Remy’s body shielded hers as she rose from the seat, his roped muscles and wide shoulders blocking her from the view of the others in the café. He took her hand and her heart sang. There was nothing she could do about her reaction to him. Her pulse raced, and he had to have known, but he simply moved against her, guiding her without words, just with his body, back toward the kitchen, away from the others.

She allowed herself to indulge her fantasy for just a little while. Remy made her feel safe and cared about, when she’d never had that, not once in her life since that moment when she was eight and he’d come for her and saved her from herself. She fit beneath his shoulder and when he moved her in front of him, his hands on her hips, she was never so conscious of a human being as she was of him.

Bijou inhaled. She should have taken in all the smells of the kitchen, but instead, there was only the scent of Remy drawn deep into her lungs. She swore she’d be able to pick him out of a crowd by scent alone. He seemed to invade every part of her, rushing through her bloodstream like a firestorm.

Thereze held the door for them as they hurried through. Emile was waiting, his smile eager, gaze on Bijou.

“I hope you enjoyed your meal,” he greeted.

“The food was fantastic,” Bijou said. “You’re an amazin’ chef. In all honesty, and I’ve eaten in some really great restaurants, clearly you are a master at what you do.”

It was easy to sound sincere, because she really meant it. He didn’t seem like the prima donna chefs she’d met, although she noticed his kitchen staff didn’t make a move toward her, not even when he handed her his apron to sign. Someone had gotten a special pen to write on the material with and clearly that was brand-new. Emile had made certain he was prepared.

Bijou took the pen and carefully wrote a short note, praising his café and the amazing food, adding that it was wonderful to meet him and then scrawling her name under the message.

“I hope you’ll come back,” Emile said, nearly glowing.

“We need a picture,” Thereze insisted, holding up a camera.

“No, no need. I don’ want to bother you,” Emile said, but he stepped up to Bijou’s side and wrapped a long arm around her shoulders.

Bijou glanced toward the kitchen door. Thankfully no one could see them, and the flood of people asking for pictures wouldn’t come. She looked up at Remy’s face. His eyes had gone from a deep blue to a strange, startling green, almost glowing. His eyes were fixed on Emile, and he looked . . . dangerous. There was no other word for it. He looked as if he might tear Emile limb from limb.

She was suddenly afraid. He looked more animal than man, his face and body utterly still, his entire being focused on Emile. The hair on her neck stood up and something wild deep inside unfurled and stretched. She could feel the languid stretch and that same steady focus on Remy as he had on Emile. She blinked and the strange wildness in her faded, gone as if it had never been. Sometimes she felt she had faulty wiring, that elusive feeling blinking on and off.

Remy’s gaze jumped to her face. His expression softened. His eyes grew warm and he winked at her.

Her heart went into double time. There it was—the perfect reason not to trust Remy or be charmed by him. She didn’t know what just happened, but she knew what she’d seen. She was a great observer of humans, and Remy was extremely dangerous. Hidden beneath that very charming and sexy and—so okay, it had to be said—attractive, magnetic, and every other word for just plain a woman’s fantasy, was something else. She’d had her warning. It couldn’t be denied no matter how much she wanted to do it. Under the surface of her childhood hero was something dark and scary.

Damn it all. She was going to be one of those women. She smiled for the camera as she acknowledged to herself that flash of truth wasn’t going to get in her way of dreaming about him. All it took was that smile, the warmth in his eyes, that focus on her making her feel as if Remy saw only her, not everything and everyone around him, which was far closer to the truth.

Remy held out his hand to her and she put hers into his without even hesitating, without even reprimanding herself for being an idiot and not running for the hills when she had the chance.

Remy leaned close, his mouth against her ear, his warm breath stirring her blood into a surging wave of pure heat rushing through her body. “Stop thinkin’ so much,” he admonished.

Who was thinking? Certainly not her, especially when he brought her hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss along the back of it, and then pulled her hand against his chest and trapped it there—right over his beating heart. She was well and truly lost. A certified idiot when it came to romance and men, because she didn’t care what that look had been all about. She cared that Remy was holding her hand so close to him that she could feel that steady beat of his heart.

He hurried her out of the café through the back entrance and maneuvered his way down the block toward the voodoo shop. She went with him willingly, enjoying the feel of his body moving against hers as they walked together.

“I don’ like men very much,” Bijou admitted, compelled to confess.

“I know,” he said, in no way perturbed.

“I’m just sayin’,” she insisted. “You need to hear me, Remy.” She didn’t care if she was making a fool of herself. It had to be said. She looked good, she wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t know that, but she was broken. She didn’t relate to men. She didn’t let them close to her. She couldn’t have a physical relationship because she couldn’t ever let herself get that intimate.