by Chloe Blake
Nude under her robe, with hot tea in her palms, Maya went through the large door labeled Spa and was taken aback. She was teleported from a modern lounge into a midcentury Roman bath with glittering beige stone walls. In the center was a giant bubbling mineral pool and several smaller pools marked with temperatures ranging from warm to freezing cold. Glass doors to saunas lined the wall across the room. She knew it was a weekday, but she had expected to see at least a few loungers. Nic had described the spa as quite popular, but from what she could tell, she was alone.
“Maya?” a deep voice asked. A man in a black T-shirt and pants came forward from a darkened corner across the room. He bowed slightly and held a towel in his hand. “I’m Renard. I’ll be your servant today. If you’re ready, I’ve prepared your wine bath.”
Ooh. Servant? Yes, please. “I’m ready.” She smiled and followed Renard into a beautiful open room lined with candles and fresh roses in giant urns. A round tub large enough for six people sat in the middle of the space, with fresh rose petals floating on top of the water and an open bottle of wine on its rim. Renard left the room while she disrobed and sank inch by inch into the warmth, finding a stone seat that allowed her to relax shoulder deep in what she assumed was diluted wine. She bade him enter when he knocked.
“And how is the temperature?”
“Heaven.” Maya sighed, leaning her head and back against the tub. The lights dimmed and her peripheral vision caught the wineglass next to her filling with ruby liquid. She wasn’t sure she could even reach for the wine; her bones were melting.
“So am I sitting in actual wine?”
“No, mademoiselle, just the antioxidant extracts from the grape itself, which is why the water isn’t colored but opaque, and also darkened by the color of the tub. Don’t worry, I can’t see anything you don’t want me to see,” he teased. Maya relaxed even more, and she didn’t flinch when Renard began lightly massaging her shoulders. With Renard’s soothing touch and the soft music surrounding her, Maya breathed deep and let her eyes drift closed. But the deep voice she heard next wasn’t Renard’s.
“May I join you?”
Her eyes snapped open at Nic’s voice. He stood by the tub in knee-length bathing trunks, but the rest of him was all skin: muscled chest, bulging arms, cut torso. Had the water gotten warmer? Her gaze landed on his full lips, then finally to his curling hair and dark gaze, which was angrily locked on Renard.
Oh, boy.
Chapter 12
Maya was staring at him, while he was staring daggers at Renard. The man’s hands were all over her shoulders, given full license by the way her caramel-colored hair was piled high on her head. Renard’s long fingers caressed down her arm and grazed the water, which was just covering the buoyant flesh of her breasts.
He licked his lips in a mixture of anger and lust. She wasn’t wearing a suit.
“Welcome,” Renard said with a smile, the disarming kindness making Nic’s jaw clench. She must have seen his reaction, because her eyes flashed and she stopped Renard’s hands with a gentle touch of her own.
“I thought you were busy,” she said to him as Renard moved away and poured a second glass of wine, placing it within his reach.
“I’ve finished,” Nic said, stepping with his long legs into the tub and settling in across from her. The truth was, he’d been having a hard time getting images of her in the bath out of his mind, and his visions did her no justice. When he’d walked in, she could have been Aphrodite served by one of her many conquests. “But if you want to be alone, I’d be happy to—”
“No,” she said lightly. “There’s room for a whole family in here.”
“Will you be needing anything else?” Renard asked from the corner.
“No.” Nic’s tone was gruff, and Maya tried to talk over him with a sweet “Non, merci, Renard.”
Renard bowed and silently left.
“You’re naked,” Nic accused.
Maya pulled her arms out of the water and hitched them across the back of the tub. “They recommend it. Sky clad or whatever.”
Her new position pushed her beasts from the water a bit more, and she seemed to know it.
He couldn’t stop staring, the water waving and splashing over her skin. Maybe she was Aphrodite. Maybe that was why he couldn’t resist her. Well, two could play at that game.
“Is that so?” He reached under the water and slipped off his trunks in one swift movement, pulling them from the water and tossing them on the floor with a loud squish. He mimicked her position, spreading his arms and leaning back comfortably. “This does seem more comfortable.”
She looked at him from under her lids, then he watched her gaze dip to the spot between his legs before she smoothly turned to reach for her wine.
“You can’t see anything,” he said.
She smirked. “Well, neither can you.” Her lips touched the glass and he got hard. Thank God, the water was dark.
“Did Renard see anything?” He tried to keep the jealous tone from his voice. Failed.
“If he did, he didn’t say anything. Because he’s a professional. He’s my servant,” she threw at him.
His brows went up. “So you want to be served.”
“Don’t we all?” she said sweetly over the rim of her glass. He’d be happy to serve her all night.
“What else was Renard going to serve you?”
She shrugged, disturbing the water and his resolve. “I don’t know. We were interrupted.”
“So sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m happy to sit here and soak up these antioxidants.” She closed her eyes.
“You know we’re just sitting in the leftover crap from the wine-making process, don’t you?”
Her eyes opened to slits. “Don’t ruin this for me. First you chase away my servant, and now you’re knocking the bath.”
“I’m not saying it’s not full of antioxidants. I’m just saying it’s repurposed trash. It’s brilliant really.”
“You should tell your uncle.”
“He didn’t think of it. I did.”
She cocked her head. “I don’t believe you.”
He shrugged and took a sip of his wine. The cab franc. Paired with a bath and a beautiful woman. Perfect. “It’s true. The skins, leaves, stems and seeds—called the marc—are all still high in polyphenols, aka antioxidants. You can soak in the extracts here or do a wrap or scrub. It makes a good pumice.”
“I didn’t know you were such a beauty expert.”
“I’m not, except I can recognize it when it’s right in front of me.”
She blushed, and he felt it in his groin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were flirting. Still after those shares, huh?”
One side of his mouth turned up. “Something like that.”
“I’m going to ignore you.” A tiny smile danced on her lips as she closed her eyes.
“Should I call Renard?”
“And have you stare daggers at him while I get a massage? No, merci.”
“Is that what you want? A massage?”
She didn’t move, but one eye opened. “You should stay right where you are.” Her foot grazed him and he caught it, pulling a small gasp from her lips.
“Yes, mademoiselle,” he said, running his thumb over the sole of her foot. She didn’t fight as he began to knead the ball of her foot, her sigh music to his ears. Yes, they had decided that sex was off-limits, but maybe they could play a little.
Her head lolled back as he transferred her other foot into his hands. He moved upward to the delicate joint of her ankle, and bolder still to the smooth skin of her calf.
Her eyes remained closed and she made no movement to stop him. Like a shark, he moved forward, using long strokes over her calf and up to the back of her thigh, reveling in how perfectly her curves fit into his hands.
Inch b
y aching inch, his fingers moved up her inner thigh, and little by little, his upper body moved above hers. He ignored the insistent pulsing of his lower half, bent on offering her his massaging skills where she needed them most.
One finger poised, then two, he slid forward and grazed the plump flush of her opening. She turned her head, her lips inches from his.
“I think you’re trying to serve me.”
He held back the urge to drive his fingers home, waiting for her permission. A pulsing beat passed. “I am.” His voice was thick with need. They stared at each other, breathless. Her hand ran up his arm and she clung to him, pulling him toward her.
He kissed her then, a hard brushing kiss of pent-up desire that she voraciously reciprocated. He trembled, his fingers about to finish their mission.
“Ahem.” A throat cleared.
Nic shielded Maya and whipped his head furiously toward the sound. There was Renard with that stupid grin on his face. “Madame Jillian has sent a reminder that she is serving dinner in thirty minutes.” The man bowed and backed his way out of the room.
“Oh no!” Nic spit.
Maya began to laugh, the sound only urging on his engorged lower half. “You should see your face.”
He was in physical pain, but the sound of her pleasure was beautiful.
“Humph.” He slowly moved away, knowing thirty minutes was not enough time. Not for what he wanted to do to her.
“For the record,” she said, “you were an excellent servant.”
Her glossy lips beckoned him, and he cursed their interruption. There was something about that kiss, a lover’s kiss filled with intimacy. It was the briefest taste of passion, but it had left a stain on his lips. “We’re not done. Just on hold.”
“Is that why you’re still crouched in the water? Things are ‘on hold.’”
“Things are deflating.”
“Poor thing.” Maya rose suddenly and he jerked back, as if seeing Aphrodite reborn. Water streamed down her body, glistening over her breasts and dripping from the hardened tips. Rivulets chased over her flat stomach and converged in a waterfall over the hairless mound between her slick thighs. She touched herself briefly, her finger tracing her folds, waiting for him. He couldn’t breathe, nor would he ever go soft again.
He imagined himself a thirsty beggar, and she the goddess who offered him a drink.
His breath returned when she turned and stepped from the tub, his eyes roaming over her perfectly round bottom and back up to where tendrils of damp hair teased her nape. In one fell swoop, a towel shielded him from what he wanted most.
Her gaze was heavy when she turned to him. “See you at dinner.”
He rose from the tub when she left, hoping the cool air would do some good on his rigid erection. Never had a woman had such an effect on him. Every brush of the towel had him harder still. At this rate, he wasn’t making it to dinner. He padded into the hall and ignored Renard’s smile as he slowly lowered himself into the cold pool.
* * *
Nic and Armand were already at the table when she arrived in the dining room, the two men stopping what sounded like a heated debate. Nic’s gaze softened when he saw her, then he smiled a secret smile as Jillian ushered her into a seat next him. Jillian moved quickly, pouring wine and placing plates of food on the table: roast chicken, potatoes and various steamed vegetables. The children were keeping themselves busy snacking on little bits of cheese, apples and crackers.
“How was your bath, my dear?” Armand asked, his smile still tinged with tension.
“It was wonderful,” she said, ignoring the rush of heat that stole through her body. Beside her, Nic wore a white button-down and camel trousers, simple yet masculine. She held back a powerful urge to touch him.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. You are welcome to anytime.” Armand waited for Jillian, who slid into a chair next to the children, and he began the procession of serving himself, then passing the plate on. He addressed Maya. “I’m sure you have questions about your father. You can ask me anything. He and my brother were best friends and they let me hang around sometimes, as younger boys always want to do. How is your mother doing?”
“She’s well and happy with my stepfather. They’re still in California.”
“Ah, California. Albert talked a lot about Napa Valley, but I’ve never made the trip. Nicky, you used to go, didn’t you?”
Nic finished chewing his food. “A few times. We worked with one winery there for a short while. Albert was trying to establish a market for the business.”
Armand cut himself another piece of chicken. “Your father had an excellent palate and a good eye for quality. My brother did, too, I suppose, but as vintners go, Albert was superior. He practically ran the business himself after your mother left Gabe and went back to Spain.” Maya realized Armand had directed the latter to Nic, whose gaze had dropped to his plate. She touched his arm, the small gesture resulting in a bolstered grin.
“I never met your mother, Maya, but I believe Gabriel did. I remember Gabriel going to California for the wedding, then he called me a few days later saying the wedding had been called off and he and Albert were coming home.”
“Whose wedding?” Nic asked.
“Albert’s. Stop that at once,” Armand interrupted himself, distracted by the children’s napkin war.
Maya felt her breathing shorten. A wedding? That would explain her mother’s tears, but why wouldn’t she have mentioned that? What did he do? What makes a man leave his unborn child?
A strong hand found hers under the table and infused a level of strength she didn’t realize she needed. Briefly, his concerned gaze flicked to her, then turned back to the table.
“What happened after that?” Nic cautiously asked.
“I don’t know. Gabe never spoke of it, and when he and Albert started grooming the land, I barely saw them. I may have even gone back to university by then.” Armand jabbed a fork into his chicken and shoved a sizable amount in his mouth, aware that the children were mimicking his every move. Giggles erupted when they lost their food from their mouths, but Maya’s focus was on her plate, her appetite waning.
“Now that I think of it, Albert did go back to California at the end of the year. Just before Christmas. I don’t remember why exactly—”
“I was born in December.” It came out too curt. Even the children stopped playing.
“I was born in ’cember,” said one of the kids.
“Me too, I was born in ’cember.”
“You were not, you little ruffians,” Jillian chuckled, trying to get them to eat more of their food.
Armand softly placed his fork on his plate and gazed at Maya. “Yes, that would make sense.” There was something sad in his eyes, as if he were remembering something else that he wasn’t mentioning. “Would you like more chicken? Wine, maybe?”
Nic looked at her and squeezed her hand in her lap. “No, thank you.”
“Nic and I were discussing my overproduction. I have no desire to sell my grapes to Benny, or anyone else for that matter. I may just keep them for the spa or ship them to my son in Brazil.”
“Okay,” Maya said, finishing off her potatoes and pushing away her plate.
Nic and Armand looked at each other, then stared at Maya. She leaned back in her chair. “What?”
“I thought you would put up more of a fight,” Armand said.
“I thought you would be more concerned about your brother’s business, but I understand. Nothing lasts forever, right? Not relationships and certainly not business.”
“Erm, right.” Armand frowned.
“It’s a shame that we can’t hold on to the things we love. Twenty years of blood, sweat and tears, gone in an instant. Or transferred in a few legal documents. Maybe it’s best to just pull the plug, right, Nic?” He was looking at her like she’d gone crazy. “We’ll sell th
e vineyard to Claude, and you can have your bed-and-breakfast,” she said to Nic, “and—”
“Sell the vineyard to Claude? Claude Rhone?”
Maya looked up innocently. “I think that’s his name. He does the rosé? For now, he was talking about moving into some cabernets.” She’d gambled and had been right. Claude was a competitor of equal standing, but with more land, he could produce more wines. That last part about the reds she’d made up.
Nic cleared his throat. “Yes, Uncle. You know I’ve been taking about dissolving the—”
“What do you want?” He was looking directly at Maya, his gaze piercing. Finally, there he was, the man who would sell his firstborn.
“Just the grapes,” Maya said softly.
“Not to Benny!”
“Of course not. We’ll sell it to Benny’s friend Remy. That will keep his panties in a bunch for months.”
Armand blinked, and the table held its breath as he began a staccato snorting sound that turned into a full-blown wicked laugh. Even the children looked scared. “Oh, my word,” he said on a sigh, wiping away a tear. “I haven’t laughed like that in a decade. Mademoiselle, you have a deal.”
Jillian jumped up from her seat. “Sounds like we should celebrate. Who’s ready for dessert?”
Maya barely noticed when Jillian left the room and came back with two pies. Nic was looking at her in awe, and her idea of a celebration didn’t include an audience.
After dinner, Armand coaxed Nic into playing the piano, and since they were celebrating he grudgingly agreed. The family reclined on the plush couches as Nic’s tall frame hunched over the keys, his long fingers trailing expertly as he pounded out Gershwin and softly played Chopin.