Hell. Well, there went that fucking idea. Nicholas cast her a dark look. “Say that again.”

She lifted her eyebrows at him. “Dinner with Chris Lavalle.” She pointed, helpfully.

“Thank you, Madalena, I know where my damn costar is.” So did the rest of the world, apparently. Regrettably.

“And here you are: glaring exquisitely at him, in full sight of every Parisian in the neighborhood, which is doing no good whatsoever for your optics—I say this out of love, not just because your job is also my job. You haven’t exchanged a word with the man. Give him a chance,” she coaxed, as gentle as with a lion. “Talk to him. He might turn out to be a kinder soul than you think.”

Nicholas didn’t need a kind soul. He needed a costar—an equal, a partner, a man he could respect. “He’s a diva. An influencer. He isn’t an actor. His English is atrocious.”

“His accent is lovely. And you barely speak French.”

“I know enough.” He could say bonjour, merci, and sortez de mon chemin, bordel de merde, which was usually enough for his purposes.

Madalena brushed sun dust off her skirt. “You keep looking at him.”

“The entire blasted world is looking at him. He’s making damn sure of it.”

“The entire blasted world isn’t about to play his lover. And you’ve been furiously eye-fucking him for half an hour. People are bound to notice.” She wriggled her smartphone at him. “I noticed.”

“You had better,” Nicholas growled, “not be looking up pictures of your employer on that thing.”

“I don’t need to look you up. You’re trending.”

“For fuck’s sake, Madalena!”

Laughing, she swiped to show him. And there he was—in his expensive sweater, in profile; his elbow was resting on the table next to his coffee cup, one hand covering his mouth. Half in shadow. He looked pensive. Absorbed. Odds were, any one of the morons pointing their expensive smartphones in his direction had caught who he was looking at, too. Goddamn it.

What the hell was wrong with him? Was he a green boy, untrained and inexperienced, so easily distracted by a pretty face and a lithe body that looked as though it had been made for—

He stopped that thought right the fuck there. And handed the phone back, grimacing. “I’ve been...preoccupied.”

“He is gorgeous,” said Madalena.

“His job description is to look handsome and wear shiny things. Of course he’s beautiful.”

But Nicholas thought it a weakness. Beauty of that kind meant men like Chris Lavalle could coast by in the world, safe in the knowledge that they would always be loved. Beauty of that kind was too great for this life. Nicholas had worked with good-looking men and women in the past; but never before had it got so much...under his skin. It was an irritant. He disliked it.