Women weren’t usually a distraction for him. Not that he didn’t like women. He did. A lot, in fact. He liked how they smelled, the way they walked, how they tasted. And he liked romancing them with flowers, fine wine and candlelit dinners, but he’d never had a problem keeping his eye on the ball. Until now.
He nodded a greeting at the older gentleman working out on the Cybex machine, performing an inept shoulder press.
Nathan chose the elliptical trainers on the opposite wall. He’d miss the view of the port, but at least he would work up a sweat in something other than erotic dreams. Punching in his preferences, he started his workout, and avoiding Laura’s reflection in the mirrored wall in front of him, focused on the available equipment in the center, considering how to use the amenities to his advantage in an ad campaign.
“Hi.”
He nearly lost his rhythm when he turned to see a sweaty, heavy-breathing Laura standing next to his machine. “Morning.”
She wiped the sweat from her face and neck with a towel. “Thanks for last night. I had a great time.”
Nathan glanced over at the man on the Cybex machine who’d abandoned his awkward exercise to listen.
“My pleasure.”
“You’ve got some pretty amazing moves.” Laura flashed a flirtatious grin.
Mr. Cybex’s eyebrows winged up, as he made no pretense to cover his eavesdropping.
Feeling wicked, Nathan leaned down from his position on the elliptical. “Sugar, you’ve got some pretty amazing moves of your own. And those legs—what you can do with those legs—well, it ought to be illegal.”
“It is. In some countries.” She flung the towel over her shoulder and sashayed over to the yoga mats as both men watched, mouths hanging open.
Nathan snapped his jaws closed and tried in vain to concentrate on the circular motion of the foot pedals. Off to his left, Laura laid down on a mat, stretched, then rolled up and over her legs, grabbing her feet and folding herself in two. After holding this position for a few breaths, she opened her legs into a straddle and, lengthening her torso between them, pressed her chest to the floor.
Nathan’s mouth went dry, and judging from the look on Mr. Cybex’s face, he might have to perform CPR any minute. Sweet Jesus. He’d hit the twenty-minute mark and had hoped for at least thirty, but his libido couldn’t take much more. He reduced the elliptical’s speed, then stepped off, before wiping sweat and the lustful expression from his face with a towel.
He turned in Laura’s direction and paused in indecision. Mr. Cybex quirked a brow, and then nodded toward her, a look of encouragement on his weathered face.
Taking his wordless advice, Nathan went over and stood next to Laura just as she lifted into a yoga move, something to do with a dog looking downward, he recalled from a former girlfriend’s workouts, her derriere to the ceiling. Nathan almost swallowed his tongue. “Ahem.”
She shifted into another yoga position, something about a snake. “Yes?”
Squatting next to her, he asked, “Are you going on a shore excursion?”
She lifted back into the dog position. His gaze traveled up her long legs.
“Yes. You?”
Dammit, woman! Focus, Nathan. “Yes. Would you like to go together?”
She shifted into a plank and turned her head, her face glistening from the exertion. And damned if that wasn’t sexy. “Sure.”
Nathan stood and stepped back before he did something to shock Mr. Cybex into that heart attack. “Great. Meet me on the lido deck in an hour.”
She moved to a side plank, right arm lifted in the air, “See you then.”
Leaving the fitness center, Nathan couldn’t remember a more sexually frustrating workout. Mr. Cybex gave him a thumbs-up as he tossed his towel in the hamper and headed for a cold shower. So much for leaving Laura Danforth to her own devices.
Laura finished drying her hair and pulled it back in a thick braid slung over her right shoulder. She slipped into a pair of white snug-fitting ankle pants, topped off with a Mediterranean blue silk tunic sweater, and a pair of Manolo thongs in orange crush. Satisfied with her rush job, she headed up to the lido deck to meet her southern gentleman.
She had to remind herself this trip was work, not pleasure. And while she did have to play the part of tourist, she also had to keep her eye on the Imperial brass ring.
Nathan. Just a pleasant distraction, nothing more. By the end of the cruise, she’d no doubt tire of him. At no time in her life had a man, not even Daddy Dearest, interfered with her goals, and a man wasn’t about to start now. Even one whose kisses knocked her Louboutins off, made her spine turn to jelly when he said her name with that ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof Southern accent,’ and, as of last night, starred in her X-rated dreams.
She’d set her sights on him, and just like everything else she set her sights on and accomplished, she’d be kissing her dry spell goodbye. Then by the end of the cruise, she’d send him on his way, never to see him again.
She stepped off the elevator and rounded the corner. Nathan stood at the rail looking out over the commercial port to the city of Marseille beyond, the wind ruffling his hair. The only two times they’d met, he’d been wearing a suit. Although last night after a few rounds on the dance floor, he’d stripped off his jacket and tie, and rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing a tan throat and muscular forearms.
Today, he wore dark-wash jeans, a white button-down, un-tucked, and driving mocs, no doubt Italian. She tilted her head for a better view of his ass. And what a fine ass it was. Le sigh.
Damn, but the man knew how to wear a pair of jeans. Aviators covered his eyes, and a day’s growth of stubble covered his jaw. Just your typical casual guy-wear, but he gave it an added dash of sex appeal.
No. He wasn’t her typical ‘prey,’ as Josh so crudely liked to put it. But maybe she’d been in a rut, and it was time for a change.
Slipping on her sunglasses, she stepped up to the rail beside him. “Ah, Marseille, Gateway to Provence, one of my favorite regions of France.” The salty air cleared the sleep-deprivation cobwebs from her head and energized her.
He turned, took a step back, and gave her an appreciative once-over that she felt down to her toes. Without her four-inch heels, she felt small in comparison to his height.
He raised a brow over his sunglasses. “No stilettos?”
“No. I can be practical when it’s called for. And walking miles on paved streets calls for practicality.”
“You’ve been to Marseille?”
“I came with my parents when I was a little girl—too young to enjoy it, really—and then again when I was a sullen teenager, angry that I couldn’t go to camp with my best friend instead.” Laura laughed and shook her head. “I was such a little bitch.”
Nathan chuckled.
“But after college I took another trip over, and discovered what I’d missed the first two times. Wine. And while most people head for the countryside, I prefer the grit of the city.”
“Wine, huh? I like wine,” he said.
“Well, you’re in for a treat. Although known for their rosé, I prefer the spicy, full-flavored reds. And of course no visit to Marseille would be complete without dining on bouillabaisse.”
“Sounds like I’ve hooked my wagon to the right train. You can be tour guide for the day.”
“All right. We can take the Petit Train de la Bonne Mère—”
“You say that like you mean it.” He looked impressed.
Laura made a face. “I speak fluent French, Spanish, and Italian. My mother insisted. I also speak fluent sarcasm, when the occasion warrants. Which my mother had nothing to do with.” Unless you count her very existence.
“I see. But do you speak Southern?” His lips curved into a sexy smile.
“No. But I’m a fast learner.” Her gaze flicked to his mouth.
“I’m sorry, I interrupted your review of the itinerary.”
She blinked, distracted. His lips were so close to hers. “Yes. Anyway.
We can take the Little Train,” she said with a smirk, “up to the hilltop basilica Notre Dame de la Garde and its breathtaking view of the city, then back to the Vieux Port, or we can take the path less traveled, the Corniche Président JFK, along the rocky Mediterranean coastline. If I recall, even the sullen teenager in me appreciated the views.”
“Why do we have to choose?”
Smiling, she said, “Good question. I like the way you think.”
The panorama from the Notre Dame de la Garde was breathtaking with all of Marseille spread out before them, and the sparkling Bay of Marseille beyond. Some five hundred feet below, the city’s white stone buildings with their terracotta-tiled roofs fell in a jumble at their feet, like a child’s discarded building blocks. Above, a sky so clear and blue, it almost hurt to look at it.
The splendor of the scene outside competed with the magnificence of the basilica’s interior. Nathan had never seen anything like it. The church’s mosaics had fascinated him with their brilliant palette of colors and depth of detail. He wasn’t a religious man, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the architecture and artistry of the Neo-Byzantine structure.
“I’m not often rendered speechless, but this does it,” Laura said as she gazed out over the vista.
“Ditto.”
The salt tang drifted in on the breeze, and Nathan filled his lungs with it. As work assignments went, this one was off the hook.
He and Laura stood in companionable silence, too awestruck to do anything else. She removed her sunglasses, lifting her face to the sun, eyes closed, a slight smile on her face. The breeze teased a few strands from her braid and fanned him with the scent of her perfume. He could see the pulse in her neck, enticing him to press his lips to her sun-warmed skin.
“You should know I’m not opposed to a shipboard fling.”
He glanced up and into her open eyes. Yeah. The chemistry couldn’t be denied. He’d felt it the instant he’d wrapped his hand around the ankle of her imprisoned foot. Should he forego the opportunity fate presented to him on a silver platter? He’d regretted not asking for her phone number that day and now here she stood offering him what any man would be crazy to refuse.
She turned to face him. “I’m a big girl, Nathan. I’m not dreaming of white dresses and china patterns. I’m receptive to a purely physical relationship with no strings. Clearly there’s attraction here.”
Sweet Jesus.
She stepped closer, but didn’t touch him. Didn’t matter. His body responded as if she had. Yep, crazy. So let the romancing begin. Snaking an arm around her waist, he drew her in for a kiss sure to be as soul-searing as their first.
He touched his lips to her sun-drenched mouth, tasting the heat and desire there. Clutching her hips, he felt her sway toward him, her hands pressed to his chest. Vaguely aware of the crowd, he sought to deepen the kiss without making a public spectacle. His tongue tangled briefly with hers, before he withdrew, taking a tender nip of her lower lip as he retreated. He gazed down into eyes so blue and unwavering they gave the sky a run for its money.
She flicked her tongue over her lips before sucking her lower lip into her mouth.
He groaned, closing his eyes. “God, woman, you’re killing me.”
She smiled, slow and seductive. “Wait ‘til I get you to bed. Hope your insurance is paid up.” She lifted a shoulder. “Just saying.”
His knees threatened to buckle. But wait he would, and so would she. The patience he’d learned as a boy on the streets of inner-city Atlanta, then later in the hills of rural North Georgia, had taught him as a young man that the anticipation of obtaining the object desired only heightened the experience once it was obtained. And he had hours left in the day, and the evening, to romance her. And romance her he would.
Nathan shook his head as he studied the view.
“What?” Laura asked, confused.
“I feel as if I’m on the set of a movie or something. It just can’t be real.”
Their table at Chez FonFon in the picturesque Vallon des Auffes, a small fishing port off the Corniche, overlooked the little harbor where colorful wooden fishing boats bobbed at their moorings.
Earlier they’d walked along the Corniche JFK, tracing the rocky coastline of the Mediterranean, stopping to appreciate the beauty of the villas and gardens that dotted the route.
Then they’d ordered what was touted to be the best bouillabaisse in Marseille, and at Laura’s recommendation, to accompany it, a fine red from the Bandol region of France.
“Mmm.” Nathan swallowed the wine he’d just sipped. “Great recommendation.” He swirled the wine in his glass. Watched as the dark legs ran down the side.
“I’m glad you like it.” She gazed out at the view. “There’s so much of the world to see and experience. And so many fabulous foods and wines to be tasted.”
“Here’s to fabulous food and wine.”
Laura lifted her glass and tapped it to his. Taking a sip, she closed her eyes, and held the wine on her tongue, before swallowing. “Black fruit, vanilla, cinnamon, and leather. Full-bodied and rich.”
“You’re quite the connoisseur.”
Laura lifted a shoulder. “I appreciate the craftsmanship that goes into nice things, be they stilettos or fine wine.”
“I’ve come to appreciate stilettos myself.” A slow grin spread over his features. “Especially when they grace a pair of legs like yours.”
“Are you flirting with me?”
“No. Definitely not. I don’t flirt. I woo.” He winked.
“Woo. Now there’s a word I haven’t heard in, well, ever. Unless you count the occasional steamy historical romance novel.”
The waiter brought the first stage of the traditional bouillabaisse, the saffron-rich broth topped with croutons, accompanied by a fragrant roasted garlic clove and rouille for spreading on the croutons.
Nathan lifted a dubious eyebrow.
“The fish is served separately,” Laura supplied.
“I knew that,” he said with a sheepish grin. He lifted his spoon, sipped the broth, and nodded. “Delicious.”
“I’m hurt. You doubted me. Do I look like someone who would steer you wrong in anything to do with the finer things in life?” She waggled her spoon at him.
“No, ma’am.”
Why did that Southern courtesy send a little tingle through her? she wondered. “Speaking of sex and that shipboard fling.” Wow. She just gave herself mental whiplash.
He choked on his bouillabaisse, and placing his spoon in the bowl, wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Give a guy a little warning.”
“I have a few rules, so there are no misunderstandings.” She set her spoon carefully in her bowl.
“Rules are good. Let’s hear ‘em.”
“Rule Number One: I won’t be the other woman.” She let that sink in. “I don’t have flings with married, or otherwise attached, men.”
“As we’ve already established, I’m not married or otherwise attached.”
“Good. Rule Number Two: Just because we’re having sex doesn’t mean you get to monopolize my time. Sex is sex, and the rest of our time is our own, unless we mutually agree otherwise.”
“Understood.”
“Rule Number Three: This is just a fling. It ends with the cruise, so don’t expect anything once we’re back in the States.”
“Agreed.”
“Rule Number Four—and this one’s important: No personal questions. I’m not going to share my deepest, darkest secrets and I won’t expect you to share yours. No stories about our dysfunctional families, our formative years, or our teenage traumas.”
“Fair enough. Anything else?”
She thought about it a moment. “Rule Number Five: I pay my way.”
“No. That’s a deal-breaker.”
“I won’t have you paying for my meals, or anything else for that matter. I didn’t come on the cruise expecting to find a Sugar Daddy, even if he is Southern. You pay your way, and I pay mine. Then no
one is beholden to the other.”
When he didn’t respond, she ran her foot up his leg almost to his crotch. He jumped at the intimate contact then closed his eyes and groaned.
“If you want some of this”—she swept her hand up her body—“those are my conditions.”
“Damn, sugar, you drive a hard bargain.”
She laughed. “I’m worth it. I promise.”
He groaned again. “Fine. I’m afraid to ask if there’s anything else?”
“That about covers it. What about you? Any rules?”
“Just one. I don’t do sleepover.”
“Fine. Rule Number Six: No sleepovers.” She could accept that, even though she had no issues with waking up to a warm naked man with a morning hard-on.
She raised her glass of wine. “To a no strings, Ship of Dreams fling.”
He smiled at her across the table and lifted his glass to hers. “I can get onboard with that.”
Chapter 7
“How’s the cruise?” Darcy asked.
“Fine.” Laura shifted the phone so she could open an email on her laptop. She’d barely glanced at her smartphone all day. Unusual for her, but she’d been preoccupied with Nathan. Having fun and all that. Thinking about dinner with him tonight. Followed by her version of dessert.
She’d called Darcy while she was still in port and had a signal, but she also needed to reply to emails. Good thing multi-tasking came naturally.
“Have you hooked up with an Italian? I don’t think you’ve ever, er, dated an Italian.”
“There was that guy from Sicily, oh, what was his name? You know, the Formula 1 racecar driver.”
“If you can’t keep all your conquests straight, how do you expect me to? Maybe you should keep a spreadsheet. And you didn’t answer my question. Any accented hotties on the ship?”
Ship of Dreams (Dreams Come True Series Book 2) Page 6