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was flushed along my cheekbones.  My eyes were barely bloodshot, but the slight, fading redness gave my green irises an almost neon brilliance.  The platinum streaks of my hair were artfully unruly.
    This newfound cocktail of love, lust, leisure and the Louvre was having an unexpected effect on my both my appearance and my outlook.  I felt like I’d just lost ten pounds of existential weight.  And the effect of my emotional purge apparently had left me more empowered and more courageous than ever.  Like I’d just eaten a big meal of genius and it was still not only churning around in my psyche but manifesting itself into my look.
    I reapplied my mascara and lipstick, the way Eva had taught me only weeks ago.  And I decided to make the most of my night.
    On my way back to the table, a gang of loud men were entering the restaurant.  They were tall and Europeanly sporty, exuding youthful energy like they’d been playing soccer all afternoon in the heat.  Their group parted for me, surrounding me as I walked through their ranks.  Every single one of them stared at me with ravenous eyes.  I still wasn’t used to this kind of reaction from men.  I’d gone virtually unnoticed my entire life.  Unfashionable glasses, tied-back hair, baggy clothes and a timid demeanor were as good as an invisibility cloak, which was exactly the effect I’d hoped for.  But my makeover was now complete.  The superficial dressing up was only half the transformation; my awakened sexuality radiated from me, and I could feel it.
    So, apparently, could they.  I couldn’t understand what they were saying but from their leering, appreciative tone, I got the gist of their commentary.  One of them touched my hair.  Another smiled at me and blocked my path back to the table.  I stepped around him, ignoring their banter, making my way back to Alexander, who was getting up from his seat.
    I’d never seen that kind of look on his face.  Of pure, savage fury.  I went crazy.  I nearly killed the fucker.  I thought I did kill the fucker.  I meant to.  He looked capable of that right then.  Jesus , I thought.  Obsessed and possessive doesn’t even begin to cover it.   He’s gone mad.  His fists were balled and he was taking a step in the direction of Équipe de France.  There was no way I could let him to that.  Alexander was a big, burly brute of a man but he was no match for ten Euro-yobs.  I cupped his fist between my palms.  “No,” I said.
    “Did you hear what they were saying to you?” he growled.
    “Yes.  Luckily, though, I couldn’t understand a word of it.  I don’t speak French.  Now sit down.”
    “I’m gonna knock that asshole’s teeth in, that’s what I’m going to do.  He fucking touched you.”
    I stood in front of him, blocking him.  He was at least a head taller than me and probably outweighed me two and a half to one but I stood my ground.  “Sit down,” I said again.  If I’d paused to consider what was going on here – Alexander, my cool, sophisticated billionaire CEO boyfriend, had reverted to knuckle-dragging mode and was on the verge of starting some kind of testosterone-fueled brawl – I might have felt disconcerted by the extent of his rage over such a trivial thing as having a rugby thug’s fingertips graze an end strand of my hair as I passed him by.  It was a good thing, then, that I didn’t pause to consider what was going on here.  I wasn’t sure what it was but the day’s events (and lack thereof, since approximately noon) were conspiring in one forward direction.
    Madman or no, Alexander’s he-man act was turning me on big time.
    Something in the husked tone of my command got his attention.  He looked down at me.  Shooting one last lethal glare at the raucous men, who were now being led by the maître d’ to a large circular table in the middle area of the restaurant, he obeyed me.  As he sat, he pulled me onto his lap.  He scooched us further along the rounded