Carnal in Cannes (15 page)

“Non. No. Your coat is very warm.” She gifted him with a half smile.

“Where do you want to live, Martine? Here in Marseille? Cannes? Monaco?”

His senses went on alert, searching for the first hint of her reaction. “Maybe in the country?”

Her eyes widened ever so slightly. “
Je ne comprende pas
. I don"t understand.

We are not living on the
Glory
?”

“We have just one cramped bedroom on the
Glory
. Wouldn"t you prefer to have an apartment or a house in the country?”

She frowned; her fingers clutched one jacket lapel tightly. “We will rent a place for a year?”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

71

“I"m going to buy you a place to live for as long as you want. The place will be yours no matter what happens between us, and the property will be yours free and clear.”

Her mouth opened and closed, and she looked more horrified than thrilled.

“I"m also going to set up a trust for you and the baby. More than enough for you to live on.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to speak. “And no, none of what I'm saying impacts he money we originally agreed upon. You"ll get your million euros.”

Harry could have sworn on a stack of bibles that she was dismayed. She blinked, her mouth twitched, and she wrung the hands she"d folded in her lap. She bent her head, seemingly fascinated by the thin green weeds poking through a seam in the cement slab the bench was mounted on, her toes curled into the leather sandal sole. Finally when he despaired she"d retreat into her mask, she bit her bottom lip, wrenched her head up, and blurted, “Why?”

“You"re going to be the mother of my child. I want my kid to grow up comfortably. I don"t want you worrying about expenses.” He tangled a strand of her silky hair around his forefinger. “And while we"ve known each other only a couple of days, I reckon you"re going to want to be home while the kid"s young. I have a feeling you"re going to be a very overprotective mom.”

Her complexion took on a grayish hue, and she spread a palm over her belly and stared at her fingers. “And what of you, Harry? Will you never see your child?”

The child had occupied his mind since last night. The notion of her raising his son or daughter without him had soured his mood. The last vestiges of his go-with-the-flow persona had vaporized at the notion.

He covered her hand with his and muttered a curse at the icy chill of her skin.

“You"re freezing. Come on,” he said, hauling her off the bench. “The restaurant"s a few minutes away. Let"s get you inside and warm.”

Less than seven minutes later, Harry hustled Martine through the open doors of L"Epuisette, his and Suresh's favorite haunt. A half circle of floor-to-ceiling glass doors framed a serene Mediterranean dappled with the winking lights of boats moored to an L-shaped wooden jetty. A mottled onyx and stone bridge with yellow arches shone surreally in the dimming evening light.

“C"est—it is beautiful,” Martine whispered when Harry halted at the reservation desk.

Rubbing her hands between his and feeling warmth seep back into her fingers, he glanced at the deserted room. “And the food is incredible.”

“I do not think they are open, Harry.”

“Don"t worry. The owner"s a buddy. No one"s going to kick us out.”

Extracting one hand from his, Martine pointed at the bridge. “Look how the lights from the docks make the arches look like spun gold.”

At that second a tall, thin man with a shock of salt-and-pepper hair spiked at odd angles jogged into the room. “We are not—” He skidded to a halt, his pointed 72

Jianne Carlo

black shoes squeaking on the stone floor. “Harry! And this is the wife! Mon Dieu.

Quelle beauté
.” The man kissed his fingertips. ”How do you do it?”

“Martine, meet Guillaume, owner and chief cook and bottle washer.”

Guillaume bowed, captured Martine"s hand, and brushed his lips over the backs of her fingers. “
Enchanté
, Madame. Should you ever tire of this blackguard of a friend, I will be waiting.”

“So will your wife. She"s liable to cut your throat,” Harry retorted.

“Where"s Suresh?” Guillaume"s gray eyes cut to the restaurant"s entrance.

“Had a change of plans. Some sort of business crisis.”

Martine"s gaze snapped to him.

“He phoned while I was dressing.” Harry answered her unasked question.

“Ah, the romantic dinner, non? With the best food in France.” Guillaume kissed his fingertips. “I will send out Philippe to care for you.”

Philippe seated them opposite each other at a secluded round table with a spectacular view of the Mediterranean. “Guillaume wishes to know if you are choosing the wines tonight.”

“Do you have any preferences?” Harry asked, though he knew her answer.

“No. Whatever you decide will be fine.” The tip of her tongue snaked out to wet the corner of her mouth.

“You choose, Philippe.” Harry waited until the man strolled out of hearing distance. “I know the menu well. Do you want any recommendations?”

“Please,” she replied, her gaze fixed on the printed list of courses.

“I remember you said you had no allergies. What"s your favorite food besides coconut ice cream?”

“Chocolat,” she replied, not missing a beat.

Harry chuckled. A passing waiter lit the candles on their and neighboring tables, and a simmering radiance reflected off the windows and in the glasslike surface of the canal. It reminded him of the light in the room the night of the masquerade ball in Grasse. From under her lashes Martine"s black eyes peeped up at him, and the similarity between her and the woman in the maid"s uniform dissipated. St. Pete did a slow two-step, and Harry didn"t know which woman he hardened for, Martine or the maid. Guilt set him to babbling.

“So I married a chocoholic,” he muttered. “Tell me more. Do you prefer meat to seafood? Pork to chicken? What vegetables do you like? Which ones do you hate?”

“I…I like all food. What is your favorite, Harrison?”

She had her hands folded in her lap again, a sure sign of her mask descending.

“I grew up in Texas, sugar. A great big thick, juicy bone-in rib eye slab"s my favorite.” He grinned at her. “Medium rare, of course.”

Philippe sauntered in their direction carrying two white triangular plates.

“The amuse bouche. These are toast points with grilled salt cod topped with roe and Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

73

dressed in a
pistou
sauce.” He waved a hand at the porcelain in front of them.

“Guillaume wishes to know if he should prepare a tasting menu for the two of you.

Think on it as you enjoy your cod caviar.”

Harry noticed that Martine waited for him to pick up his cutlery, and then she imitated his actions, though her hands jerked a couple of times. She snagged her bottom lip with her tooth when the sterling tinkled on the china.

They settled on the tasting menu. Martine barely consumed a glass of wine for the entire five courses, but she ate every morsel on every plate. With each successive bite she wore that heavy-lidded expression of ecstasy from their wedding night. By the end of the meal, St. Pete was near to rioting against the boxers Harry wore. The khakis grew more uncomfortable, and damned if he barely kept himself in check during dessert when she ate a chocolate-covered biscuit with a red filling, drops of which dotted her plump lower lip tantalizingly.

They took a taxi to the yacht, and he had them in his quarters before Martine could blink. She did a graceful pirouette, arms flung wide, spinning on one foot and lifting her face to his. “Merci, Harry. Thank you. Thank you. Never have I had such a wonderful meal.” She hugged herself. “I will treasure this night always.”

“So will I.” And he meant every word. “Come with me, Mrs. Ford.” He crooked a finger.

She took two steps forward, set her palms on his chest, and their gazes fastened. “Is it now that we play your Blind Man"s game?”

He almost fell over his own feet he laughed so hard. “Have you been thinking about it all evening?” he asked, using the back of a hand to swipe the moisture from his cheek.

“Austen said you bluff in poker. I did not know this term. But it is like a dare, non?” She"d taken a seat on the mattress and shed her sandals. Her big toe traced the curves of the paisley pattern in the rug by the bed. “But where do we find the blind man? And who is nekkid?”

Harry didn"t know whether to laugh or cry, but he didn"t want to shatter their fragile camaraderie, so he worked up a smile to soften his words. “I"d lay Powerball odds you"re an orphan.”

“I can prove you wrong,” she said.

Harry mirth disappeared when she imitated Delora"s voice, accent, and intonation perfectly.
Probably a fluke
. “Do that again.”

A smile played with the corners of her lips, and she shot him a sideswipe.

“Don"t for a second think smashing my cell… I have plenty of backups of that picture,” she said, all in Delora"s voice.

That sniper-in-the-vicinity dread raked the hairs on his forearms. “Jesus. I never know what to expect from you.” He strode to the bed and sat next to her, choking back the sourness filling his mouth. “Can you do other voices?”

“You are angry with me.” She shrank away, shuffling her feet in the direction of the headboard.

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Jianne Carlo

Harry changed his tactics. “I take it you"ve never played Blind Man"s Bluff?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Harry explained the game to her between kisses and stripping off her skirt, thong, and bra, leaving her blouse on but loosened to bare her breasts. When they were both hot and bothered, he retrieved a tie from the closet and wrapped the red strip of silk around her palm.

“Tie it around my eyes,” he ordered.

When she had him good and truly trussed, he swung into a horizontal position, rested his head in his hands, and said, “Rule number one. You get to do anything you want. Have anything you want. Stop anytime you want. It"s all about you. The goal of the game is to identify whatever you"re holding or touching or kissing.”

Harry made a mental note to remember to tell Austen the new rules of the game.

“And rule number two?”

“I get a turn after you.”

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75

Chapter Eight

Martine couldn"t remember ever feeling like this—giddy and delirious, alive and free. All during dinner she went over his every word on the bench—the promise of a house, money each month, security.

Do you mean this, Harrison Indiana Ford?

A miniscule part of her yearned to forget all the lessons she"d learned about men, to erase the past and believe in him. The other part, the part that ruled, called her the worst sort of mark.

She sat on her haunches, all too conscious of Harry naked on the bed, of her nudity, and the ugly scars on her back.

“We don"t have to do this if you don"t want to, Martine,” Harry said, and he turned his head on the pillow, easily pinpointing her direction despite the blindfold.

“Tell me what you want.”

Working up the courage to answer, she inhaled the aromas of the candles, a cleansing ginseng fragrance, and on her exhale she skittered closer and brushed her lips on the cusp of his shoulder. Admiring his bulging muscles, the sharp indentation midarm to his elbow, she ran her fingers down his warm flesh. The nuns avoided all mention of body parts and workings, and she"d reached adulthood aware mainly of how coupling occurred.

“What is this muscle, Harry?” She squeezed the thickest part of his arm.

For a few seconds he didn"t answer, and her stomach went all jittery.

“That"s the deltoid. Feels good when you do that.”

“You have beautiful shoulders, strong, and I can see where each muscle begins and ends.” She bent to kiss a taut spot near the crook of his neck. “And this?” Her exhale sifted a lock of warm brown hair curling around a vein that went all the way to his ear. Unable to resist she traced the throbbing vessel, nuzzling the damp flesh cording his throat.

“Trapezius,” he replied, his voice low and husky.

“I know these,” she said, placing her palms flat on his chest. “Pectorals. Men are so different here from women.”

“Praise the Lord almighty,” Harry muttered.

“So strong,” she murmured, fingering a ridged groove of flesh extending from the middle of his torso. “This is the six-pack, non? Three here and three on the other side. This one lower than its mate.”

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On impulse she leaned over and used the tip of her tongue to trace each grove.

Harry intoxicated her senses. She grew drunk on his now familiar Harry fragrance—soap, the CK aftershave she"d discovered in the bathroom, and a spiciness all his own. Her ears filled with his each rasped inhale, each muffled grunt, and the occasional hiss when she hit a sensitive spot.

Her tongue absorbed the slight musk and salt in the taste of him, and she closed her eyes to savor his flavor and smell, hoping she"d always be able to conjure the aroma after their year ended. She laid her cheek to his belly and ran a finger around the rim of his navel. A film of sweat coated his skin there, making the ridges outlining his six-pack glisten.

Flesh slapped on flesh, and Martine angled her head to his sex, all swollen and red, the head shiny and coated with clear moisture. She sniffed and discovered his musky spiciness came from here, from his cock.

“And this?” She brushed her index finger over the crown. “What is this called?”

“The glans,” he growled. “Martine, I"m dying here.”

She glanced up. His jaw clenched, his nostrils widened, he seemed to be grinding his teeth, and he had the covers clenched so tightly between his fingers she expected the cotton to shred any moment. Martine lifted her cheek off his groin, but his palm pressed her back down.