Romancing Paris

Warwick Dragons Book 3

Welcome to the world of the powerful Warwick family. These womanizing dragons are about to meet their matches.

Paris Warwick, dragon shifter and reclusive artist, prefers being alone. No mates, no kids, and barely any friends. It’s all just a distraction from his art. He never goes out to clubs. Ever. Of course, the one night he goes out changes his life. When he sees her. His mate. He knows he can’t walk away from the beautiful Corinne, so he vows to only have one night with her. That’s it. Then it’s back to loneliness, right?


Corinne DuBois is on the run, free for the first time since…ever. It took her years to plan the perfect escape, and only one night to ruin it. The sexy stranger from the club had some pretty fertile mojo because she is definitely pregnant. Too bad he gave her a fake name. Two months later, with little hope, she is comforted by a sympathetic, elegant woman, who gives her a job and a place to stay. Lucky her, for once.


Turns out, her mysterious one-night stand was Johanna Warwick’s son. Corinne can’t help but fall for her baby daddy when he tells her that they are destined mates. Too bad her past just caught up to her, threatening the new life she was starting to build with Paris.


Chapter 1

Paris

Paris Warwick hated clubs.

No. It was more than that. Paris hated being around so many people. He didn’t even like most people. He much preferred quiet solitude. It was a real testament to his artistic block that he was even here at all.

The loud, thumping music only set his teeth on edge, while the smell of a thousand bodies, dancing and sweating, made his stomach roll. He couldn’t believe he had let Pascal convince him to go out. Paris never went out. He was a notorious recluse, who preferred to stay in his home, painting, sculpting, drawing, doing anything artistic and quiet.

Fuck, he missed silence just about then. He didn’t want to be touched or brushed against by women who were silently asking him to dance. He had no desire to be close to any woman.

How his brother, London, had spent years of his life in clubs, Paris didn’t know. His playboy brother’s face was as recognizable as his was completely unknown.

Paris Warwick was the brother no one knew anything about, and he liked it that way. It made being an artist easier. When the family had to reboot and disappear, he could just pick up where he had left off with a different artist's name. It would be very bad for him if the media actually knew what he looked like.

Paris wanted to be a famed artist, but he would never want to get there because he was from a rich and powerful family. He wanted to get there on artistic credit alone. That’s why his latest bout with creative block made him angry.

How was he supposed to be the next Johannes Galileo if he couldn’t paint?

Never mind that he had been Johannes Galileo.

He had to prove himself again. To know that he could. That he hadn’t lost his touch.

The club was so packed, so full of people, it was a stark contrast, a direct opposition to what he would rather be doing. If he could manage to do it. 

Painting in silence.

He had been having a hell of a hard time completing his latest painting. His muse had decided to up and leave him just as he was starting the piece. He needed the peace that came with being lost in a painting. He hadn’t felt that pull in nearly a month, and he was starting to panic.

His house was filled with half-finished projects because of it. He had tried all of his usual tricks to get his muse back, but she was being an elusive mistress. He didn’t know what else to try to coax her out. That was probably why when Pascal, his best—and only—friend, had insisted he needed time outside of the house, Paris had reluctantly followed along.

“Would you lighten up?” Pascal shouted over the music. “You look like someone’s grandpa. Ease up. You’ll never get someone to fuck you tonight if you keep snarling at anyone who gets within six inches of you. 

Paris shook his head. “I’m going to head out,” he said, pointing his chin toward the exit. At least Paris was tall. His six-foot-four frame towered over the other patrons, and he could make out the door clearly. He was already planning out his route of escape.

“You haven’t left your place in months. Months, man. You need a night out. Fuck that, you need to get laid. When was the last time you had any?”

Paris cringed at his friend’s words. It had been a long time. Over a year, that was for sure. Probably closer to two. He couldn’t even remember who the woman had been. To be fair, the last couple of years had been busy. He had painted a lot as he tried to establish his new artist name. He had sold more of his pieces than ever before, and more and more art galleries around the world wanted to have a Draco original.

It was harder to make it in this era. There was too much noise.

No one knew, of course, that Paris Warwick was the elusive artist known as Draco. Only his family and Pascal knew his identity. There were multiple reasons for that, but Paris still appreciated the anonymity it afforded him. People went nuts when they thought you were a famous artist, and they immediately tried to figure out what you could do for them, to benefit them in some way.

It was tiresome.

Especially with the Warwick last name.

People were quick to link him to his brothers. London, the recently tamed and engaged former fuckboy, and York, who ran Warwick Banks, the most known financial institution on the world. People loved to think that with all of that wealth at his disposal, Paris had it easy. That he could just waltz up to any gallery and demand that they exhibit his art.

He didn’t want that.

Paris wanted his work to speak for itself. If it wasn’t a real success, he didn’t want it. That’s why he had always—always—used artist names. Draco, his latest artistic persona, was a nod to his dragon. He was a shifter, after all, and he was proud of his heritage, even though it chafed sometimes. He couldn’t just be. There were too many expectations, and too many binds to being a Warwick. It was suffocating.

Having an artistic identity, a fake name, gave him the freedom he needed to truly be himself.

And himself? Well, he was a quiet, reclusive artist, who didn’t want to be in the club to try and find a woman to fuck. Women only complicated things. He had seen what love did. To his parents, then to his brothers. He didn’t want the hassle. He wanted his art and only his art.

His paintings couldn’t necessarily keep him warm, but they sure as hell didn’t complain that he spent too much time in his studio. Even his family and Pascal were always on his case for working so much on his paintings and other pieces.

He didn’t need his focus split even further.

“Stay for another drink,” Pascal pleaded. “Find a nice girl to bring home.” The wink his friend shot him was the final nail in the coffin.

Paris was getting the hell out of the club before he got himself into trouble. He didn’t want a girl. He wanted to go back to his place and finish the painting he had started. It was giving him a serious hard time.

That was an understatement.

Everything had been hard in the past few weeks. His most prolific year was going to end and sputter if he didn’t get his shit together. He couldn’t wait for his muse. He had to keep on keeping on to make his reputation as one of the foremost artists of his generation.

Again.

It was the third time, in his long life, that he was gaining popularity, but this time, he wanted it to be different. He wanted it to be on his own terms and not with all of the artist's rules he had to follow. Paris wanted to create something that wouldn’t just stand the test of time.

He wanted to create something that was new.

Transcendent.

It was 2020, for fuck’s sake.

It was damn well impossible to come up with something entirely fresh. Especially because he had been creating art for a couple hundred years. It was hard not to let himself get stagnant.

“I’m going to leave!” Paris shouted. He was starting to feel a headache. He needed a painkiller and a nap. Then maybe he would be able to tackle his painting.

Pascal rolled his eyes, but turned his back, his attention zeroing in on two young women who were dancing to the beat of the music with such enthusiasm, it made Paris smile at the silliness of it all. Mortals and their booze. He left his friend to his own adventures and made his way to the exit, once again thankful for his height.

Paris was so intent on reaching the door that he didn’t much care who he walked into. The wall of dancing bodies was no concern of his.

“Hey! Watch it,” a soft voice squeaked as he continued on. “Jerk!”

The sound of the voice was so beautiful, it seemed to melt away everything around him. Paris stopped and turned to face whoever had shouted to him.

Everything stilled.

There was no more music.

There was no more crowd.

There was only her.

Mate, his dragon roared.

Paris barely heard the beast over the blood rushing in his head and down south.

All he could do was focus on the beauty in front of him. She was nearly a foot shorter than him, with her long blonde hair curled around her heart-shaped face. Her blue eyes were clear and captivating. The low cut of her top and painted on black jeans stole his breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I bump into you?”

She nodded, gesturing to her spilled drink.

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

Why are you apologizing? Tell her she is our mate. Kiss her, touch her, do something. We want her. We need her.

“It’s just as well,” she sighed, looking down at her empty glass. “I don’t even like drinking. Or dancing where other people can see me. I always feel like a fool since I have like, no rhythm and no moves. I don’t know why I’m even here, or why I’m telling you all of this.” She shook her head and made to turn away from him.

Without thinking, Paris grabbed hold of her hand and turned her so that she was facing him.

“Let me make it up to you,” he said.

His fingers were burning and tingling against the smooth skin of her hand. He was overjoyed that she didn’t push away from him. She swallowed hard and licked her lips. He watched her tongue, tracking the moisture it left behind. It took all of his self-control not to reach out and trace her lower lip with his own tongue. Her blue eyes are bright and clear. God, he wanted to reach out and touch her blonde hair. The strands looked like softness personified.

“What’s your name?” he asked. He knew it was a dirty trick to put his lips right next to her ear. Paris saw goosebumps all across her arms. He could hear the sound of her heartbeat, and he inhaled her scent deeply.

Her breath caught, and she reached up to speak in his ear. “I’m Corinne. You?”

“Thomas,” he answered with a lie without missing a beat.

No! Why are you lying to our mate?

Paris ignored his dragon. He didn’t want the woman to know he was a Warwick. He knew what would happen the second she figured out who he was. She would fawn and gawk. She wouldn’t be herself, but would turn into whatever she thought he wanted.

That had happened too many times before, and that’s not what he wanted. Not with her.

“Want a cup of coffee?” he asked, his eyes not leaving hers.

She looked around nervously before nodding slowly. She took out her phone and sent a quick note, but he didn’t bother asking. He knew she was letting her friends know she was leaving. Never mind that he read the message. It was a possessive feeling that made him do it, and he was overly pleased that she hadn’t been texting a man.

Paris took her hand in his and led her out of the club and onto the sidewalk. The night was crisp, and the sky was clear. The moon was out, but it was impossible to see the stars through the glow of the city of lights. They walked along the streets of Paris, the city alive and full of people despite the late hour.

“Oh, it’s so loud in there. I swear I’m going to have permanent ear damage from that.” She smiled at him. “You didn’t look comfortable in there either.”

He shrugged, still holding her hand. “I don’t like loud music.”

“Then why were you in there?”

“My friend dragged me in.”

She laughed softly. “Same. Some friends we have, right? Though, Solange is more of a coworker than a friend.”

“You’re American, right?”

Her face fell, and her fragrant scent of flowers turned sharp with fear. “How did you know?”

“Your accent,” he answered, giving her hand a tight squeeze. “Come on. I know a cafe not too far from here.”

Paris knew this was a mistake.

He didn’t want a mate.

He didn’t need one.

It would only complicate his life. He didn’t want his attention to be all wrapped up in the beautiful creature in front of him. He had his art career, and that’s all that mattered.

He knew that he couldn’t focus on Draco, and all of the paintings he had to finish, if he was all mixed up with his mate. Shit, he knew what that looked like. His brothers, London and York, had completely changed the way they lived their lives since meeting their mates recently.

He didn’t want that.

Not even a little bit.

He would hang out with her for one night, for one night only, get his fill of her, then he would forget her forever.

It would be that easy.

You’re the biggest idiot in the world, his dragon roared. I’ll make sure you regret this.