She gave a bark of surprised laughter. He obviously was attempting to draw her out of her apparently upsetting memories with his scandalous suggestion.
“Was it that obvious?” she asked.
“I don’t like to see you upset.”
“Are you joking about the skinny-dipping?” She added an eyeroll before her gaze darted to Jules and Georges standing in the wheelhouse. Gaily, they both waved.
“Nope.” Edward shrugged, mischievously, but an inner beam lit his gaze.
She acknowledged the other men’s waves and then glared at Edward. “Neither am I joking. My answer to your question is an absolute no!”
“It was worth a try.”
“Don’t tell me you actually thought I’d agree.”
“No, I didn’t. If anything, you’re proving to me what kind of woman you are.”
“And what kind is that?”
“A woman of integrity. A woman I admire more each day.”
Before she could reply, he shrugged off his T-shirt and pulled his phone from the pocket of his trunks, placing them both on a lounge chair. Then he grabbed the pull buoy Georges had supplied, smoothed a kiss on her temple and climbed down the swim ladder.
“I swim like a Spanish mackerel and I’ll be right back,” he said.
“What kind of fish is a Spanish mackerel?”
“A fast one.”
“What about your ankle?”
“The pull buoy will support my legs and I’ll use my arms. This isn’t a workout. It’s purely recreational.”
With that, he eased into the crystal-clear depths of the Mediterranean, positioned the pull buoy between his knees, and swam the freestyle stroke. The cool splashes on her feet were a welcome relief from the heat, and someday, she pledged, she’d learn how to swim.
Drawing the line at skinny-dipping, though.
When Edward swam back to the boat, he toweled off, playfully shaking his hair so that drops of water sprayed her.
Perspiration trickled down her arms. The day was hot, the sun was high. Finally, heat won over modesty, and she yanked off her straw hat and coverup. Her bikini—a white scalloped top and flirty black bottom featuring dangling ties—showed off her slim figure. The saleswoman at the gift shop had assured Maeve the bikini was simple and chic.
“Wow.” Edward dropped his towel and gave a low whistle. “You’re stunning, luv.” He hesitated, seeming to grope for words. “Are you aware you’re drop-dead gorgeous?”
When she started to protest, he caught his arm around her waist. As he pulled her close, his wet bare skin brushed against hers. He didn’t try to kiss her, simply holding her as they stood by the railing. Together they admired the craggy peaks of les Calanche Cliffs breaking against the azure skyline.
“Do you approve of my swimsuit?” Suddenly shy, she couldn’t quite meet his gaze.
“I love everything about you. Surely you must know that by now.” He smiled at her. This rising heat in his cheeks was more than sunburn, and a smoldering desire darkened his eyes to a deep forest-green.
“I couldn’t find a one-piece swimsuit in my size,” she said.
He brushed a soft kiss against her lips. “Exceedingly good fortune for me and every other male on this island.”
Georges came back out on deck to raise the anchor, and Jules navigated the boat into a cove that offered dappled shade and a waterfall gushing from a mountain. After Georges dropped the anchor again, Jules came out of the wheelhouse and eyed Maeve appreciatively.
“Tu es belle, mademoiselle.”
“Merci.” Her cheeks were most likely scarlet by now, and she caught Edward frowning at Jules.
“Georges and I are grabbing an afternoon snack before we go back to the harbor,” Jules said, snagging another bottle of water.
“Take your time,” Edward called after them as they made their way below deck. He laid his towel out beside hers. “Finally.” He gathered her in his arms and kissed her long and hard. “Privacy.”
She wedged a hand between them to create some distance. “You know how I feel about being alone with you. Especially when you look at me with an expression of such … I don’t know how to describe it. With such interest.”
“Interest is a good start,” he said. His breath caressed her cheek, rousing feelings she couldn’t define. “Remember you can trust me.”
“Aye.” She did trust him. But when she was with him, she didn’t trust herself.
He bent his head. “Then you realize the affection I feel for you.”
She couldn’t tell if he was serious or joking, but she was here for several more days, and it seemed senseless not to enjoy her time with him.
Slow and steady, he kissed her again and she couldn’t help herself, gliding her hands across the hard contours of his bare chest. She heard his soft gasp as he pulled her closer and gazed into her eyes. She stood on her tiptoes and slipped her arms around his neck. Mouth to mouth, they kissed as if the sun could whirl away and reappear, taking its time before reality revisited.
When the kiss ended, he grinned. “I’m very, very glad I came to Corsica.”
“And why are you grinning like a Cheshire cat?”
He grabbed for his phone on the lounge chair and typed a text message. “Because our Wednesday adventure isn’t over. I’ve arranged for us to travel someplace special for dinner this evening.”
“Several of the Corsican guidebooks featured restaurants tucked in straw huts near the sea. They sounded divine. Are we going to one of those?”
“Somewhere better.”
“Will the resort drive us there?” she persisted. “Several of the restaurants are an hour away.”
“We’re merely forty-five minutes from our destination.” He kissed her again. “And I suggest you dress up for a one-of-a-kind occasion.”
She peered at the sun, a ribbon of muted orange as it began its descent. “As if there’s enough daylight left after an ideal afternoon like this to do anything better.”
“We don’t need daylight.” He brushed his lips up and down her neck. “And our evening will surpass everything we’ve done so far.”
“Edward,” her tone spun over the boyish edge of his, “where on earth are we going?”
At his wide grin, a sizzle of pure attraction coursed through every inch of her.
“We’re flying to France.” With that announcement, he turned off his phone and set it beside his T-shirt on the lounge chair. “The pilot is fueling my company’s private jet to take us to my favorite restaurant along the French Riviera.”
Chapter Eight
“The French Riviera?” Colleen repeated, when Maeve rang her the following morning. “You flew in his private jet to dine in one of the poshest restaurants on the French Riviera?”
“Aye. Actually, it’s his family’s private jet.”
“Okay, that settles it. Does Edward have any brothers?”
Maeve gave a hoot of laughter. “He has a sister who seems to have an exemplary business sense, and two younger brothers. But what’s the craic with Colin? Are you on-again or—”
“Off-again,” Colleen completed. “He wasn’t my type, anyway. He didn’t want to work, but he certainly liked to spend money.”
“If he didn’t work, where did he get his money?”
“He wanted to get it from me. Thus, I told him to crack on. He was locked half the time anyway.”
Drunk.
Maeve rested on her king-sized bed against a pile of fluffy silver pillows. Despite arriving back at La Bonaparte Resort in the early morning hours, she’d hardly slept. Who could sleep after dining in the courtyard of an eighteenth-century French mansion beneath one-hundred-year-old trees, seated across from the most handsome man she’d ever seen, a man who’d never taken his admiring gaze off her?
Cozy and unpretentious, the painted-wood brasserie was tucked down a cobblestoned lane and brimmed with old world Provencal charm.
Edward had been impeccable in sharply pressed black trousers, jacket,
and white shirt. His sea-green eyes created a jump in her heartbeat each time she met his stare. His thick black hair was tousled by the ocean breeze, and his strong hands had held hers. The intimate round table had been covered in blue and yellow French linens, a pattern depicting sea and sky, Edward explained. He went on to say that there were close to thirty three-star restaurants in France, and he’d chosen his favorite to share with her.
The menu had featured five courses, and she savored the earthy taste of a beetroot topped with caviar, a delicacy she’d never sampled. Edward preferred the home-baked baguettes and dessert trollies rolling between the cozy tables.
Often, he leaned across the table to brush a kiss along her ear. A full-out laugh had erupted from him as she told a story about her animated, eager-to-please pug. He described a particularly memorable camping trip he’d taken with his lab.
In fact, they talked all evening, hardly pausing to catch a breath.
It was the romantic setting, she decided as she gazed at his face.
But no, it was more, much more. She was seriously falling headfirst in love with him. And it was reckless and divine.
No. She pushed her contemplations back and attempted to regroup. Too many emotions, too quickly. Surely, she was smart enough to keep thoughts of love away.
Her heart, however, didn’t want to heed her hesitations.
What was it about this charismatic man? No matter how much time they spent together, they never ran out of conversation. They declined the expensive French wines and Champagnes the waiter suggested, settling on sparkling water. Sorbet aux framboises, a mouth-watering raspberry sorbet, had been served between courses to “cleanse the palate and stimulate the appetite.”
Edward hadn’t brought up his business, or his family, or resuming his London lifestyle.
His life in the real world.
She hadn’t spoken of Ireland. She’d begun to wish her days, her nights, her week here in Corsica spent with Edward, would never end. When she was with him, her difficulties slipped to a far corner of her mind.
After dinner, they strolled the perimeter of the restaurant’s courtyard, tracing a whiff of honeyed aroma to hollyhocks growing upward against the stone walls.
He’d stood close behind her, his arm around her waist, indicating tiny hilltop villages and ancient paths spiraling to the sea. Lifting her hair, he inhaled a deep breath and nuzzled her neck. “I love the scent of your hair.”
“You mean the smell of fish from our boating adventure?” she joked.
“No, I mean your fragrance, like an exotic, sparkling lemon.” He kissed her mouth and then murmured, “I like the flavor of your lips too.”
“Really? Like beets and caviar?” She still wasn’t sure when he was joking or when he was being flirtatious. She only knew she was enchanted by him, and close to losing her heart.
He dotted her face and her lips with soft kisses. His mouth was still moist from their meal, and he tasted of sugar-coated raspberries and sparkling spring water.
Someday, he promised that he’d show her the nearby towns, for he knew the region well. They would take their dogs and wander narrow cobblestone streets flanked by fields of lavender and acres of yellow sunflowers. She could immerse herself in history, and he’d savor the quality of a quintessential French lifestyle—watching old men play lawn games and fishermen hauling in their catch of the day, or buying bread fresh from the bakeries in town.
Lately, he murmured, he’d been longing for a slower pace in order to truly appreciate life.
“I’d like you to see my home near London,” he finished.
She hesitated. Save for Corsica and America, she’d never traveled outside her safe little Irish world where brogues were melodic, laughter was frequent and friendly pubs stood on every corner.
Then she looked into his eyes and agreed with a definite, emphatic, “Aye.”
They were both reluctant to end the magical night, and lingered over cappuccino and raspberry macarons at an outdoor café. On a side street, the music of an accordionist playing a French melody had drifted down to them. They faced their chairs toward the sea, holding hands, watching the colors of midnight pool on the harbor’s waters.
And there she told him everything, her mother’s continuous flings with men who lived in a kip, a dump. About her absentee father. About facing up to her worries and fears and even guilt because Owen was sick and she wasn’t.
She also revealed her stints in low-budget movie roles as an extra, the need for time-consuming rehearsals for a scene that lasted only a minute or two, and the constant rejections that came with show business.
“Persevere,” he encouraged, tapping her coffee cup with his, and she instantly felt right as rain.
“Can this all be real?” she murmured, half to herself.
“What?”
“The French Riviera, this night …you.”
He flinched, then tipped up her chin and said softly, “Very real, luv.”
Why had she told this man, whom she’d only known a few days, so much about herself? Because, she rationalized, of the surreal setting in a romantic new country, along with the emotionally charged days. Or perhaps, although she’d stated on her profile she was a good listener, he was better—asking questions, genuinely relating to what she said and offering to help her in any way he could.
Of course, she had refused his help. She’d learned long ago to stand on her own two feet, to rely on no one else.
Although, with Edward she had no barriers, and he had applauded her milestones as she outlined her university years and how she’d landed her job as purchasing agent for Merrimac.
“I’ll teach you another French term,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
“What is it?”
For a split-second he said nothing. Then he leaned close, so close his breath touched the strands of her hair. “Joie de vivre.”
“Which means?”
“The joy of living. The French believe life should be about food and drinks and sharing special occasions with the most important people in your life.”
His voice had become oddly rough, and he briefly closed his eyes. She studied him in his moment of vulnerability, trying to decipher all he meant.
And then she struggled to think at all, because poignant tears clogged her throat.
He opened his eyes and she smiled into his searching gaze, realizing the same emotion coming through him had also passed through her.
That connection again. Deeper and more pronounced as the minutes flew.
“Was dinner romantic?” Colleen interrupted Maeve’s musings.
“More than you can ever imagine. We sat outside in a courtyard that overlooked a harbor on the Cote d’Azur. Women entertained on their cruisers, wearing cropped trousers and carrying basket bags, very Grace Kelly looking. Edward recognized several socialites and celebrities.
“All glitz and glamor on the French Riviera. What did you wear?”
“My black lace sheath dress and ankle-strap sandals.”
“The three-inch stilettos?”
“Aye.” Maeve stared out the window wall of her bedroom, which framed the varying landscapes, from the glorious ocean to the rough mountain ranges. “And Edward promised next time we visit the Cote d’Azur, we’ll take a drive along the coast and he’ll show me his family’s resort there. And he said we’ll enroll in a cooking class. He doesn’t cook, and I’d love to learn how to prepare French cuisine and pair meals with wines and Champagnes.”
Edward promised …
Next time …
He said …
There was a pause and Maeve feared the call had been disconnected. “Colleen?”
“I’m here. Look, Maeve, are you certain a guy like him is single?”
“Aye. He told me he’s married to his work.”
“Then believe him. Regardless of his obvious interest in you, he’s off-limits. Even if you wanted to continue seeing him after this week, a long-distance relationship never works. So
don’t fall too hard, promise? It took you months to get over Finbar.”
Maeve rubbed her forehead. “No worries, Colleen. I’m a practical woman and I’ll be home soon enough. Who can blame me for appreciating every magical minute?” She rolled to her stomach and studied the morning sunlight, endless pinks and reds spreading across the sky. “Edward and I are exploring more of the island today. There’s a strand of beach for sale, and his company might be interested in acquiring the property. If a hotel is on site, Merrimac will want a report on it as well.” Maeve came to her feet and cupped the phone to her ear. “See you on Sunday, all right? After I land in Dublin, I’ll visit my mom and Owen and then ring you.”
“I’ll expect every single solitary detail about you and Edward.”
“Aye.” After assuring Colleen she planned to begin working once she’d viewed the available beach property, Maeve clicked off.
Edward texted her shortly afterward, telling her to enjoy a lazy morning. He was dealing with an unforeseen business problem and needed to talk with Karen, and he would pick her up at one o’clock.
Regardless of her notes from earlier days, Maeve didn’t work a smidgen, too busy propping her feet up on the balcony and appreciating the variegated blues of sea and sky.
Several hours later, Edward rapped on her suite door, calling out, “Bonne après-midi. Good afternoon, gorgeous.” He strode out onto her balcony and leaned down to kiss her.
“Bonne après-midi,” she agreed.
“Your French is improving every day. Did you miss me this morning?”
She smiled and gazed into his eyes. “Of course.”
“Did you think about me?”
“A little.” More than a little. “Is this a solo interrogation?” She pulled back. “Did you think about me?”
Lazily, he fingered an errant wisp of her hair and wound it around his finger.
“I never stop thinking about you, Maeve.”
A trill of heat started in her belly and she shivered. “Well, I’m ready.”
“Almost.” He glanced at her sandals. “I recommend you pack a soft-soled flat shoe and wrap for later.”
She poked through her closet and emerged with both. “Later? Why?”
Maeve (Perfect Match Book 6) Page 8