“Oh my God,” I whispered, my breath choking out of me. I managed to get my palms between us on his hard chest and pushed away. Jesus. Had anyone seen? Shame swamped me, erasing all the incredible sensations that were ebbing away too fast. My face burned. My head whipped left and right. The groups of people in the dark shadows of the upstairs area seemed to be absorbed in their own business. They either hadn’t seen us, or people up here were used to giving and demanding discretion. We hadn’t kissed, maybe they really did think we were dancing. Jesus. We hadn’t even kissed.

An aftershock wracked me. I was dizzy. I suddenly wanted to laugh hysterically.

“No one saw,” he answered my unspoken question. “But we need to go. Now. That cannot happen again.” His tone sounded shocked. Awestruck. Horrified.

No kidding. “I didn’t start it,” I said, sounding like a petulant child. I was shaken to my core. In literally every way.

He grabbed my elbow and we started toward the stairs. “The fuck you didn’t with that dress.

“Are you kidding me, right now?” I wrenched my arm free.

He turned to me, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Please,” he said. “Not here. I’m sorry. That was … inappropriate. I can’t think. I was wrong. Can we go?”

We glared at each other.

I folded my arms. “I swear to God, Pascale.”

“Xavier.”

I ignored him correcting me. “We better be having a normal conversation when we get back to the boat. And no telling me to fuck off again in French.”

His brows knitted in confusion. “I didn’t tell you to fuck off. When—?”

“You did! That night on the top deck. We were talking, and then you told me something in French that meant—”

He stepped right up into my space, his voice dropping. “I said I wanted to fuck you.” He cocked his head. “Not that I wanted you to fuck off. A very important difference.”

What was left of my breath was sucked right out of my chest.

He inclined his head at whatever he saw on my face. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. “And, yes, I was mad about it. At myself. Not you. And yes, it’s crude. But it’s true. I can’t work. I can’t sleep. I can’t fucking think straight with you around. You are destroying me. And I cannot let that happen. Not for me. Not for Dauphine. That’s why I sent that email. Now, unless you want a picture of us arguing in a nightclub splashed over Voici or Stars tomorrow morning, I suggest we get out of here.”