Barefoot in Lace (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 2) (18 page)

“I’m happy to be here,” she whispered under her breath.

He curled his fingers over her shoulder, tickling her skin. “Good.”

The words floated over her like the light on the city of Nice, soft and sweet and a little unexpected. “Are you glad I’m here?”

He cocked an eyebrow as if he had no time for that stupid question.

“It’s a legit question,” she said. “Wouldn’t you rather be here alone, free, without the responsibility of Alex and me?”

He didn’t answer, staring at the view, thinking. “I’m a little surprised by it, too,” he finally said, turning to melt her with his intense blue gaze. “But I wouldn’t want to be here alone. I can’t say that I understand why, but it’s true.”

“Maybe you don’t like that loner life as much as you think you do.”

“Or maybe I just like you.” He sounded wistful, and amazed.

She leaned in to kiss him, tasting coffee and mint and sunrise and his sincerity. Unable to resist the temptation any longer, she splayed her hand over his chest, surprised to feel the accelerated rate of his heartbeat.

He moaned into her mouth, pulling her closer. “Kissing you when the sun comes up is perfection.”

In silent agreement, they paused in the kissing to put their coffee cups on the tables beside them, then settled deeper into the couch and each other.

His tongue slipped over hers, so sweet and quick it sent a thousand lightning flashes through her body, a soft whimper escaping as he caressed her arm and shoulder and slid his hand down to her breasts.

As she trailed kisses down his neck, he whispered, “Look, Gussie. Look.”

She sighed into the next kiss, lifting her head to sneak a peek at the view, her body torn between the beauty and fire of the vision and the rising desire that made her want to close her eyes and let him touch her. Everything was bathed in a peachy tone right then. The world, this man, this incredible prelude to making love.

She clung to his head, his neck, his shoulders, taking a breath to inhale it all. He eased one tank top strap over her shoulder, finding new spots to burn with his kisses.

White heat arced through her, melting every cell, pooling need low in her belly. Without a word, he pushed her down to the soft cushions and got on top of her, his erection pressing against her stomach.

“Tommy,” she whispered, grabbing two handfuls of hair and lifting his face so she could look at him.

He moaned, and not with pleasure. “I hate that name.”

“Why? I think it’s kind of hot.”

He closed his eyes and went back to kissing her neck, rolling against her as if his hard-on could shut her up if his
kisses
couldn’t.

“Why do you hate it?” she asked as he dragged her tank top up to gain another form of access to her bare breasts.

“Why do you talk when we’re making out?”

“Because I want to know you.”

“Well, I want to know you, too. So hush.” He had her top all the way up, her breasts fully exposed. “Oh.” It was barely a breath, barely a whisper, but so full of awe and admiration that Gussie felt her throat close up with emotion.

“You’ve seen me before.”

“Not in this light. Light from heaven, light like nothing else on earth.”

The sunrise was even more powerfully orange now, spilling tones of ginger and persimmon over the rooftops of Nice. “So, so pretty.”

“Yes, it is.” He wasn’t looking at the sky. Instead, he flicked his tongue over her nipple, sucking and licking, pulling pleasure and sweet grunts of need from her throat. His hair brushed her skin, exactly the way she’d imagined it would.

The feathery touch tickled and teased and made her crazier.

Finally, he lifted his head and met her gaze, the shadows of his face stark and stunning in the light.

The light! She could see it now—see what it did to everything it touched. Like a sprinkle of something divine, the light of Nice made everything more exquisite, including the man in her arms. Dear God, he was stunning.

“I’ve never kissed a more beautiful man,” she confessed.

“It’s the light,” he said.

“No, it’s the man.”

“It’s the light,” he repeated, dragging his hand lower, over her belly, down to the ribbon drawstring, the ends of that grosgrain as frayed as her nerve endings. “Let me touch you,” he whispered.

She barely breathed, “Yes.”

He snaked his hand between them, sliding hot fingers lower and letting out a satisfied sigh when he realized she wore nothing but the sleep shorts.

With a kiss on her cheek and a groan of desire, he stroked her once, enough to make her hips rise in precious agony.

“Tommy.”

He laughed, dry and mirthless. “You know what I’m going to do if you keep calling me that?”

“I hope so.” Bowing her back, she gave his fingers entrance to her body, gripping his biceps for some kind of stability.

“You like that?”

She couldn’t answer as the first torturous waves of an orgasm threatened.

“Pink,” he repeated.

She shuddered. “Yeah?”

“No, not you.” His fingers stilled as he kissed her cheek again, using his mouth to make her face turn toward the view. “Now the light is pink.”

She managed to open her eyes and inhale in pure wonder. That color. That
color
. She almost sat up, but he had her securely under him, his hands starting their assault again.

Everything hurt in the best possible way. Her eyes ached from the beauty of the view. Her body twisted with the need to release itself against him. Her fingers throbbed from squeezing his muscles so hard. And her heart…oh, Lord, her heart was one big pain in her chest.

He stroked her again, forcing her to divide her appreciation between her body and the outside world. Gussie blinked at the sight, her senses assailed by the splendor, her body under siege by his touch and a wholly different splendor.

His hand worked its magic, like the sky, and Gussie watched the world explode in a rainbow of tropical pastels until she had to close her eyes and surrender to the colors in her head, and the pressure and pain and pleasure as her body rocked and came helplessly.

“That was beautiful,” she managed to whisper.

He pressed his lips to her cheek. “So are you.”

God help her, she was starting to believe him.

Chapter Fourteen

Citrus. Sweet lemon and tangy lime. The smell invaded Tom’s nose and danced through his senses, waking him slowly. Warm skin and an unforgiving morning erection fought for attention against soft hair on his arm and the sweet curves of a woman pressed against him.

Tom blinked his eyes open, and even with his back to the railing and sky, he could tell that it was near-noonday sun that drenched the balcony, hot and relentless despite the breeze that floated from the Mediterranean.

Well, there were shittier ways to wake up than outside on the Côte d’Azur with a sexy woman in his arms. Gussie was pinned between him and the back of the sofa, still on her back, her eyes firmly shut and each breath steady and slow, in the depths of jet-lagged sleep.

They hadn’t taken things any further, too relaxed to move into his bedroom and too out in the open to continue what they’d started. Anyway, they’d both fallen sound asleep.

He didn’t move for a moment, then gave in to the urge to stroke some strands of hair off her face in the hopes that she’d wake slowly like he had. But she sighed and turned her head, her honey-gold hair sliding over her arm. And her scar was suddenly right in front of his face.

The scar from the night that had shaped her. He could see it, and it didn’t bother him a bit. What would she think of the scars he hid from her?

He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable—the memory of another woman, with black eyes and ebony hair, with a hearty laugh and a throaty voice.

But that woman didn’t appear in his mind. When he inhaled the citrus scent, he wasn’t transported to the hills of Karpathos, to a kitchen full of raucous voices and a family that lived and loved and laughed with such passion.

He smelled sweet Gussie, a woman who would appreciate all that, but didn’t have it.

He studied the burn scar, the cause of her emptiness and insecurities. He wanted to touch it, but didn’t, instead studying the shape—roughly the outline of the continent of Australia—and the size, about four and a half inches in diameter.

It had to have been a doozy of a burn. He’d done a little research after she told him about it, learning that the burn had to have been third or fourth degree if a hair transplant was impossible. It was high enough on the crown that it was difficult, even with the long, thick hair she had, to cover it completely. One good gust of wind, and it would be out there for the world to see.

Which was no doubt why she wore those pain-in-the-ass wigs. Well, now she was on freecation. No wigs or makeup, just morning make-out sessions and lazy naps in the sunshine.

He placed a light, gentle kiss on her shoulder, but that didn’t get so much as a change in her breathing. Getting up very slowly, he inched off the sofa without making a sound, reaching over the back for a cotton afghan. He covered her to protect her from the sun and because the gesture felt natural and right.

After he did, he stroked her hair and carefully eased some locks over the back of her head, covering the scar to protect it from the direct sun. He took one more look at her and turned, smacking right into Alex.

“Whoa,” he exclaimed quietly. How long had she been there? He didn’t ask, and she didn’t offer, staring up at him with a gaze that looked softer and more vulnerable than usual.

For some reason, it felt like progress, and he wanted to grab that with both hands.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” she asked.

For a second, he couldn’t imagine what she was talking about, then her gaze shifted, and he followed, landing on the hair that covered the scar.

“Not at all,” he agreed. “Come on, let’s let her sleep.”

He ushered Alex back inside, closing the French doors behind him. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“’Kay.” He heard her stomach growl, and she tried to cover that by crossing her arms, making her skinny shoulders stick out of the sleeveless T-shirt that hung over cotton sleep pants covered with pictures of kittens.

“You sound hungry.” He opened the fridge, which their hosts had stocked with LaVie, naturally, and a few other essentials, including eggs, but he had a better idea. “We’re going to the best bakery on earth. Go get dressed.”

But she stood frozen, staring at him, her expression unreadable.

“Look, Alex. I have an idea. Let’s add something to the freecation.”

She still simply looked at him, waiting. Swallowing hard, he forged on. “Let’s both be free of the awkwardness and discomfort that seems to invade every conversation we have. Let’s just get to know each other, and you meet me halfway without me feeling like I have somehow broken a cardinal rule of guardianship.”

He watched her consider the suggestion, waiting for the fight or rationale why that was a bad idea and they should continue to walk on eggshells.

“You think they’ll have croissants with chocolate chips?” she asked.

Thank
God
. “Like you have never tasted in your entire life.”

She hinted at a smile and disappeared down the hall to her bedroom, which was across from the room that Gussie had taken. A small, but tangible, victory.

A few minutes later, he found Alex waiting for him in the living room, wearing shorts and a T-shirt and sneakers, looking adorably American and quite young. She gestured at his linen pants and understated collared shirt. “Why are you all dressed up?”

It wasn’t quite as formal as Paris, but he suspected she’d figure out soon enough that the white sneakers and cutoffs branded her as an outsider in Nice. “Just dressed.”

“Should I wake Gussie so she can come with us?” she asked, hope in her voice.

He peeked through the French doors to see she hadn’t moved. “Let her sleep. We’ll bring her a basket of baked goods and some fruit and coffee.”

Alex looked a little horrified that she had to be alone with him, but he chose to ignore that.

“She’ll be fine,” he assured her, grabbing the house key they’d left on the counter. “Better if she catches up on sleep.”

“But I like her.”

“Then let her sleep. It’s the most thoughtful thing you can do for someone you like.”

“Or you can cover them up with a blanket and
kiss
them.” It was the closest thing to a tease she’d ever given him.

“Busted.” He headed to the door, letting her out first, his heart lighter than it had been since Ruthie died.

Crossing the street, he got his bearings of the southeast section of Nice, the neighborhood tucked into a beautiful section walking distance from the beach and Old Town. “If I recall, the bakery is that way.” He gestured them past a few restaurants and boutiques, a salon and spa, and a small but packed café.

“Can’t we eat at one of these?”

“We could, but it isn’t quite what I had in mind.” A few pedestrians brushed by, their gazes distant or down, like all Frenchmen who refused direct eye contact. At the intersection, a truck rumbled by at high speed, and instinctively, Tom grabbed Alex’s hand and tugged her back a few feet to safety.

“Whoa, there. You okay, kid?”

Eyes wide, she nodded, still holding his hand. “Not a lot of drivers like that in Florida.” Staying close, they walked past an iron gate around a lush garden, then by a stone cathedral, and Alex practically stumbled on the cobblestones trying to drink everything in.

As they walked, he told her tidbits about Nice, and she soaked everything up, asking a few questions and even making comments all the way to the red-and-white striped awning of Le Pain
.

Inside the little shop, she crooned over the chocolate, cinnamon, and butter-rich aroma of a truly great French bakery.

“Holy wow, that smells fantastic.” Alex twirled a bit, pulled to the glass cases full of petit fours and croissants, cream puffs and macaroons. Behind the cases were stacks upon stacks of baguettes and breads, glistening with golden crusts, every one uniformly made despite the fact that each was created by hand a few hours ago.