French Kiss

by Susan Johnson

  “I’m not completely gullible just because I don’t know movie producers and rock stars,” she asserted. “I didn’t fall off the last turnip truck.”

  “No one’s saying your gullible—or even thinking it. You’re just nice. Hey, there’s Jordi.” He waved at his daughter who was running toward the car, then turned back to Nicky. “So we’re good for a couple of days?” he said, like no one had even mentioned dew fresh or harbored any equivocal feelings. Like life was back to normal.

  “We’re good.” She could do measured and calm, too.

  In a flash, his mouth was against her ear.

  “We’re good in more ways than one,” he whispered. Then reaching for the door handle he shoved the door open. “Hey, baby girl,” he said, greeting his daughter. “Did Vernie tell you we’re going to Nice?”

  The echo of his words sent a warm glow through her body, although, flip side, she was slightly intimidated by the ease with which Johnny Patrick bent the world to his will. She’d never known anyone who could bend even a teeny, tiny part of the world to their will. And now, she was traveling with a man who chartered planes like most people bought BART tickets, who rescued women from gangsters and walked into restaurants and hotels like he owned them. Oh, Christ, look at that. There was all their luggage being wheeled out on the tarmac. “Our luggage!” she blurted out. “Who packed it so fast?”

  He was halfway out of the car, but he paused and glanced back. “The staff at the Castille is efficient. Although,” he added with a grin, “it helps that I know the owner.”

  Of course he did. He fucking knew everybody. Although, that explained the excellent service, Nicky thought, and the excessive courtesy and lack of questions when she checked in. Not to mention, the view of the Eiffel Tower in her room.

  After helping her out, he pulled her close for a second. “Thanks for coming along.”

  “Thanks for asking.” She didn’t have time to say more. Jordi was plucking at her father’s sleeve.

  “Daddy, Daddy! You won’t believe how fast we drove here! It was so much fun! Barry said you were waiting and we had to roll! Didn’t he, Vernie?”

  “We could have raced in the Indy 500,” Vernie noted, her cheeks still slightly flushed from the excitement. “I gather you were in a bit of a hurry.”

  Johnny met her gaze over his daughter’s head. “It seemed like a good idea to leave. I felt like swimming in the sun. How about you, sweetie?” he said, brushing his fingers over his daughter’s curls. “Are you in the mood for a swim on our beach?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Jordi was fidgeting from foot to foot. “Are we going right NOW?”

  “Right this second. You lead the way. Over there where Cole and Barry are standing.”

  “Lisa must have called you at lunch,” Vernie muttered, keeping pace with Johnny and Nicky as they followed Jordi. “I saw your look.”

  “Who else precipitates a crisis wherever she goes.” He grimaced. “But everything’s back on track; Lisa and Chantel are headed for the States. We’re going to wait for the plane to return, so I thought Nice would be as good a place as any to sit it out. You’ll have a couple of days to drink some of that local wine.”

  “Twist my arm,” Vernie said, grinning.

  Johnny chuckled, then glanced at Nicky. “You’ll like the wine. It’s a nice, smooth red.”

  She was figuring there were things in Nice she was going to like better than the wine, but Johnny Patrick’s ego was already more than adequate. “Sounds good,” she said, in lieu of the X-rated comment on the tip of her tongue. “I love red wine.”

  Twenty-five

  She’d seen a villa like Johnny's on TV once. It was on a program about some art collector who’d wanted to live like Monet and Matisse—you know breathe the same air, absorb the same vibe, wallow in the life of an artist without actually doing the work. Not to mention this guy was like ten times richer than either Monet or Matisse—neither of whom had been exactly poor.

  Anyway, it was one helluva villa.

  Not that she begrudged Johnny his wealth.

  He’d worked for it.

  But, jeez, consider how hard it was going to be readjusting to her life once she was home again. A person could get real used to this splendor. Like, having a limo always waiting at the airport or something like this Garden of Eden surrounding your Mediterranean retreat. Splendor aside, though, she was mostly going to miss the surprisingly down-to-earth guy who’d just whispered in her ear before they’d gotten out of the car, “I’m glad you’re here. I haven’t felt this good in ages.”

  Not that she’d had time to do more than smile in return before they were greeted by a young woman wearing a hand-dyed sundress and sandals, who’d been waiting on the broad marble steps.

  “Claire, I’d like you to meet Nicky. Nicky, this is Claire who’s nice enough to put up with our erratic schedule.” Johnny smiled. “I apologize for the short notice. Things came up at the last minute.”

  “We’re pleased to see you anytime,” the young woman replied in slightly accented English. “Marie’s at the beach, but I told her I’d send for her the minute you arrive. She’s thrilled Jordi’s going to be here.”

  “I’m going down to the beach right now,” Jordi announced as she came around the car. “Is that okay, Daddy? Pleeease! Vernie’ll come with me, won’t you?”

  Johnny looked at Vernie.

  “Sure, kiddo.” Vernie handed her purse to Johnny. “Send down some of that red wine when you get a chance,” she added. “And my big hat”—she smiled—“and I wouldn’t mind a snack.” Johnny glanced at Claire. “I’ll get the hat, if you get the other stuff.” He looked at Vernie again. “We’ll be down in a minute. I just want to show Nicky her room.”

  “Andre will bring Vernie her things,” Claire offered, with a smile for Johnny. “And we’re having bouillabaisse for dinner, Vernie,” she added, “so save your appetite.”

  Vernie grinned. “I must have died and gone to heaven. I don’t suppose we’re having Le Vacherin for dessert.”

  Claire laughed. “But, of course.”

  “I don’t know why you can’t set up your studio here,” Vernie challenged. “Think how much work you’d get done without interruptions.”

  “Think how hard it would be to get anyone to work out here with all the distractions—topless beaches, great bars, great wines,” Johnny noted, smiling faintly.

  “Sure, rain on my parade.”

  “Ver-nee! Let’s go! I want to see Marie!” Jordi insisted, pulling on Vernie’s hand. “Daddy, stop talking to her!”

  “Okay, okay, we’re going.” The nanny winked at Johnny. “Just think about it, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Will do. See you in five.” He turned to Claire. “Nicky’s in Victoria’s room, right?”

  “Yes. All is ready.”

  “Victoria’s room?” Nicky murmured, thinking it can’t be.

  “Queen Victoria used to spend some time here.”

  His voice was so casual he could have been remarking on the weather. “Do you mean to tell me this is Queen Victoria’s place?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “But it had been.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ohmygod! I’m going to be able to dine on this for-ever.”

  “It’s not that big a deal. She only came here around Easter each year. And that was a helluva long time ago.”

  What could she say? She wasn’t going to argue with him about time limits on historical personages. She wasn’t going to say, Does anyone complain about sleeping in the Lincoln bedroom in the White House because the guys been dead for over a hundred years? “I suppose you’re right,” she said, polite as hell.

  “I’ll show you the layout, and then we’ll go down to the beach.”

  Claire nodded at their luggage. “Andre will carry your bags in after he brings Vernie her wine.”

  “I can carry my own bag,” Nicky said. “Really, it’s not a problem.” Vinnie, Cole, and Barry had gone ah
ead in another car. Not that she needed them to shlep her luggage anyway.

  “We’ll bring them in ourselves,” Johnny agreed, smoothly. “Thank you, Claire.”

  “I’ll see you at dinner, then.” The housekeeper met her employer’s gaze. “Seven or eight?”

  “Better make it seven.” He handed her Vernie’s purse. “Jordi gets hungry early.”

  As Johnny led Nicky through the palatial hallways and corridors, she inhaled the atmosphere of former royalty. Like really, who would have thought she’d be sleeping in Queen Victoria’s bedroom! Never in her wildest dreams. Not that her dreams ever involved Queen Victoria, but the sheer grandeur of the idea was mind-boggling!

  Since Johnny was carrying both their bags, when he stopped, nodded his head, and said, “That one,” she found herself standing before a door that clearly was meant for queenly access. She’d never seen so much gilt and inlaid wood and carved marble in her life—at least not outside a museum. Even the door handle looked like—“Is this gold?” she blurted out.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Jeez, he hadn’t said no. Should she touch it?

  “Want me to get it?”

  “Huh.” Coming out of her trance, she gave him a blank look.

  “The door.” He lifted his hands holding their bags.

  “Sorry.” Grabbing the ornate handle shaped like some fish, she pressed down, shoved the door open, and immediately came to a standstill. The entire facing wall was floor-to-ceiling glass doors, framing a breathtaking view of the azure Mediterranean sparkling in the sun. “Wow,” she whispered.

  “I thought you might like this room,” Johnny said.

  It took her a moment to absorb the vast understatement and another moment to find the breath to speak. “It’s awesome.”

  “We can have coffee or drinks on the balcony later if you like.”

  This was another of those pinch-me moments. She was in this authentic royal villa with People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive all because she happened to design tree houses. What were the odds of that happening? Then again, who was she to question good karma? “Drinks or coffee on the balcony sounds super,” she said, as though such choices were offered to her every day of the week.

  “We’ll tell Claire later.” He lifted his brows. “Do you want to go inside?”

  “Sure,” she quickly said, as though she’d not been doing the deer-in-the-headlights thing. Shit. Maybe she was dew-fresh after all. Taking a few steps into the sunlit room, her feet sinking into a pale, flowered carpet that was obviously custom-made for the space, she wasn’t entirely sure she actually dared touch anything. The furniture was delicate rococo—built on a smaller than usual scale. But then Victoria had been really short. Even the canopied bed wasn’t huge as beds went, although it was plenty big enough, she noted thankfully—a host of highly hopeful plans for the night on her agenda.

  “I’ll set your bag here,” Johnny said, placing her carry-on atop a nearby marble table. “Are you okay?”

  She hadn’t stirred, lost in her survey of the spectacular room as well as in her reflections on the night ahead. “I’m fine,” she answered, jettisoning her more lurid thoughts to concentrate on the present. “I have a question, though. Do you actually sleep in here?”

  He shook his head. “I usually sleep in a terrace bedroom downstairs. It’s easier to go outside from there. And it’s closer to Jordi’s room. She likes to be by the pool.”

  Uncertain after his answer, she debated whether she should voice her thoughts. Then, what the hell, she thought—screw politesse. She had plans for Queen Victoria’s room. “So—are you staying here tonight or what?”

  He smiled. “Unless you kick me out, I am.”

  She smiled, her world all rosy pink again. “No chance of that.”

  “Perfect. Although, I have to wait until after Jordi falls asleep. When she’s around, I mind my manners.”

  His concern for his daughter only added to his sexiness. Although, maybe everything about him was sexy. From the way he took charge to the way he frigging stirred sugar into his coffee was a major aphrodisiac. “Not a problem,” she said. “I can wait.”

  He checked his watch. “It’s a goddamn problem for me, but I don’t have a choice. So let’s get out of here and go down to the beach. I gotta keep busy, or I’m going to jump you. Do you feel like a swim?”

  She pretty much felt like doing whatever he wanted to do. She was in way, way too deep—when she’d only been around him a few days. When she knew it would be the height of stupidity to even consider falling for Johnny Patrick with his dismal track record of serial sexual encounters with the beauties of the world. “A swim’s appealing,” she said, blithely ignoring all the female skeletons in his closet. “But I don’t have a suit.”

  “Jesus.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t need that picture in my head.”

  “Okay, so I’ll keep my clothes on and just sit on the beach.”

  “Nah. That’s crazy when the water’s so great. I’ll rein myself in and behave. I have to anyway with Jordi around. We’ll have Claire find you a suit.”

  “Okey, dokey.” Why shouldn’t she take advantage of this little slice of paradise? She probably wouldn’t ever be passing this way again.

  “Damn, you’re cute,” he murmured, ruffling her hair.

  “And you turn me on pretty much nonstop.”

  “Same here.” His voice was ultrasoft.

  She took a deep breath. “We probably should talk about something else.”

  “No shit.” He brushed by her. “Let’s go find you a suit.”

  Twenty-six

  Nicky had chosen the only one-piece suit in the wardrobe of skimpy bikinis she’d been offered. She intended to do a few laps. As for the other women who may have enjoyed this beach before, she was guessing most of them weren’t there to swim.

  As Johnny led her down the stairway to the beach, he warned her, “I’m so horny, I’ll embarrass myself if I see you in a swimsuit. Do me a favor and keep that shirt on until I hit the water.”

  “I’d have appreciated the same option, dude.” He looked back over his shoulder, his brows lifted in surprise. “That European suit isn’t exactly constructed for the prudish.” He wore a skimpy black suit that rested low on his hips and displayed his gorgeous broad-shouldered, muscled body to the max.

  “Sorry. I don’t have anything else here. How about I keep my back to you.”

  “I’m not sure that’s any better.”

  He dropped her hand. “Christ, talk about something else. I’m barely holding it together.”

  “Nice day if it doesn’t rain.”

  “How’s your stock portfolio doing?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  “Me neither. And now I’m out of conversation.” All he could think about was fucking her, the part of his brain still functioning around that overriding thought operating at minimal levels.

  “I like U2 a lot.”

  He flashed her a grin. “If only men could multitask as well as women.”

  “It’s a gift,” she said. “I’m undressing you with the rest of my brain.”

  “Jesus, stop,” he muttered. “This hard-on is getting impossible to hide.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah,” he said on a suffocated breath. “Me, too. Mostly that it’s four o’clock instead of ten. Okay, babe, we’ve got company coming into range.”

  She only had time for one last look as they reached the bottom of the stairs. Lordy, Lordy, those were buns of steel, his shoulders like a stevedore’s, and she didn’t even dare think of the front of him. That she knew was hard as steel.

  “We have to behave now,” he murmured, standing on the sand waiting for her. He waved at Jordi and Marie who were swinging their arms like semaphores from a distant man-made grotto midway up the rough escarpment bordering the private cove.

  “I’ll behave, if you will.”

  “Shit,” he said. “I was counting on you to set an example for me.”
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  “I’m not sure I can promise that,” she breathed, her insubordinate gaze on the tantalizing bulge in his swim suit.

  “Hey, eyes forward. Vernie’s watching us.”

  Her gaze flashed up, Vernie’s command and control an effective deterrent.

  “Hey, Vernie!” Johnny shouted. “We’re going for a swim first!”

  Vernie waved in acknowledgment from her seat inside a striped cabana that was fortunately a football field away.

  “Race you to the water,” Johnny said, and driven by necessity, he sprinted for the safety of the sea. Finally stopping waist-deep, he turned to watch as Nicky removed her long shirt and walked toward the water.

  He was reminded of that classic scene from 10 with Bo Derek. Nicky even walked with the same fluid grace, her body supple and fit. As she smiled at him, he suddenly felt as though the subtlest shift in his universe had occurred. Nothing big—more like he was experiencing a new appreciation for life. Or maybe just a specific appreciation for one particular woman with long, slender legs, trim hips, a narrow waist, and fucking great tits. The kind of appreciation any normal, horny male would feel.

  Not that he had to have more than the usual reason for liking her, but he also liked the fact that she’d chosen a functional suit. It set her apart from the women who were more interested in their decorative role around a pool. Not that the figure-hugging suit was purely functional. It was frigging turning him on, and first chance he had he was stripping it off.

  Which, unfortunately, wouldn’t be real soon. He groaned.

  Maybe he should swim far enough out to take the edge off his lust. Perhaps strenuous exercise would calm the savage beast in him.

  Good idea, his voice of reason agreed. “I’m going to swim out a ways. Be back in a while,” he called out to her.

  “I’ll come with,” she shouted. Already knee-deep, she dove in, and coming up a few seconds later, she moved into a smooth crawl.