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Grace ran through the rest of the herbs as she ate. Nothing else struck her as out of the ordinary. Except the shelves themselves. She didn’t sense any magic coming from them, but she grabbed a bottle to test it. Nothing stopped her. No sting, no burn. No heat. Alain hadn’t warded his herbs. Good to know. It might come in handy.

She moved to the bookcase, scanning the titles, all in French. Many of them were well read. She pulled out a book, hoping she could guess what it was by its cover. No such luck. She put it back. Some books were of a style she equated with more academic works. Others popular fiction, perhaps? She paused in front of the second bookcase. Magic prickled against her skin. A ward. This is where Alain kept the grimoire.

Carefully, she reached out, touching the edges of it. Heat and a strong repulsion crept up her arm. She pulled her hand back, and the sensation faded. Like the one on the secret compartment near his bed in Paris, this ward had bite. The grimoire was, without a doubt, somewhere on this bookshelf or behind it. She might be able to walk through it, as she had with the one on his front door, but she wasn’t going to risk it without strong protection. She eyed the bottles of herbs, all lined up neatly. This time she had access to almost every ingredient imaginable. She’d made the right choice last night, sticking with Alain.

The front doorknob turned. Shoot.

Grace stepped away from the bookshelf, got her feet tangled in her discarded ball gown and stumbled to her knees, nearly losing her hold on the blanket. Criminy. Why hadn’t she put some clothes on while she’d had the chance?

The door opened, then closed. A weighty silence, then footfalls padded away from her. There was the thud of a mug on the kitchen countertop, something being opened. Grace peeked between the legs of the table and chairs and glimpsed bare feet and cotton-clad calves. She followed them as they moved to her left and around the table until he was standing right in front of her. With her hand cinched around the blanket, holding it in place, Grace looked up. He stood there, shirtless, a coffee mug in hand, those unusual eyes focused on her.

Oh my.

Her gaze traveled over the curve of his biceps, across his bare chest, down his abs, and followed the trail of dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his pants. In a suit, he was every bit the sexy billionaire women dreamed about, but who never existed outside of Hollywood. In pants and nothing else, he was way, way too sexy for her peace of mind and her hormones. They were dancing up a storm and raging through her body like they were fixin’ to celebrate the Fourth of July.

“Did you sleep well, Grace?”

She dragged her attention back to his face, to the dark shadow of a beard across his jaw and the mocking tilt to his lips. “Um, yes.” Fumbling with the throw, she tucked it in at her chest and got to her feet. “Thank…thank you.”

Of course she had. He’d given her the best orgasm of her life so far. Most likely ever. He flashed his dimples at her, and her stomach did a little swoop. He knew he had, too. She turned away, unwilling to stare at him again like a chicken would a June bug. Stuffing the last bit of the croissant in her mouth, she gathered up her ball gown and scrunched up what was left of her panties in her hand.

“As much as I’d like to see you in that gown again, there’s a change of clothes for you in the bag on the couch. The bathroom’s through there.” He pointed his coffee mug at the bathroom door. “Then, since you’ve eaten, we’ll head on up to the main house.”

She nodded, glad her mouth was full so she didn’t have to respond, grabbed the bag then shut herself in the bathroom. She leaned on the door. How was she going to look at Alain and not think about last night? She clenched her buttocks. Not think about what he’d done with his fingers every time she looked at him? What she’d let him do.

She let her head thump against the door.

“Grace? Are you all right in there?”

Pull yourself together, Grace. Do you think you’re the only woman he’s ever done that with?

From what she’d seen of his playroom, and the toys in his bedside drawer, he’d done a heck of a lot more. There was no need for awkwardness. He probably wasn’t giving it a second thought.

“Grace?”

The croissant, now dry and tasteless in her mouth, almost choked her as she swallowed. “I’m fine.”

She would be fine. She would face him, and she would behave like a rational adult, not some choir-girl virgin. She wasn’t a virgin, but she sure was acting like one.

Grace peeled herself off the door, set the ball gown on the toilet lid and rummaged through the bag. A white T, some gray sweats, flip-flops a size too big. She seized on the sports bra and the panties with the tags still on. She could kiss whoever had thought to provide them.

She dressed, washed her face—removing the raccoon eyes left behind by her mascara—and finger-combed her hair. She shoved the ball gown into the bag along with her ruined panties. Squaring her shoulders, she faced the door. The grimoire was out there. So, too, were all the herbs to break Alain’s ward. If she could get Alain to leave her alone in here again, she’d have half a chance. She needed to make this work. Grace opened the door.

Alain raked his gaze over her as she exited the bathroom, and Grace fought the impulse to hug her body.

He held up a Thermos. “Coffee?”

She glanced at the wall of herbs. “I’d prefer an herbal tea.”

“Mm. We can get you one up at the main house. Let’s go. Maxime has already texted me four times this morning. He’s getting impatient.”

Grace had hoped he might open the secret compartment and remove the grimoire, take it with them, so she’d get to see his hidey hole, but he headed out the front door empty handed and ushered her into the car. Maybe when they returned.

The estate was bigger than any estate back in Alabama. The forest stretched uninterrupted for miles, and they’d been driving for at least ten minutes before the trees opened up onto a clearing and one of the biggest houses Grace had ever seen. It wasn’t a house. It was a castle. Elegant, old, and built like a fortress. This was a stronghold, if ever there was one.

They were ushered inside by a young boy—another shifter, she suspected—along a large hall lined with portraits. Maxime’s family through the generations? She didn’t get time for more than a cursory look as they were shown into a large room with the most enormous table, walls covered in tapestries, and soaring ceilings. How old was this place?

A prickle at the base of her skull had her turning. He sat at the head of the table, an ancient book open in front of him, but his dark eyes studied her with an intensity that made her squirm. Power rolled off him in waves strong enough to be measured in gigawatts, and everything about him, from his muscular build to the way he made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, screamed otherness, something raw and untamed. Something that did not fit in this elegant room, rather deep in the forest. In the wild. She couldn’t have missed it on a moonless night. She didn’t miss it now. This man wasn’t simply a werewolf. He was an alpha.