“Did you make all of those?” He was amazed at how much she had accomplished in such a short time.
“Of course.” She covered the rack and backed into him. She whirled around and stumbled.
He steadied her, but she jerked away from him. Why is she so angry? She used to welcome my touch.
She stepped around him, her back rigid, as she walked toward the counter.
“The cookies look very professional.”
“It is my profession.”
“You own a patisserie?”
“No. I work for a couple who own a bakery in Atlanta. But I’m working toward starting my own business soon, and branch out into specialty cakes.”
“What do you mean ‘specialty cakes’?”
She picked her phone up from the counter and clicked several buttons. She held it up for him to see, and he walked around the counter to stand next to her.
Her delicate scent of vanilla and spices washed over him. A memory assailed him of an afternoon she had arrived at his apartment, straight from her classes at Le Cordon Bleu. He had grabbed her, wrestling her onto the bed. He nuzzled her neck, breathing in her unique essence.
She laughed and tried to push him away. Said she was hot and sweaty from baking all afternoon in the hot kitchen.
He had grinned, said she smelled decadent, good enough to eat. He’d offered to lick any remaining sugar off her bare skin. They had not made it to the shower until late that night.
He caught her watching him, a wary expression on her face. He slid the phone from her hand, brushing her fingers. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed she curled her fingers together and clasped them to her chest. He flicked through the slide show of pictures.
“These are what I made for the TV show ‘Southern Belle Cake-Off.’”
He glanced up at her. “You were on television? Making cakes?”
She shrugged, red staining her cheeks. “Yes. I didn’t want to do it, but it’s been great exposure for my business.”
“A cooking show?”
“No, it’s a regional competition for cake artists in the South, and they filmed parts of it for one of the food networks.”
“How did you do?”
“I won.”
His eyes widened, and despite everything that had happened, he felt a surge of pride for her. “C’est fantastique! Congratulations!”
She ducked her head, and he could tell she was embarrassed. She ran her fingers over the snaps on the chef coat as if making sure she was still secured inside it.
He had the insane urge to pluck the snaps open, one by one, until she was exposed.
Biting the inside of his cheek, he focused his attention back to the pictures displayed on her phone. He scanned creation after creation, and at each picture, his admiration for her grew. “These are outstanding. Absolumént. You are truly talented. Your husband must be very proud of you.”
Abruptly, she turned away, and began stacking the used utensils in the sink.
Had he hit a nerve? “I assume by the way Daniel leapt to your defense that he knows about me?”
“I told him some things.” She wiped the counter, turned away. “I need some air. I’ll clean up later.” She walked toward the back door and opened it.
He heard rain pattering on the roof of the porch. “You’ll get wet.”
She turned to him briefly. “I don’t mind the rain. The earth will smell all the sweeter.” And she was gone, shutting the door behind her.
Mon Dieu, I still want her. Fifteen years and a broken heart later, she still affected him. She looked so prim and proper buttoned up in her chef coat, her long golden hair pulled into a tight knot on top of her head.
He wanted . . . what did he want? His fingers itched to take her hair down from that prim knot on top of her head, and see if she was still the passionate woman he had loved.
He opened the door and stepped outside. Scanning the garden leading to the grape fields, he caught a flash of white through the gate. Drops of cold rain rolled down his collar, and he hunched his shoulders.
What am I doing? Go home, imbécile!
But his feet didn’t listen, and he followed the stepping stones through the garden.
She was right—the earth did smell sweeter in the rain. She’d always loved the rain, the way the earth smelled fresh and new. How many times had she stood on his balcony while it was raining? She had told him since she was in Paris, she wanted to experience everything. And that included rainy Parisian afternoons.
His jaw clenched, remembering one such afternoon he’d pulled her back into the room, tumbling her onto the bed. They’d made love for hours, the rain outside the only music.
He rounded a row of hedges and looked for her. There, by the potting shed. She opened the door to the large building, disappearing from view.
He paused a moment and sucked in a deep breath, trying to relax. He smelled roses, and glanced at the thorny branches laden with pink flowers that climbed the limestone walls.
They would have to be pink. Her favorite flower.
He knew he should turn back. No good could come from this. Nothing could be said to undo the past. Nothing could be done to change the path their lives were on today.
But he didn’t slow until he turned the handle on the potting shed. He pushed, and the door groaned open.
She stood at one of the tables, sniffing the flowers waiting to be replanted. She straightened up and folded her arms, frowning. “Why did you follow me?”
The question that had haunted him all these years spilled from him before he could stop it. “I want to know how you could have been sleeping with me when you had a rich fiancé at home in the States.”
Chapter 6
She flinched, and felt the color leach from her face. Her head spun.
“What?” she croaked.
“You heard what I said.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She had to get out of there. Scooting around him, careful not to touch him, she headed for the door.
He grabbed her arm, stopping her. She tried to pull away, but he hauled her against his chest, gripping her arms to hold her still.
Her eyes closed, memories of being held by him swept over her. His scent, earthy and dark, overwhelmed her.
“Why?” He shook her lightly. “Why did you leave me for him?”
She opened her eyes, astonished at the anguished look on his face, the hurt in his voice. Water droplets dripped from his black hair.
“Did you ever love me?” He walked her backward until she hit the cool wall.
She was trapped here, alone with him, nowhere to go. She needed to get away.
“Let me go—” she began, pushing against his chest.
His head descended, lips covering hers in a bruising kiss. She tried to hold her ground, but was defenseless against the onslaught of his mouth. He was relentless, using lips and tongue until her mouth opened, surrendering to the drugging kiss. His taste brought back memories, at once familiar yet new. The heat and power of young lovers had grown into maturity.
Her toes curled in her clogs. God, when was the last time anyone had kissed her and made her toes curl?
No one since him.
Sensations flooded her body, pleasure making her ache, and her heart soared. It had been so long since she’d been kissed or touched this way. Too long.
His touch was irresistible, and her hands slid around his waist, creeping up his back. Her fingers fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer.
She suddenly felt his warm hand on her bare stomach, skimming up her ribs. He cupped her breast, and she gasped. His touch was so hot it was a wonder the material didn’t melt away.
His teeth scraped her tongue, and she shuddered.
He shifted, and his hand left her skin. She wanted to protest, grab his hand and put it back.
The sound of snaps opening filled the air, and she moaned. She opened her eyes as Roman’s mouth left hers. Cool air hit her as he spread open her chef coat, and she gasped. He raised his head and raked his eyes down her almost naked top.
She’d never put the t-shirt back on, and wore only a lacy white bra beneath her coat. She was exposed, vulnerable, in more ways than one.
He groaned, and his hand shook as he lifted it, lightly traced a fingertip along the edge of the bra. His finger seared her skin, and tremors raced through her.
Her nipples hardened, and she wanted to press his hand against her to soothe the ache. She looked up at him, and her legs threatened to collapse into a puddle.
He focused his eyes on hers, hunger hardening his features.
“Your skin is still so soft,” he whispered.
His voice washed over her, and she drank in the sound she never thought she’d hear again. Her fingertips tingled, and she curled them into a fist. She ached to touch him, trace the lines and angles on his face. Smooth the anger and pain away.
He kissed her again, pressing her against the wall. His erection nudged her and she shifted, instinct welcoming his hardness. Warmth pooled in her belly. Their tongues tangled, dancing, stoking the embers of passion so long denied to life.
“Gigi . . .” A voice calling from outside the shed permeated the fog in her brain.
“Sugar, where are you?”
Daniel.
He was looking for her.
Oh, God. What am I doing?
She turned her head to the side, fighting to catch her breath. “Stop. Roman, we have to stop. Daniel is looking for me.” She pushed against his muscled chest.
He moved away, braced his hands against the potting table, his breath heaving.
The chill hit her hot skin, and she pulled her coat together, snapping it closed. She ran her fingers over her lips, still tasting him. Why did he kiss me?
Why the hell did I kiss him back?
She curled into herself, wrapping her arms across her chest and held tight. Otherwise she’d shatter into a million pieces. She wanted to . . . to . . . punch the wall. Or run as fast and far away as she could.
“Go,” he croaked, his shoulders hunched. “Go back to him.”
Her blood boiled, and fury threatened to choke her. “How dare you? It didn’t take you long to find someone else to warm your bed after I had to leave,” she threw at him.
He jerked around to face her, his face ashen. “What are you—”
“Leave it! I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.” She stormed to the door, opened it, cutting off his words with a slam.
Her blood boiled. How dare he treat her this way when he was the one who had dumped her?
Chapter 7
The rain had cleared out earlier that afternoon, leaving the air fragrant and cool as the sun dropped into the horizon. Genevieve pulled the lacy bronze shawl closer around her shoulders as she carried her offering across the cobblestones.
She still reeled from their encounter in the potting shed. He’d acted as if he hated her, couldn’t stand the sight of her. Yet he’d followed her, kissed her as if he would never let her go.
Was he playing with her? Why? Am I a toy, someone to have fun with until he finds the next playmate?
Whatever the reason, she had to stay strong and get through the wedding, for Connie Sue’s sake. Heck, for her own sake. It had taken a long time, but she’d rebuilt her life, had locked the memories and pain away in boxes and stuffed them in the attic of her soul, never to be looked at again.
But that plan had been blown to hell with one look at him. Never again would she go running to him when he crooked his finger at her, sexy as it was.
She pasted a smile on her face and added her basket of wedding cookies to the dessert table, examined the array of sweets with a professional eye. Fruit tarts, crème brulee, raspberry torte, puffed pastry filled with crème. She groaned, determined to reign in her weakness for desserts. Another table had baskets of bread and every imaginable type of cheese. Yet another held bottles of Francois’ wines: from red, to white, to sweeter dessert labels.
Stepping back from the buffet area, she glanced around the village square. Medieval buildings surrounded the clearing, standing tall and proud, sentinels of days gone by. Tables and chairs filled the cobblestone streets, and one side had been set up for dancing. A band played music on a make-shift stage. White twinkling lights crisscrossed above the square. It reminded her of an ancient fairyland.
Connie Sue and Francois walked into the square, hand in hand, and the crowd erupted into cheers and applause, hailing the couple. They moved through the crowd, greeting the villagers. She could tell her cousin had won them over from the way they laughed and hugged Connie Sue, and a rush of pride filled her.
Daniel had gone to find them a table, and she wandered around looking for him. She finally found him across the way, waving her over. On the edge of the square stood Roman, arms crossed. Watching Daniel through narrowed eyes.
She quickened her pace and arrived at the table. She really hoped neither one of them would make a scene. Puzzled, she still couldn’t believe he assumed Daniel was her husband. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe now he’d leave her alone.
“Come on, let’s go get some food,” Daniel said, grabbing her hand. “I want to try everything. I know it’ll be good!”
She laughed. “You and your stomach. One of these days you’re going to get fat and ruin your figure. Then what will you do? No man will look twice at you.” She slung her arm through his as they headed to the end of the line for food.
“Then you and I will move in together, and have a houseful of cats. We’ll grow old gracefully, sitting in our rocking chairs on the porch, drinking margaritas.”
She gave him a light shove. “You’re allergic to cats.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to hit the gym even harder after this trip. But until then,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “It’s eat, drink, and be merry.”
They filled their plates from the bountiful offerings, and Daniel grabbed a bottle of wine. She picked up wine glasses, and they headed back to their table.
Casually, she searched the area Roman had last been standing. Nowhere in sight.
Good. Now maybe she could eat in peace.
Daniel kept up a running commentary on the food they ate, and the people around them, making her laugh. She knew he was doing it to keep her occupied. Once again, she was grateful he’d been able to fly to France with her. What would she do without him?
Swallowing the last bite of food on her plate, she set her fork down, scanning the tables. Unerringly, her eyes were drawn to Roman. He stood head and shoulders over much of the crowd, and his leather jacket continuously drew her eyes. She couldn’t help it.
He circulated among the tables, greeting people. Men shook his hand, and pounded his back. Women, of all ages, flirted with him. A couple of young women flanked him, and he listened intently to what they were saying. A woman with brunette hair all but plastered herself to his side.
Tart. She gulped another swallow of wine.
Geez, Genevieve. Jealous much? She swore not to care what he did or how he lived his life.
Daniel stood up. “I’m hitting the dessert table before everything is gone. Want me to bring you anything?”
Since she would have to pass through Roman’s cozy little tête-à-tête to get to the dessert table, she’d rather stay seated where she was. “Sure, thanks. Saves me from breaking my neck on these cobblestones. I shouldn’t have worn high heels.”
“But they make your legs look fabulous, so hush up. You want anything in particular?”
“You know wha
t I like.”
He turned around and headed to the dessert table.
Her gaze strayed once more to her left, to where she had last seen Roman. He stared at her, his expression hard as granite.
She stared back, determined not to give an inch. Two could play that game.
His eyebrow rose, as if acknowledging her bravery, daring her to continue.
“Let’s dance.”
She looked up. Daniel plunked an assortment of desserts down on the table.
“You just brought dessert,” she protested.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her up. “I don’t want to give him the chance to come over here and bother you.”
“Who?”
He looked at her. “You know who. Frenchie. He’s glaring at you.”
“We don’t have anything to say to each other, so why would he?”
“After his behavior earlier today, I’m making it my mission to protect you from him.”
Embarrassment swept through her. Had Daniel seen what happened in the potting shed? “What do you mean?”
“In the ballroom, when he was undressing you.”
“I told you, I couldn’t reach the zipper.”
“Whatever. I’m not going to let him take advantage of you.”
“Thanks, sweetie, but you don’t have to play big brother to me. I can handle things.” Daniel could be awfully sweet sometimes. Bossy, but sweet.
Love Redesigned Page 5