Carnal in Cannes (17 page)

“Damned if I know.” He cocked his head to the right and stroked his chin with a thumb and index finger. “I never considered how hard it must be to learn the idiosyncrasies of the English language, far less the bastardized Texas version. I"d promise not to use any more good-ole-boy sayings, but I get too much of a chuckle out of watching you try to puzzle them out.”

Martine had to clamp her teeth together to resist the temptation to stick her tongue out at him.
Don’t I have enough to worry about? Now I must be more
confused because you think it’s funny?

She glared at him, and he winked and grinned, showing off the dimples in his cheeks that made her spine tingle. He nudged her hip, brushing his thigh along the curve of her legs.

“Scoot to the middle,” he coaxed, inserting his hand under her midback and shifting her to the center of the bed. He sat up, bringing her with him, and fluffed her pillows and his, and then he stretched and shifted both of them so she laid her cheek on his chest and spooned him sideways. “Comfy?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The regular outbursts of laughter and ribald shouts interspersed with the whine of scooters racing down the ancient cobblestoned alleys of Marseille had receded during their lovemaking. Early-morning tide changes set the
Glory
into the side-to-side rocking motion of a baby"s cradle.

“Have you any idea of where you want to live?” Harry asked as he twirled a lock of her hair around one finger. “I"m not partial to any one city or place.”

I am too scared to let myself dream.

“How can you buy a home? I thought you had to have the heir first before you got the money,” she replied, unable to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

His hard chest broadcasted heat, and her palm, resting under the oak-hued swirls of hair dusting his taupe nipple, tingled. Her nipples, three times the size of his and a couple shades darker, grazed his rib cage, and she marveled at their differences.

“My mother left me a sizable trust fund, and I"ve been working for years. I"ve a considerable nest egg. Not a fortune compared to what I"ll inherit, but enough to 82

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buy a home for you and my son or daughter. Enough for you to live a comfortable life.” His palm cupped her jaw and tilted her head back so their eyes met. “And just so you know, if you don"t choose the place, I"ll buy it on my own in your name.”

“You will?” She wanted to swallow the squeaked question.

“Yeah. You"re my wife, and I"ve discovered I intend to take care of you.” Two fingers rubbed the bridge of her nose. “And my kid. On that note, country or city?”

“I should like to live near a good school.” Martine spoke the words slowly, her heart beating so loudly and so hard she feared the organ would escape the confines of her body. “A very, very good school.”

“You want to go to college?”

If only
. For the second time in less than an hour, Martine fought back tears, and she forced her lips to curve to try and distract him. “Non. I want the child to have the best schooling. The best.”

“You"re going to be one terrific mama,” he said, stroking the side of her neck. “I called a few friends this afternoon and got a couple of recommendations for Realtors. We"re meeting with one tomorrow. First thing we"ll put at the top of the priority list will be the best school districts.”

“I will never be able to thank you enough,” Martine murmured, and her voice shook on the last three words.
I’m beginning to believe in your promises. Lord help
me to be stronger. Help me resist your magic.

“You"re beat,” he said. “Close those gorgeous eyes and get some shut-eye.”

She rested the side of her cheek in the nook between shoulder and clavicle.

Obediently lowering her lids, she wriggled, trying to get comfortable, listening to the sheets rustling with each surreptitious move. Outside the wind whistled as if blowing through a narrow alley bordered by tall buildings. The
Glory
swung in a wide arc, dipping and rising as the mistral"s strength surged. The cuffs of the sea and the yacht"s splashed impact wove a rhythmic lullaby through the stateroom.

A hypnotic drowsiness turned Martine"s eyelids to leaden weights and her bones to limp noodles. Harry tucked her closer—one arm around her shoulder and the other claiming the hip bent over his groin. His hand stroked her spine, the large palm gently caressing her back echoing the cadence of the
Glory’s
troughs and crests.

The vision of a little cottage on a hill surrounded by a small garden diffused the images of Grand-mère frail and near death, soothed the nightmares that plagued her after the message from Mother Supérieure about the desperate need for Martine to send medicine.

In the garden a toddler stumbled and gathered white daisies, fuchsia bougainvillea florets, and white-speckled green ivy spirals into chubby little fingers, her high-pitched chortle showcasing one perfect tooth. A daughter. She snuggled closer, tucking her fists under her chin. She fell asleep adding rooms to the dream dwelling.

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

83

* * *

Harry grunted and hugged her closer. Accustomed to waking at the slightest belch or snore, she inched her head higher, but he seemed fast asleep.

One eyelid opened, and he peered down at her. “Remind me to switch that damned thing off as soon as we step through the door,” he grumbled. “Mornin".” He brushed his lips to the middle of her forehead.

“Harry, I need you on deck.” The intercom went silent for a second. “Pronto.”

“Shit.” Harry untangled their entwined limbs and sat up, squishing the pillows against the bookshelf headboard.

Martine rolled onto her back, her vision blurred, and she blinked. The Bandoleer"s optician had told her she risked infection if she slept with the contacts in.

“Your eyes are all dreamy.” Harry reached over to buss her on the lips. “Go back to sleep. I"ll bring back breakfast when I"m done with Austen.”

“I can cook,” Martine protested, blinking rapidly. Her fingers itched to pop the lenses out and relieve the scratchiness. “I am no slug-a-bed.”

“Slug-a-bed?” he repeated. “Were your nuns from eighteenth-century London?

First child of my loins, now this.” He gave a little shake of his head. “Go back to sleep, and that"s an order.”

Her eyes hooded, she watched him dress and leave. As soon as the door clicked shut, Martine eased out of bed, her movements hurried and sleep-fuddled clumsy.

She knocked a vase on the table to the rug below, the thud sounding like an ambulance"s alarm to her ears. She set the tubular porcelain back in place. Her itching eyes glued to the door, she counted seconds.

Her lungs started functioning when the door remained closed at fifteen seconds. A fog crept across one contact, and she pulled the eyelid down over her lashes as the optician had taught her. Nothing.

“Merde,” she muttered and rushed to the bathroom, shuffled through her supplies, and found the cosmetic cloth case. Keeping up a running count, she fumbled and fumbled, trying to scoop the lens between forefinger and thumb, all the while cursing in English, French, and Creole. Sweating even through the morning chill and the remnants of the mistral"s iciness, she finally managed to pop the offending contact into a cupped palm.

Seven minutes.

Shaky fingers deposited the lens into the corresponding L and R case; she twisted the cases shut, and as she turned to race back into the room, Martine caught the reflection of her back in the mirror out of the corner of her eye. The obscene whip welts had healed, but the scarred flesh had never regained full pigment and remained pinkish white and slightly raised.

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The top she"d so bravely discarded the night before hung from a hook on the back of the door. Needing to hide her ugliness, Martine shrugged into the silk blouse. One button hung loosely at her midriff, and she poked the pearl through the corresponding hole.

“Imbécile,” she spat. “Wasting precious time.”

Yesterday her hiding place for the precious documents and the digital camera had been hastily chosen, but Harry"s curiosity about the contents of her suitcase had forced her to be proactive. Always hide in plain sight; she"d learned that trick from the months working for Jean-Claude Fournier, the aide to Port-au-Prince"s chief of police.

Retrieving the forged birth certificate and the folded brown envelope from under the pile of laundry in a basket in the bathroom, she stood in the doorway, her gaze sweeping the room. Where to hide the damning evidence? All the furniture had been anchored to the floor, so no crawl spaces were available. Not the dresser drawers, not the closet… The pulse at her temple banged against her skull as she discarded one idea after another, and the sun"s rays lengthened and lifted dawn"s shadows from the sitting area leading to the balcony.

Under the mattress? Too obvious.

Her bedside table? Too risky.

A cold sweat coated her flesh when she heard the muted sound of two men conversing and recognized Harry"s and Austen"s voices.

Vite, vite
, quick, quick, think, think.

The voices grew louder, closer.

Her mind refused to operate.

She ran to the dresser, knelt, and pulled open the drawer she had appropriated. Folding the envelope in half so it would fit under her jeans, she checked her clothing and sucked in a gasp. One undergarment lay slightly askew.

Harry had been searching her belongings.

“We"ll head back to Cannes after Martine and I get back from our noon meeting.”

Merde, he is at the door.

“Anything you want to pass on to Yvonne about Martine?”

Austen"s question jumbled her thoughts even more.

Yvonne?

“Tell Yvonne not to go to town on her. No fancy stuff yet.”

“Will do.”

Just as she remembered Austen speaking about Yvonne bringing dinner, the door opened and Harry stepped in, briefly looked her way; then his head twisted right only to whip back in her direction. He halted, his hand on the doorknob, his eyes glued to her hands.

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

85

Chapter Nine

“So? What"s up? Why the hasty meeting?” Suresh asked as he broke off a piece of a crusty roll and dabbed at the tomato sauce surrounding the last morsel of egg on his plate.

“I need info,” Harry answered. “And you"re the go-to guy for info.”

His hunger appeased by an excellent bacon, gruyere cheese, and chanterelle omelet, Harry"s mind turned to a need he hadn"t been able to satisfy this morning.

St. Pete had been in a roaring erected state when Austen had interrupted Harry"s predawn fantasy.

And his aching erection hadn"t been helped when he"d returned to the stateroom and caught his wife with the most delectable bra and pantie set in her hands. The expression on his face must have told her what he wanted, for she"d gone all pink and flustered and high-tailed it to the bathroom, leaving him standing in the middle of the room with a Guinness-record boner.

Austen had paged him again, and it took Harry five minutes to settle the small matter of dockage fees. Then he"d sneaked into the bathroom intending on a prolonged shower and cleaning every inch of Martine"s luscious skin. But the sight of his wife stretching on tiptoes, face turned up under a blast of steam and spray, arching her back, and singing some French ditty he didn"t recognize had him grinning like a besotted fool. For a few seconds he wondered how much spoiling it would take before Martine felt comfortable enough to take a long shower in his presence. Just as he unbuttoned his jeans, Austen"s voice hailed him again.

All hell had broken loose. The chef had stormed out in a fit of pique because Harry"d refused to authorize the replacement of their coffeemaker with one of his preference. Terry had called from New York to give him an update on his brother"s successful surgery. And by the time he"d finished handling both matters, the only glimpse of his wife he"d managed to catch had been her orgasmic eating of a couple of strawberries while she and Yvonne planned their day in the city over breakfast in the
Glory’s
dining room.

“From that glazed look in your eyes, I assume the honeymoon"s on the right track?” Suresh asked.

If you can count waking up hard as a steel beam two days in a row with your
arms around one woman while fantasizing about another, then sure, the
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honeymoon’s freaking steaming on the tracks to hell
. Harry almost muttered the words aloud.

His wife was an exotic, sensual beauty who rocked his balls. Yet he still woke up with that vision of the waitress from the masquerade party dogging his brain, that alluring glance she"d shot him over her shoulder, his fantasy woman bared from the waist down, those long, long legs encased in black nylons, pink pussy folds exposed by her bent-over stance.

I’m a married man with responsibilities.

With a hot wife I can’t get enough of.

A wife who has secrets.

“Hello, hello, anyone in there?” Suresh snapped his fingers in front of Harry"s nose.

Harry shook his head. “All present and accounted for. However, as the saying goes, Houston, there is a problem,” Harry replied. “Martine"s here illegally. She"s Haitian. I need an immigration lawyer. Know of one?”