Jean-François Mercier

You took a sip of your champagne, offering polite smiles to those around you as you explored tonight's party. You were obliged to be here as your older brother was a diplomat, and he wanted company. You had to admit, the alcohol—and the food—was good.

From across the room, dark eyes caught yours. The man they belonged to quirked his eyebrows, offering an elegant smirk. You blinked at him. He was handsome, with high cheekbones and a full bottom lip, and his short hair was coiffed nicely. He was in a military uniform.

Goodness knows you liked a military man. Drool.

He swerved through the crowd, approaching you. He was tall, taller than you, and lanky—but still strong, it seemed. He'd have to be, if he worked in the military. He stepped, finally, in front of you, and took your hand. His lips curled up into a positively sinful smile. (forbiden homosexuality?)

"Bonjour," he said, voice quiet and subdued.