Even though the prospect of her moaning and groaning and writhing as she brings herself to orgasm is too much.
Too much to ignore.
As the torment of impending release takes over my body and mind, I stroke more roughly, doing my damnedest to focus solely on the pleasure and to ignore thoughts of what she’s doing in the room across from mine.
I hope she’s coming hard too.
Like I am right now, as pleasure blots out everything else.
After, my head is clear.
My body is relaxed.
I push all thoughts of her from my mind.
Until I see her the next morning at breakfast.
And is it just me, or does she look a little guilty too?
3
Scarlett
Soft rays of morning sun filter through the lobby windows. The clock above the desk ticks close to eight.
I’ve already gone for a run along the winding streets of Avignon and devised a budget for the new chandeliers.
The front desk manager is on top of the situation too, which makes Colin officially my new favorite person. That’s not a surprise — his knowledge of the area was one of the reasons we were so impressed with this property before we bought it. Though he speaks French, his accent tells me he’s from England.
He’s already lined up a chandelier restoration expert who goes by the name “Mr. Crystal” to come by at one o’clock.
“He wears wire-rimmed glasses that sit on the end of his nose and a brown cardigan even in the summer. A monocle always dangles around his neck. He can’t be anything but a chandelier restoration expert,” Colin details with a cheery demeanor from his post behind the front desk. He’s chatty too, and though I have lots to do, it’s important to spend time with those who are the public face of our new property.
Plus, the image Colin paints amuses me, so it’s no chore to gab with him. “Chandelier repair…It’s one of those jobs you don’t think anyone might have until you need precisely that person.”
“And then you’re so glad someone has that post.”
“Exactly.”
He taps his chin, his brow knitting like he’s having fun with this discussion. “I’ve often wondered though…do you think he knew from a young age that he wanted to be a chandelier restoration expert? Or was he torn for a while –chandeliers or grandfather clocks?”
“And chandeliers won out since there are many reasons to repair them. After all, how many chandeliers must need repair due to swinging from them?”
Colin laughs, lowers his voice. “Mr. Crystal surely knows, but as the saying goes — a good restoration expert never tells.”
“Discretion is the better part of chandelier repair. That’s a saying too, I’m sure.”
“I’d imagine it’d have to be. And perhaps, let’s be honest, with many of the repair people we often have to hire at hotels, it’s a vital skill – discretion.” He glances behind him, then speaks clandestinely. “We once had to track down someone to handle a canopy bed repair. You don’t want to know what that room looked like.”
I laugh. “Actually, I might.”
His voice dips again. “My wife loves to hear the tales from the front desk, as I call them. So I’ll say this much – knots. So many knots.”
“And you knew how to find a canopy repair person stat, I trust?”
“But of course. I called Mrs. Canopy straightaway.”
I smile. “Ah, I bet she and Mr. Crystal have so many stories to tell each other.”
“Stories are the secret to a happy marriage.”
Perhaps they are, but I wouldn’t know what makes for a happy marriage.
I do know what makes for happy employees and happy bosses though.
Kindness, respect and a good paycheck.
I focus on those details instead as I type a few notes in my tablet. “In any case, Colin, you said you expect new ones to be installed by the end of next week, and repairs to the existing ones by then too?”
“That’s the plan. We used Mr. Crystal in a hotel I worked at in Aix-en-Provence a while ago, and he was ahead of schedule by a week.”
“Fantastic. Thank you again for your quick work. And for making my job easier. Mr. Stewart and I are both incredibly grateful for that.” I close my tablet and drop it into my purse.
Normally, as one of the owners, this isn’t the level of attention I need to give to a property, but since this inn is the first in our plans to expand into smaller boutique hotels, I want to make sure Hotel de Garnier has my full attention.
“And I’m grateful you kept everyone on board when you bought this inn. Now, if you’ve got the time this morning, you and Mr. Stewart should visit our sister restaurant for breakfast. I’ll send word to the staff, and make sure they know it’s on the house.” With a smile, he tips his forehead toward the restaurant. “My wife works there and the restaurant has the most decadent berries in all of the South of France.”
With a smile, I hoist my purse strap higher. “If you were trying to impress the new owners, it worked.”
“Brilliant. That’s always the goal.”
I take a step toward the restaurant, since I’m meeting Daniel there shortly anyway.
Daniel, who I barely thought of last night when I returned to bed.
Daniel, whose bare chest and chiseled abs hardly featured in my late-night imaginings.
Daniel, who fried my brain so much that—
Shit. I can’t believe I forgot something so obvious.
I wheel around, nerves whipping through me. “Are there other chandeliers on other floors? Near guest rooms?” My God, if one fell on a guest . . . I shudder at the thought.
“Only a few. All of the guests who were staying in rooms that were adjacent to chandeliers were moved to other rooms in the middle of the night. So you don’t have to worry about that. And they’re all secure. Maintenance did a check.”
“That was excellent thinking on your part.”
“Oh, that wasn’t me. That was all Mr. Stewart. He came downstairs in the middle of the night and made sure we took care of it,” he says, as a bell rings above the front door.
He flashes a bright greeting to a man strolling through the front door, wheeling a suitcase behind him.
I hum, impressed with my colleague, annoyed with myself as I head to the adjoining café, ask the host for a table for two, and grab a spot by the window.
An auburn-haired waitress with a freckled nose brings a coffee pot over. I nod a yes, and she pours, asking how my morning is.
We make small talk, and when she leaves, I drink the coffee and cut myself some slack. It’s good that Daniel moved some guests last night. It’s good that he was here too. I don’t have to think of everything. It’s not my job to handle every single detail. This is why I have partners, managers, employees.
Others need to be sharp too.
And last night, others were.
A minute later, Daniel sweeps in, looking well-rested and ready to tackle the day in his slacks and crisp linen shirt, a glint in his eye.
Is that a glint that says we have a secret? But we don’t, of course. Knowing what he looks like in lounge pants is hardly worth exchanging flirty glances over.
“Don’t you look like you’re on a honeymoon,” I say, scanning his attire. After I was practically ogling him last night, it’s best if I act like it’s normal to comment on his appearance.
He sits across from me, proffering a sly smile. “It’s my honeymoon, love,” he says as the waitress arrives at our table.
“Congratulations to the newlyweds,” the friendly woman says.
I laugh, rolling my eyes as I spread a napkin across my lap. Daniel lifts his chin, greeting the freckled server. “Thank you so much. We’re having a wonderful honeymoon already.”
“That is fantastic to hear. This hotel is certainly known for that,” she says, like she has a little secret tucked in her back pocket.
“As it should be. I barely made it out of the room,” Daniel
adds, playing it up. Such a ham.
The waitress smiles. “I remember what that was like a few years ago with my husband.”
She takes our order, brings Daniel a tea, then I launch right into business. “I want you to know I’ve already done an analysis and activated a plan to replace the chandeliers.”
“Of course you ‘activated a plan,’” he says in that teasing voice. “You probably didn’t even go back to sleep last night, did you?”
“I slept for a bit.”
He wags a finger at me. “I don’t believe you. I bet you were up for hours, running numbers. Admit it. That’s what you did, Scarlett. You are one of those people who can survive on two to three hours a night of shut-eye.”
“That’s not true,” I say as he lifts his cup.
“I bet you can survive on numbers alone. You eat them for breakfast, right? I suspect the waitress is going to bring you a side of equations with your berries. They’ll power you through literally the entire day. All of your strength, all of your intensity comes from your financial reports.”
“I like numbers,” I say, but inside, I’m trying to suppress a grin.
“No. You love numbers.”
I arch a brow. “I believe my insane love of numbers is why you and Cole were so happy to have me invest. Same thing that has allowed us to expand, which is what the two of you wanted when you offered me a share. So there.”
“You have made many things possible, and for that, I’m incredibly grateful,” he says, taking a drink of his tea.
I take another pull of my coffee and set it down. “And also, thank you for what you did last night.”
He waves his right hand in front of his chest. “You mean giving you a wonderful view of all my assets?”
I shake my head. “Making sure the guests in rooms adjacent to chandeliers had other places to stay. I can’t believe that thought slipped my mind. I’m ashamed. But I’m glad that you caught it.”
He puts his cup down, his expression gentle but earnest. “Scarlett, we’re a team. You don’t have to do everything. That’s why we work together.”
“I know, I know. I just, I wish I had thought of it. But you did, so I’m glad.”
“I’m all about making my lovely wife happy,” he says as the waitress returns with our food.
As she sets down Daniel’s egg whites and my cup of berries, she asks if we’ve visited the Helen Williams winery.
“Hmm. I don’t think so,” Daniel says, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying the marriage ruse. “Are there lots of dark corners to tug my bride into and smother her with kisses?”
The woman laughs knowingly. “It’s perfect for when you can’t keep your hands off each other. My husband and I were married a few years ago, and we stayed in Aix-en-Provence. We toured the city, went to terrific restaurants, visited fabulous wineries. And we stayed at this fantastic boutique hotel that made you never want to leave. All sorts of dark corners for kissing, and an elevator that played sensual music,” she says, then blinks as if the memory of her honeymoon just flashed before her eyes. “But of course, this place is like that too.”
Sure, but it could be better. Better mirrors, better lighting, better mood music.
And I’m intrigued by her mention of this other place.
Especially since this waitress doesn’t seem to recognize us. Not that we’re rock stars or celebrities. But she isn’t talking to us as if we’re the new owners. She’s talking to us like we are, indeed, the honeymooning guests.
And she’s dropping a tip, as waitresses do.
“Thanks. What was the name of the boutique hotel?” I ask.
She screws up the corner of her lips, deep in thought, then her green eyes twinkle. “Le Pavillon de Aix-en-Provence. But last I heard, it was for sale, so probably not worth checking out. Besides, why would you want to when you could stay here at our sister hotel?”
“Grand. Thanks so much,” Daniel says as the redhead takes off to tend to other customers.
He lifts his fork, holds it midair, and levels me with a knowing gaze.
Three years doing business together, and I do know this man.
His blue eyes are twinkling with dollar signs.
I bet mine are too. I cross my arms, a satisfied grin on my face. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“That’s either scary or incredibly sexy.”
“Daniel,” I chide, though sexy is right because I happen to think untapped potential is wildly arousing.
He leans closer, so close I can smell the pine of his aftershave and the clean ocean breeze of his shampoo. They make a delicious cocktail of manly scents that drift through my nose, that go to my head, that remind me how utterly intoxicated I was at seeing him in the hall last night.
But it’s not only that. It’s the potential we both sense here. Business deals are the antidote to heartbreak. They’ve carried me through some of the toughest years of my life. And nothing, nothing in the whole entire universe, has healed me more than making deals.
His voice is low, hushed. “Are you thinking we should check out that hotel?”
“And that we have time to pop over to Aix-en-Provence before we return to Paris for our meeting with Cole tonight?”
“Precisely.”
“Then, yes. Yes, I am.”
We eat breakfast, grab our bags, and head to the train station, settling into a first-class car. His arm brushes against mine as he takes a seat, and my breath hitches from that random touch.
I do my best to hide my reaction, but when his eyes meet mine, I’m not sure my best is enough.
His are darker, hungrier.
And maybe he hasn’t forgotten that moment last night either.
4
Daniel
I met Scarlett for the first time three years ago. She was a legend in business, a whiz-bang financial advisor with the Midas touch when it came to investing, and a particular expertise in real estate and hospitality.
Her name was whispered in business circles, spoken with a hushed kind of adoration. With a wish and a fervent hope, you’d be lucky enough to simply score a meeting with her.
Scarlett Slade.
Why, you simply must know the London School of Economics wunderkind.
I picked up the phone, rang her office, and requested a meeting. She made me wait two whole weeks. She was that busy.
I waited patiently. I have stores of patience.
At the time, she worked in London, where I often was, running the business out of my Knightsbridge office.
We met for lunch at a vegan café she’d raved about. It was her favorite, she’d said.
When I arrived, I wasn’t shocked by how stunning she was. If I were shocked, that would have meant I hadn’t done my research, and I research everyone I work with.
I’d seen her photos, knew she had lush chestnut hair, dazzling green eyes, and a grin that seemed to contain multitudes of secrets. Secrets men would get down on their knees to beg to know.
But looks, while obviously nothing to turn my nose up at, have never been my downfall. My true penchant, my favorite thing, the trait that makes me want a woman, is wit.
Rhetoric.
Confidence.
Scarlett Slade has all that. She could bottle that triumvirate and make a mint.
At our lunch meeting, she confessed she’d only made me wait to see her because she’d been in Costa Rica learning how to surf.
“What inspired you to do that? Anything in particular?” I asked.
“A book. The heroine traveled to Central America, hoping to find herself, to discover her missing verve, if you will.”
“Had you misplaced your verve?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Not at all. But the character made it seem so simple, learning to ride the waves. And I thought, Clearly, I can do that too.”
“Was it easy?”
“Not in the least. I raise a glass to all the amateur surfers of the world. They are magicians as far as I’m concerned.”
>
“Just as I suspected,” I said, then lifted my water glass to the wave riders. “But are you glad you learned?”
“I am. I’ve been trying to do the things I want lately,” she said, and those words signaled that perhaps something or someone had held her back from doing that in the past. I didn’t pry. The first lunch wasn’t the time. But I did share that desire—to try new things. Life is short. Fate can fuck you over.
“Good for you. Best to seize the day, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Indeed. We don’t know what tomorrow brings,” she said, and perhaps that was the start of our bond. That knowingness. That baseline understanding of the transience of, well, everything.
“In the end, how did you and surfing leave things? Will you go again?”
“Let’s just say this. I’m better at surfboard yoga than at actual surfing. But do you know what I’m quite fantastic at?”
“Tell me.”
She leaned forward. Set her chin in her hand. Spoke in a sensual whisper. “Making money. And then turning that money into more money. Now, how can I help you do that, Daniel?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my life than I was when she said those words.
Here I am, three years later, traveling by train with my financial advisor turned business partner. All to check out a tip from a waitress.
But you never know where your best tips will come from.
And here Scarlett is, as wildly attractive as she was back then. Her long legs, clad in designer jeans, are crossed. She’s wearing black flats with red soles, and kicking one back and forth. Her burgundy silk blouse is unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of her breasts, the barest tease of soft flesh. Her diamond earrings blaze from the sun shining through the window, and her carved cheekbones accentuate her gorgeous face.
As we recap our plan, my gaze drifts briefly to her throat, to the column of her neck.
What does her neck taste like? Would she moan if I bit her earlobe? Would she cry out if I smacked her arse?
My One Week Husband Page 3