Carnal in Cannes (11 page)

“Don"t give a fucking shit.” Harry glimpsed a woman with waist-length, honey blonde hair exiting a limo. “My stepmother just got out of a limo in the front of the hotel. Get to work.”

Casmir"s answer was lost when Harry ended the call abruptly.

When he served in Afghanistan, every skirmish had been planned in explicit detail using as many reaction scenarios as his team could anticipate. Once he left special ops, Harry had deliberately decided to abandon any semblance of planning his life"s path—he went with the flow. Time to resurrect the old habits.

He walked over to the antique desk standing against the far wall, opened the single drawer, pulled out the requisite hotel pad and pen, and sat. His cell rang before he could let it fall onto the leather-topped surface, and he didn"t have to check the number to know who was on the other end.

“No luck,” the gypsy said before Harry could even speak. “It didn"t go down as we planned. Your stepmother had one of those clutch purses with a click top. Firm grip on it. My man plucked it out of her hands, but she resisted. He had no choice but to open it and let the contents fall to the floor. The phone was there. He stomped on it. By this time she was screeching, and he had to cut and run.”

Harry leaned his forearm on the desk and massaged his throbbing temples.

“Tell me it"s destroyed.”

“Definitely. I had two others in the lobby who pretended to help her retrieve the purse"s contents. The SIM card was in smithereens.”

“Thank God
something
went as planned. Is the sweep of her hotel in progress?”

Harry barked.

“Yes.”

“Call me when you"re done.”

Exactly thirty-three minutes later, Casmir called and, as usual, began speaking before Harry could utter a single syllable. “All"s clear. No issues. My man had time to copy the document folder on her laptop to a USB before he wiped it clean. No charge for the bonus.”

“Finally.” Harry was out of the chair and jogging to the door before he finished the word. “Bring the USB to the
Glory
after three today.” Not even bothering to check that he"d shut the door properly, he sprinted to the elevator, stabbed the up arrow, and paced a tight circle until he heard the
ding
. Sliding the penthouse key Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

51

card into the slot, he hit his floor number, ground his teeth, and watched the numbers light one by freaking one.

He busted through the suite"s master bedroom double doors less than two and a half minutes later, and each Mississippi-counting two hundred and forty-one seconds had crawled by slower than a half-paralyzed snail. His gaze swept the room, but it was empty. A muffled “Merde” reached his ears. “Martine? Are you in there?” Two long jumps had him at the arched wooden entrance to the bathroom.

“Harry?”

Sagging against the door frame, he sent a mental thank you to the almighty.

The door inched open, and Martine appeared. Grabbing one hand, he tugged her into his arms and hugged her tightly to his chest. Then his palm encountered her bare, firm rump, and he pushed her away and studied her features.

Her onyx eyes sparkled, and her mouth curved. “You have the picture and the phone. I knew you would not fail.”

“Sugar,” he whispered, and his ego soared to superhero heights at the way she looked at him, as if she believed he could shatter any hurdle they faced. Unable to resist, he kissed the arch of one tawny brow, the tip of her nose, set his mouth over hers, and drank like a man parched from three days in the Texas desert.

Heaven and paradise and all sultry woman, she responded to his tongue"s coaxing and played with him, soft, light flicks that sent lightning bolts to his balls, and her finger pads skipped across the stubble on his jaw. His palm cupped her bottom, squeezing the chilled flesh, and she made that sound in her throat she"d made the night before. She smelled of sex and honeysuckle, and his brain did a double take, his subconscious mapped everything together, and he tore his mouth from hers as his eyelids flew up. “It hasn"t happened yet?”

She sighed, her hard nipples rubbed against the tight, thin cotton T-shirt he wore, and she slowly opened her eyes. “Non. I am now going in.” She touched a finger to her ears and inclined her head to the open door. “Someone attempted to steal your stepmother"s purse. She called hotel security, they called the gendarmes, and they have only left a few minutes ago.”

Martine mouthed,
She can hear us.

Harry nodded his understanding.

“I should like to have this done with tout de suite.”

Did she realize her thumb stroked the side of his neck?

“I"ll light a fire under their butts, and we"ll be outta here pronto. I"ll be kicked to death by a grasshopper if that ain"t the truth.” Harry"s lips crooked up as she pursed her lips and those three little worry lines that were cuter than a ladybug formed. “That means I promise I"ll make it happen. Let"s get this show on the road, Martine.”

He took her hand from his neck, placed a hot, moist kiss in the center of her palm, twined their fingers together, and turned to the side. Waving one hand to the suite"s central area, he quipped, “Shall we?”

52

Jianne Carlo

Martine murmured, “This grasshopper saying means I promise? Truly the English language is nonsensical.”

As she took a step forward, Harry remembered her bare ass. “Wait.” He went into the bathroom, snagged a towel, and draped it around her neck.

“I am wearing a T-shirt,” she protested. “The rest must be bare.”

A quick check revealed the white cotton fell to her midthigh and he said, “No one but me sees your nekkid butt, sugar. Let"s move.”

Five men and Suresh stood in the vicinity of a gurney. Harry recognized the examination table from the ugly stirrups attached to it. His stomach churned and burned like a dryer switched to the superheat cycle.

Suresh must have heard Harry"s boots on the marble, because his head whipped to the side, and his chest heaved a great big sigh Harry heard from nine feet away.

Before Harry could open his mouth to utter a greeting, Suresh stood in front of them. “Did you tell him about the theft?” He focused his gaze on Martine.

“Oui. He knows.”

“Where"s Delora, the devil"s mistress?” Harry asked, sending Martine a quick wink.

“You fucking piece of shit!”

The screeched words splintered the murmured conversation of the five men in front of them.

Harry spun around, and only his fast reflexes saved him from a few stitches.

The oriental vase speeding toward his face bounced off the side of his head as he hugged Martine and lunged right.

Delora Ford flew across the room, fingers splayed, scarlet nails aimed at Harry"s eye sockets.

He shoved Martine into a nearby chair and grabbed for Delora"s wrists.

Delora spit at him, and spittle sprayed over his nose and mouth. Transferring both her wrists into one hand, Harry growled, “Do that again and I will have you arrested for assault.” He twisted Delora"s hands behind her back and whirled her around. “Suresh, grab me one of those cords around the drapes.”

“Don"t you even think about it, you son of a bitch,” Delora barked. “And don"t for a second think that smashing my cell means you"ve destroyed the evidence. I can prove you wrong. I"ll prove you violated your daddy"s will. I have plenty of backups of that picture.”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

53

Chapter Six

Martine returned to the living area to find that the doctors, the lawyers, Suresh, and Delora Ford had departed. A grin lifted the corners of her mouth as the image of Delora"s expression when Harry offered each doctor a hundred thousand euros if they completed the exam within five minutes did a little carnival dance through her brain.

Did he treat every woman like a precious gem? Martine hugged her arms and skipped the last couple of steps before halting to study the man who"d paid a million euros to take her virginity. The man who"d protected her the way a husband should.

The man who"d donned a hero"s mantle with that one bribe—in her eyes, anyway.

Harry lounged on the couch, his head resting on linked fingers jammed into the padded upholstery. Long legs crossed at booted ankles lay on top of a glass coffee table littered with magazines. Wearing the familiar weathered cowboy hat tilted at a jaunty angle, faded denim jeans, a charcoal T-shirt, and the brown boots with the tarnished silver buckle, he stared at the carved crown molding decorating the ceiling. Did he ride horses? Roam a range? Beat off enemies with one hand?

Fight for the downtrodden?

There are no heroes left, Martine Bellamy. Stop being foolish.

Still reeling from the way he"d treated her in the bathroom and during the exam, as if she mattered to him, Martine held her breath and froze in place, hoping he hadn"t noticed her presence. She studied the curve of his earlobe; the piratical earring winked in the light streaming through the open French doors. Her eyes traced a jawline as hard as the marble sculptures pictured on the Marseille Museum tourist brochures, and a scalding shiver warmed her skin from head to toe.

Never had a man shattered her controlled reactions before. Why him?

It’s all so confusing
. Martine chewed the inside of one cheek.
Do I feel I can
trust you because we fornicated? Because you will pay me the money to save Grandmère? Or because you make me feel cherished?

His head crooked her way, and he gifted her with the lopsided grin that set in flight all the butterflies no one could ever prove existed inside her belly. Heat swarmed in all directions, dissembling across her flushed cheeks and forehead, sprinting rib by rib, and splaying sideways, pearling her nipples taut.

“A Texas silver dollar for your thoughts, sugar?” His smile evened, and a hint of stubble shadowed the folds curving his mouth.

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Jianne Carlo

Salvia dried in her throat, all the liquid in her body streamed to her sex, and she couldn"t voice a word. Her thoughts scattered and fused into one burning realization—this man could steal her secrets and own her heart. Martine stuck her tongue between her upper and lower teeth and bit down hard. As always, pain restarted her non-functioning brain. She searched for a question to put him on the defensive.

“Do you think Delora Ford has more copies of the picture as she claimed?”

Martine asked as she walked over to him, her movements slow and deliberate in direct opposition to the alarm bubbling and boiling in her veins.

“I know she did,” Harry answered. “What she doesn"t know yet is that we relieved her of everything.”

“Merde,” she gasped and pinched her lips together hastily in a futile effort to keep the bolt of panic sparking her nerves into a frenzy from showing on her face.

She halted at his side, relaxed her mouth, and gathered her hands over her belly.

A knowing devilish smirk captured Harry"s lips. “C"mere.” His hands firmed around her waist; he sat up and tugged her onto his lap. He kissed the tip of her nose. She inhaled softly, not wanting him to know how his tangy aftershave and his spicy male scent calmed the pulse hammering at the base of both wrists.

“Don"t worry.” His thumb smoothed the frown she hadn"t realized she wore.

“We destroyed every single picture. Casmir"s army managed to get rid of all he cell phones. That kid could teach a veteran spy a few tricks.”

“I—”
Merde, I almost said I know.

Martine stared at his beautiful fingers, long and slender and the color of ripe walnuts, the nails short but shiny. Lifting her chin she continued, “I must say a prayer of thanks next mass.”

“You"re Catholic?”

“Yes.”

I must speak only in English so I make no mistakes.

“Aren"t you going to ask me what religion I am?” Harry raised his hand and tucked a curl behind her hair.

“Are such questions in the contract?” Martine met his stare directly.

His gaze narrowed, the white creases disappeared from the three lines bracketing his eyes, and those full, sinful lips flattened. “Ground rules. We"re married. Man and wife. For a minimum of ten months unless you got a bun in the oven last night—oh hell, I mean unless you conceived last night.”

“I"m not an idiot.” She folded her arms. “I understood your bun reference.”

“Don"t lie to me, Martine. I"ve learned in the last twenty-four or so hours that when you don"t understand a phrase, you make your face go blank.”

Shock must have showed on her supposedly blank face, for he continued. “Not to worry, Martine. It"s a subtle thing, and I"m durned sure no one else notices.”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

55

Martine sank her eyelids to half-mast and concentrated on the curve of his chin.

How can this be? I fooled the nuns, the priests, even the gypsies. Is he seeing
something in my features even now?

“And you"re having some sort of internal panic attack right now,” he said.

It took every ounce of strength she had not to flinch, not to wring the hands clasped in her lap, not to shove off him and sprint until she had no breath left, until her legs collapsed.

“I have your back, remember? You don"t have to be afraid anymore.” His lips brushed her temple, and he said, “My mama was born Catholic, but she converted to Southern Baptist before she married my daddy. He was the son of a preacher.

Why do you smell of honeysuckle and lemons?”