“Can I get you some apéritifs?” asks Antoine.
Brandon answers. “Oui. Two Americanos.”
“Parfait. I shall be right back.” Antoine scurries off.
I crinkle my nose. “Brandon, you’ve ordered Starbucks coffees?” An iced Americano is his morning brew of choice and a hot version mine.
Brandon laughs. “No, Zoey. It’s the original James Bond cocktail. It’s made with Campari, vermouth, and soda water. Antoine makes them with Perrier just the way 007 prefers them.”
“Oh.” A small voice inside my head tells me I shouldn’t be drinking. It is a business dinner, right?
“Trust me, you’ll like it.”
“I think I’m going to pass.”
“Stop it. I want you to try it.”
The drinks come in no time. “Let’s toast,” says Brandon, his eyes twinkling.
“Sure.” Falling under his spell, it takes all my effort to utter one little word. My vocabulary has grown limited.
“To us,” Brandon says demonstratively and then we clink our tumblers. The sparkling glasses ping like a bell. I follow Brandon and take a sip of the vibrant red cocktail.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I digest the flavor and swallow hard. The aftertaste is so bitter it makes my toes curl.
“I like it,” I say, screwing up my face.
Brandon leans into me and dusts my contorted lips with his forefinger. “You’re so adorable when you lie.”
Uh oh! He’s caught me in the act. That fateful spanking flashes into my head. He told me never to lie to him again. I could be in big trouble. Yet, I’m strangely excited in a good way.
His fingertip trails down the side of my face. He traces my jaw until he lands on the tip of my chin. Making little circles, he lets out a sexy laugh. “Don’t worry about it. Campari is an acquired taste.”
“I’ll get used to it,” I say and bravely take another sip. The liquor courses down my throat and into my bloodstream, warming me. You know what? It’s not so bad after all.
Antoine brings us two menus. Brandon orders for the both of us, choosing the house special—fresh mussels meuniere and a side of frites (which I learn are French Fries) plus a bottle of wine—a local Rosé from Provence. I take a few more sips of the Campari cocktail, the potent alcohol loosening me up.
“The view is spectacular,” I quip.
“It is,” agrees Brandon, eyeing my cleavage, which is prominently displayed by the body-hugging bodice of my dress. I cross my legs under the table and pretend I don’t notice.
“Who do all those boats belong to?” While we passed monstrous yachts docked outside the majestic Palais des Festivals where MIP is taking place, the vessels here are much smaller and hardly pretentious.
Brandon finishes his Americano and sets the apéritif glass down. “Those are fisherman boats. Before Cannes became a center for Hollywood glitz and glamour, it used to be a small fishing village. Fishermen still make a living here. Many sell to local restaurateurs, including Antoine, who I’m sure got the mussels we ordered straight off a boat today.”
I take another hit of the Campari cocktail. “Have you ever gone swimming in the Mediterranean?”
He smiles. “Dozens of times. The water is incredible. If we have time, I want to take you swimming.”
A frisson of anxiety curls in my gut. Not only am I afraid of swimming in the sea, but I also sure as hell don’t want Brandon to see me in a bathing suit again.
“I don’t think so. You know, I’m still afraid of the ocean.”
He laughs. “The Mediterranean isn’t an ocean. It’s a sea. And technically, the part here in Cannes is a bay. So, the water is very calm. Barely a wave.”
“B-but I didn’t bring a bathing suit.” The truth. I never even thought of bringing one since I packed so hastily.
He laughs again and unnerves me. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll buy you a bikini.”
I gulp. A bikini—the last thing I want to be caught dead in! Especially with Brandon. As I envision the worst, he continues.
“There’s probably a boutique right in the hotel.” He regards me coyly. “You may only need a bottom. Most women here sun and swim topless.”
I gulp again. The ring of Brandon’s phone saves me from responding. Thank God, because I’m at a loss for words.
My eyes stay on him as he pulls out his cell from his jeans pocket and glances down at the caller ID. His lips twist and his brows furrow. Katrina? The phone continues to ring while I anxiously circle the rim of my glass with my fingertip. To my relief, he doesn’t answer it, and, in fact, turns it off. “Fuck it,” he mumbles under his breath. His frown morphs into a smile when Antoine personally brings us our meal along with the bottle of wine.
“Bon appetit,” says the jovial man, setting our order down.
The tantalizing, garlicky aroma of the mussels wafts up my nose. My appetite is aroused.
“Antoine makes the best mussels meuniere in all of the Riviera,” Brandon tells me.
Antoine smiles proudly. He uncorks the wine and pours Brandon a bit. Brandon takes a sip and nods approvingly. “C’est parfait.”
It’s perfect. He’s perfect. We share the big bowl of mussels and the crispy fries, sensuously feeding helpings to one another and imbibing the refreshing pink wine between bites. Moans escape my mouth. Not only are the mussels divine, but their tender meat is also charging me with sexual energy. Mussels must be some kind of aphrodisiac. But actually, everything is turning me on. The food, the wine, the setting. And most of all, the mouth-watering man sitting across from me. My eyes don’t waver from him as I feed him the last mussel. His luscious lips clamp down on the edible part and then he sucks on it.
“Mmm,” he moans, closing his eyes as he does. Every ounce of me is buzzing and there’s a wet fire inside my panties. He swallows and licks his upper lip. Another gush of wetness and a rush of hot tingles besiege me. He re-opens his eyes and meets my gaze, holding it fiercely. Before either of us can say word, a staunch, swarthy woman appears on the terrace. Holding an accordion, she heads our way. Once at our table, she stretches out the instrument and starts to serenade us.
“Inoubliable…”
Oh my God! In one word, the song is instantly recognizable. “Unforgettable.” Mama’s favorite song…sung in French. With the husky voice of a fallen angel, the songstress’s moving rendition pulls at my heartstrings. Tears flood my eyes.
“Why are you crying?” Brandon asks, tenderly brushing my unstoppable tears away.
“This was Mama’s favorite song. She sang it all the time. It reminded her of Papa.” Sniffling, I pause while the dark memory fills my head. “It was playing on the Pier when she was shot.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a beautiful song,” he says softly, cutting into the painful, unforgettable memory. His violet eyes burn right through me and his voice grows softer. “Almost as beautiful as you.”
My watering eyes blink several times while my breath hitches in my throat and my heart hammers against my chest. His words swirl around in my head like confetti. They shower my flesh with flecks of heightened sensation and my soul with explosive emotion. I begin to unravel.
And then he does something that totally turns me into vapor. Tracing my tear-soaked jaw, Brandon sings along in English, his voice pure velvet, as devastating as the man he is.
“Oh, Brandon!” I weep out his name. The impact of this magical moment has reduced me to mush.
Still singing and melting my heart, my gorgeous god of a man stands up, and rounding the table, pulls out my chair. “Dance with me, Zoey.” A soft but strong command.
On my next sniffle, I’m in his strong arms, my head resting on his beating heart, my arms draped around his shoulders, as he moves me slowly to the melody and words. Swaying me side to side, he sings into my ear while tears stream down my face and dampen his linen shirt. I lose myself in him with each slow measured step. It’s as if there is no one else in the world but the two of us. Unf
orgettable…as the word drifts into a hypnotic hum, he draws me closer to him, pressing his lips on my scalp. I feel the warmth of them and his taut body flush against mine. I melt into his ripples and his arousal. He owns me and I don’t have the strength or desire to break away. Physically or mentally.
I’m drunk with emotion. And one forbidden four-letter word. So intoxicated, I can’t think straight or question what I’m doing. I just cling to him. Like a song of love. Finally, I lift my head, and look up at him, my misty eyes searching for answers. His impassioned gaze holds me captive. My already racing pulse accelerates.
“Brandon—” I don’t know what words will spill out of my mouth next, if any at all. It doesn’t matter. Because on my next heartbeat, he fists my hair and tugs back my head. Before I can take another breath, his lips come crashing down on mine like a meteor. Still humming, he sucks and gnaws my hungry mouth. White-hot balls of passion explode inside me, showering me with fireworks from my head to my toes. I moan into his mouth and then I part my lips, allowing his tongue to find mine. Entwined, our tongues dance sensuously, swirling and twirling to the music and lyrics. Oh my God. This kiss! This incredible kiss! I cup his strong, stubbled jaw, deepening, and extending it, as he draws me closer, one hand gripping my ass. The song drifts into my ears like a magic carpet. The sparks now blind me. I squeeze my eyes shut. Yet, he’s all I see. Never before has anyone been so unforgettable in every way. After what seems like an eternity, the timeless song ends, and he gently breaks his lips away. My heavy eyelids rise like theater curtains, and our glazed eyes lock in a passionate exchange. Shouts of “bravo” from patrons and bystanders reverberate in my ears. I feel myself flush with embarrassment, but Brandon’s dimpled smile fills me with a rush of lust and desire as he holds me tight in his arms.
Tears flow from my eyes. Everything’s been so perfect. The setting. The meal. Our dance. Our kiss. But something is so wrong with this picture. A blaring ambulance races by. The sound of the siren startles me back to my senses, out of my drunken stupor. Brandon’s name burns on my heart. Remorse singes my brain. I want to rip that dazzling smile off his face. What the hell is he doing? What the hell am I doing? As reality sets in, so does a bitter mix of panic and regret.
Oblivious, Brandon kisses my tears away and then breathes against my neck. “Baby, let’s make this night unforgettable.”
Brandon
She clings to me like I’m her lifeline while her tears soak my shirt. This unexpected serenade has changed everything. It’s made her vulnerable. And it’s made me vulnerable. Zoey is special and she’s fragile. I’m suddenly afraid of hurting her. The giddy flirtation we shared over dinner has dissipated into the night air. Dancing with her to this song has done things to me I’ve never experienced before. Everything I’m feeling is for real. This is not Brandon the actor. This is Brandon the man. A man I’ve never known nor can I remember. A hopeless romantic. I mapped out the evening—sharing a nice dinner, getting a little drunk, then heading back to the hotel and fucking her senseless. But now, my need to love her trumps my need to fuck her. I want to hold her. Caress her. Taste her. Get to know every bit of her. Pleasure her every way I can.
Emotionally charged, I make a quick run to the men’s room. When I return to the table, she’s gone. My eyes dart around the restaurant, but she’s nowhere in sight. Maybe she went to the ladies’ room?
Antoine ambles over to the table with the check.
“Antoine, have you seen…my friend?” I ask. What do I call her?
“Ah, Monsieur Taylor. She ran out of zee restaurant. Very upset. Eez everything okay?”
Fuck. No. I quickly look at the bill and throw two hundred Euros on the table. Way more than the cost of the dinner, but I don’t have time to wait for the change. I thank Antoine and sprint out of the restaurant.
Shit. Which way did she go? Instinctively, I guess east, thinking she may be heading back to the hotel. She couldn’t have gotten too far in her heels.
I hop on the bike and rev it up. Without bothering to put on my helmet, which is dangling with Zoey’s from the handlebar, I charge down the sidewalk, full throttle, weaving in and out of stunned pedestrians. The motor roars in my ears right along with my apprehension.
“Attention!” I shout out in French when what I want to shout is get the fuck out of my way. Angry promenaders shout back what I believe are French expletives. I deserve every one.
Yes, I am a crazy asshole. I’m not in my right mind. But right now desperation is negating any form of sanity. I have to find her. How far could she have gotten? Cranking my head to the left to look up an alley, I face forward again and freak. Fuck. I’m going to run into a gay couple strolling hand in hand in front of me. Plugged into their iPhones, they don’t hear me behind them.
“Watch out!” I scream at the top of my lungs as I squeeze the brake lever.
“What the fuck are you doing, you crazy American?” shouts one of the dudes, yanking his partner to safety just in the nick of time. Losing control of the Ducati, I go flying—Crash!—and smash into a kiosk. My heart thudding, I drop my feet to the ground to steady the smoking bike and then hop off it. It tumbles to the pavement with a clang.
Fuck the bike. Without wasting a second, I dash down the Croisette, almost knocking down a few more people. I’m surprised I still don’t see her. Shit. Maybe she turned up one of Old Town’s winding streets. I’ll never find her.
About to give up hope, I finally spot her. She’s running barefoot about one hundred yards ahead of me. The long, flowy skirt of her dress billows like a sail.
“Zoey!” I shout out, running after her at breakneck speed.
She doesn’t stop or look back. Picking up her pace, she turns up one of the serpentine streets off the Croisette. I’m not going to lose her.
I pick up speed, running so fast my lungs and thighs are on fire. I may be a swimmer, but sprinting’s not my thing. Breathing heavily, I turn up the narrow street and see her. She’s within shouting distance.
“Zoey!” I cry out again.
“Leave me alone!” Her sobbing is gutting me.
Calling on all the muscle power I have, I jet-propel myself up the steep, winding cobblestone street. With me hot on her trail, she turns down a very narrow alley. It’s dark and deserted, lined by neighborhood grocery stores all closed till morning. She’s slowing. I’m so close I can taste her. Finally, I catch up to her and, cinching her waist, stop her in her tracks.
“Go away!” she cries, her sobs mixing with pants. She fights me off like a captured wild animal, writhing, and kicking, but even in my breathless state, she’s no match for my strength. In one swift move, I flip her around by her shoulders and walk her backward until she’s flattened against one of the storefronts. A boulangerie. I lift her arms high above her head and hold them tight against the rough stucco wall. My weight presses against her so she can’t free herself. She’s my prisoner. My prey.
“Let me go!” She squirms, angry tears streaming down her face.
“I will once you tell me why you ran away from me.” Rage fuels my voice.
“What kind of sicko game are you playing with me, Brandon?”
“What do you mean?” My voice is a little softer.
“You’re fucking engaged to Katrina, almost about to marry her, and you’re coming on to me?”
I draw in a sharp breath and let out a loud huff. “We need to talk.”
Her stormy eyes search mine for answers.
“Zoey, it’s complicated.”
“Isn’t that a convenient word?” Sniveling, she turns her head away.
“Look at me, Zoey.”
She refuses. She’s so fucking stubborn.
“Zoey, did you hear me? Look at me!”
Slowly, she turns her head. Our eyes lock.
“I’m having second thoughts about Katrina.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, repeating my earlier words.
“I don’t love her. I don’t even like her.”
> Her teary eyes flutter, and I can feel her heart pounding against my chest as I rattle on.
“I still can’t remember shit about our relationship. Whatever I had with her before my accident, I have no longer. I can’t even stand fucking her.”
Zoey’s eyes narrow as her lips purse. “If my memory serves me correctly, you sure seemed to be getting off on her when I caught you with your dick down her throat.”
I snicker. “Well, your precious memory is wrong. She seduced me; it wasn’t by choice. And I was groaning because she bit me. I couldn’t even get it up.”
A little smile curls on Zoey’s kissable lips. Good. A turning point. Because the hard part is coming. Again, no pun intended. I’ve got to talk about my feelings. Something I’ve never done with anyone, with the exception of my mentor.
“Zoey.” I take a long pause after saying her name. “I have feelings for someone else.”
“Oh, some other actress? Or ‘it girl’?”
“Jesus, Zoey. Don’t you know?”
She’s making it so fucking hard for me. Literally, in more ways than one. My aching cock is straining against my fly, about to burst through at any moment. I want her so badly.
One word: “You.”
Her jaw drops open. One word back: “Oh.”
Okay. I’ve said it. The words get easier for me. “I brought you here to spend time with you. Away from LA. Away from Katrina. I want to know if the connection I feel with you is real. You’ve aroused sensations and emotions I’ve never felt before.”
“How can you be sure with your amnesia?” she challenges, looking deep into my eyes.
“I’m sure. I remember everything about the last ten years except the accident and the month leading up to it. And I remember you touched something inside me the minute I met you. You were adorable. I wanted to spread your legs and take you on my driveway in the pouring rain.”
“Really?” Her voice is so small she might as well be speechless.
Here goes. Maybe I should have written a soliloquy and rehearsed it. I suck at ad-libbing. I always have.
“Zo, my memory’s come back, but I’ve been losing my mind over you. That night you went out with your brother, I went berserk with fear and jealousy. I thought I was going to lose you…that you were the one he was getting engaged to. That’s why I followed you to Fig & Olive. I was going to stop him even if I had to do something I’d later regret doing. You brought something out in me that my amnesia suppressed. Perhaps something I’ve always suppressed. My need for you. My need to dominate you. My need to possess you. My need to protect you. When I found out about your little charade, I totally lost control. Then, after I spanked you, I couldn’t get you out of my system. All I could think about was making you mine. But you ran away from me. I thought I’d lost you forever. Those seven…ten…twelve…whatever days were the darkest, most unbearable days of my life.”
Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2) Page 14