-aware enough to admit that. The subtle hint of jasmine from her perfume, the vulnerability and uncertainty he’d sensed from her on the stairs, hadn’t been strong enough to hide the whisper of deceit in her scent. Or the subtle hum of magic. She was good. He was better. And he was going to enjoy uncovering all her secrets.

First, though, he had pack business to attend to. Alain threw the last of his drink back, dropped his empty glass on a server’s tray and grabbed two fresh glasses. He weaved his way across the room, his objective standing in a small group of patrons behind the mystery woman.

“Mademoiselle, Madam de Poitiers,” he greeted the mystery woman and her companion as he drew abreast. Then he moved past them, brushing against her bare shoulder as he did so. It was the briefest of touches, but it burned through him like an electrical charge. His vision gripped his balls tight with a ferocity that shook him to his core. It took every ounce of discipline not to stop, turn around and drag her against his body. Run his nose along the curve of her throat and sink his canines—

Could she be…?

He shook the thought off. Not likely. She was far too innocent to be the mate of someone like him. And she would be there when he was done with what he’d come here for. Waiting for him. The hitch of her breath and the pounding of her pulse told him so. It wasn’t enough to satisfy his cock, which persisted in ignoring his commands to be patient, to calm the fuck down.

He continued past her, threading his way through the crowd of black suits and satin ball gowns toward his target. Wrapped in a strapless red satin dress designed to tempt, Solange De Labruyère took the glass of champagne he offered her with a polished smile only a fool would believe harmless. “Mademoiselle, I believe you and I have an interest in common.”