First of all, he’s dressed in a freaking tuxedo. I mean, this is a slick suit, complete with bow tie and shiny shoes. Second of all, his hair is all artfully mussed up with some kind of product and pushed off his face, letting those gorgeous eyes of his shine. And, of course, that cocky as hell smile that I could stare at all night long.
“You look beautiful,” he says to me, letting his heavy-lidded eyes slowly coast up and down my body, pausing ever so briefly at my breasts. “You made the right choice with that dress.”
I’m blushing. Damn it.
“They were all so lovely,” I tell him, feeling all sorts of awkward all of a sudden, because now he’s here, and this thing is so real. “I had a hard time choosing. Sorry I don’t have the right footwear to complement it, though.” I point my mangled foot at him.
“I won’t be staring at your feet, don’t worry,” he says. “May I come in?”
“Of course, it’s your room.”
He grins at me as he strides into the room, and I catch the fresh scent of his aftershave. Mint and cedar and something clean. “It would be very dangerous for me to think of my hotels that way,” he says as he takes a vase from the corner of the room and fills it up with water in the bathroom before artfully arranging the roses in it.
“Oh, I’m sure plenty of women—and men—wouldn’t mind if you barged in on them.”
“You seem very preoccupied with the idea of me and other people,” he says to me, placing the roses by my bed. “For as long as you see me standing before you, other people don’t exist. It’s only me and only you.” The way his eyes are latched on to mine is so intense, I can feel my core grow hot. “Especially only you. Tu comprends?”
I feel a little sheepish at that. I’m not sure why I keep bringing it up; I guess it’s because it’s really the only thing I know about him. And, I mean, just look at this guy.
“Okay,” I say quietly, giving him a shy smile. “It’s just me and just you.” I clear my throat, changing the subject. “So where are you taking me tonight?”
His eyes go to the French doors and the setting sun beyond, which is painting the sky shades of lavender and peach. “I hope you don’t get seasick.”
“You’re taking me on the boat?”
He nods. “Just you and just me. Oh, and Marcel and Philippe. He’s an excellent chef, won many awards.”
I can only blink at him.
“So I can still surprise you,” he says. “That’s good to know.” He comes over to me. “Now if you don’t mind, we have a boat to catch.” He holds his arm out to me. “You can use me as a crutch, or I can carry you in my arms.”
“Sure you don’t want to put me in a wheelbarrow? I’m sure that will turn a few heads.”
“People here have seen stranger things, I’m sure.”
Since I’ve been resting most of the day, I find I can get along pretty well with pressure on the ball of my foot, so luckily the wheelbarrow is out of the question. I take his arm and grin up at him, my nerves dancing at how close we are, making my skin feel flushed and tingly.
“Shall we?” he asks, his voice taking on this throaty, silken quality that makes me bite my lip. I nod.
The journey down to the boat is fairly painless. The path is level and well groomed, making it easy to just lean on him. The sounds of birds and cicadas fill the candy-colored air, and I breathe in the smells of rosemary and cypress.
“God, it’s beautiful,” I tell him. “It feels so good to be outside of the room.”
“I can imagine,” he says.
“Why do you live in Paris? I’d live here if I could.”
He chuckles softly, and when I glance up at him, I can see the fiery skies reflected in his eyes. “I’m too young to live here. This is where you go when you retire.”
“But I mean, I’m sure you could retire tomorrow if you wanted. You don’t have to work a day in your life if you don’t want to.”
He nods, his lips pressed together. “You’re right. I don’t have to work. But I want to. It’s . . . what gives me life. And Paris is where the work is, where the life is. When I feel I’ve taken on too much, maybe then I’ll come down here and relax for a few days.”
“But I bet you don’t. I bet it’s always business for you.”
He shoots me a quick smile. “Are you making guesses, or are you just observant?”
I shrug. “A little from column A, a little from column B.”
He frowns. “I don’t understand the reference.”
“You don’t have to.”
The boat is actually a massive sailboat situated along a dock with a few other ridiculously large ships tied to it. Olivier lets it slip that one of them belongs to a very famous couple I have no doubt is Jay-Z and Beyoncé.
But before I have time to marvel over their impressive motorboat, I’m scuttled aboard Olivier’s, which is all teakwood and cream colors, both modern and vintage. I don’t know a damn thing about boats and have been on only one, during a field trip in tenth grade, but I know this thing is top of the line.
With Philippe the chef cooking up a storm in the galley kitchen, Olivier and I settle into the plush seats by the cockpit, with Marcel at the wheel of the boat as it pulls away from the dock and heads out to sea.
“Is there anything you can’t do, Marcel?” I ask the concierge teasingly.
“Absolument pas,” Marcel says with a wink.
“But seriously,” I say, turning to Olivier, who has his arm along the back of the seat. With his tux and the sunset skies and the dark waves glittering with gold behind him, he looks every inch a French James Bond. “I didn’t peg you for a sailor. Don’t you need to have a lot of time on your hands for that?”
He gives me a lopsided grin. “You do. And Marcel is a far more capable sailor than I am. This boat actually belongs to my brother, Renaud.”
“Where is Renaud now? He doesn’t mind you using his boat?”
“So many questions.” He reaches out and gives a few strands of my hair a light tug.
I swallow. “I like to know things. I’d like to know you. The real you, not the one I read about.”
His gaze drops to my lips, and for a heady moment, my world starts to spin, and I think, This is it, he’s finally going to kiss me.
But the spell is broken when he looks away at the darkening horizon, clouds spreading through the sky like an inky bruise. My heart is beating loud in my chest, waiting, waiting . . .
“Renaud lives in California,” he finally says, his voice growing quiet. “He started out with a few of our wineries here in Bordeaux and then kept expanding and expanding. He now stays at his biggest winery in Napa. Actually, he’s been trying to get me to develop a hotel there for a while, but . . .”
“You don’t want to leave France.”
“It’s not that. I love California, and I haven’t expanded to the States yet. But . . . I think I need to stay near my family. For now.”
I don’t want to pry more than I have already. I read that his mother died in a car accident about four years ago, so I figure he may be supporting his father in more ways than one, even if he wants nothing to do with that side of the business.
“Have you been to California?” Olivier asks me. The question sounds natural, but I can already tell that he’s just trying to change the subject. I tell him I’ve been there with a friend—to Universal Studios to see Harry Potter World. Actually, I went with Tom, but I don’t want to bring that loser up—and we get onto the subject of traveling, which is something I can now talk his ear off about, letting him off the hook.
Can’t say I blame him for being a bit cagey about his family. In many ways, we’re still total strangers, and I know it usually takes a long time before I start opening up to people about my life. And I mean the real, nitty-gritty, not-so-pretty parts of it. On the surface we might seem like two completely different people from totally different lives, but perhaps we’re not so different if you dig a little deeper.
But, as usual around Olivier, I’m gettin
g a little ahead of myself. I don’t know why I keep trying to make this something it’s not, when it’s not even anything to begin with.
And yet, here I am on his family’s yacht, under a twinkling night sky, floating on the Mediterranean, while a Michelin-starred chef serves us a seafood feast the likes of which I’ve never experienced before. The Dumont wine is at the ready, and Olivier is giving me his undivided attention, as if he’s feasting on me with his eyes and ears.
I wish he would feast on me in other ways.
I wish I had the nerve to touch him, kiss him, do something.
I’m growing afraid.
But I’m no longer afraid of what might happen—I’m afraid of what might not. When I first saw Olivier, when he first took care of me and brought me here, I was so sure that his main goal was to seduce me. I couldn’t explain why, because, let’s face it, I’m not his usual type, but that’s honestly what I thought. Then, as the days started to tick by and we got to know each other in a purely platonic way, well, then that little theory of mine started to melt away.
If I started out with jitters and butterflies in my stomach over the idea of Olivier and me together physically, then those butterflies inside me have now morphed into desperate, voracious beasts.
I want to consume this man, and I want him to consume me.
I want to feel this part of him before we say goodbye and the fairy tale ends and my old life begins again. I want Olivier before it’s too late.
It’s just after dessert—a meringue-and-almond dish with a raspberry coulis—when Marcel drops anchor, the chains noisily clattering into the sea.
“Where are we?” I ask, looking around. We had been steadily moving back toward the many lights of land when we stopped. We aren’t that far from shore; I can see the bleached, rocky edges of the land glowing under the moon and shrubs dancing in the light sea breeze, and I can hear the sound of the waves gently lapping over the rocks.
Olivier grins at me, his smile shadowed by the warm glow of the cockpit lights, and starts to undo his bow tie.
Meanwhile, Marcel heads down the stairs into the boat, throwing up a couple of fluffy towels.
“What’s happening?” I ask, though I have an idea.
“Care to go for a swim?” Olivier asks, his tie now loose, his hands deftly unbuttoning his shirt.
Oh God.
“Um,” I manage to say feebly, “I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“Go in your underwear.”
“I’m not wearing a bra.”
He smirks. “I’ve noticed.” Then he shrugs off his jacket and shirt until he’s topless.
Even in the dim light, he’s a sight to behold. Wide, firm chest, rigid abs, those lickable Vs on the side of his hips—all wrapped up in a smooth golden package.
Speaking of package, now his fingers are undoing his belt, and I’m not sure I’m ready for what’s next.
“I’m going in,” he tells me. “You’re free to join me. I highly advise a dip in the Mediterranean. The sea salt here is good for your soul.”
I’ll tell you what else is good for the soul: watching Olivier Dumont take off his clothes, that’s what. The sound as he undoes his zipper is so loud it seems to bounce off the waves.
I quickly avert my eyes, even though the temptation to stare is overwhelming, and then he moves into my vision: his perfect shoulders, back, and, yes, one hell of an ass, all lit by the soft moonlight.
He stops just at the stern of the ship, climbs over the railing, and with one quick smile back at me over his shoulder, swan-dives naked into the sea with barely a splash.
I get up and scramble over as quickly as I can with my ankle and peer over the side.
He’s swimming and grinning up at me, his wet hair pushed off his face. But that’s not the only thing that’s taking my breath away.
The water around him is lit up, like the moon’s glow has saturated it. The light continues out from around him along the dark waves, like cool white trails snaking through the sea.
“It’s called une mer de lait,” he says. “The sea of milk. It’s bioluminescence from a type of Mollusca.”
“It’s magical,” I say breathlessly, trying to soak it all in. “We have something like this in the Pacific Northwest, but it’s more blue and green. This is like . . . you’re swimming in the Milky Way.”
“Doesn’t it make you want to jump in?”
It does. And so does the fact that he’s so effortlessly bobbing in the waves.
“Is it safe?”
“Very much so.”
“Warm?”
“Bien sûr.”
I think about it for a minute. “What about my ankle?”
“You can use the steps and platform at the back, just there. Unwrap your ankle so the bandage doesn’t get wet, and we’ll put it back on you after.”
“And my lack of bathing suit?”
“I just went in naked.”
“I didn’t see anything,” I tell him quickly.
“No? That’s a shame. It was the whole point.”
I smile, feeling extremely giddy all of a sudden, like everything inside me is fired up and ready to go. Fuck yes, I’m going in.
“Okay,” I tell him, walking around to the back, where there’s a step leading down to a wide wooden swimming platform. I sit down on the step and start unwrapping my ankle. “But you have to turn around when this dress comes off.”
“You do know by now that most women in France swim and sunbathe topless anyway?”
“And you know by now that I am not a Frenchwoman, nor am I most women,” I tell him, pulling the rest of the bandage off and setting it aside before easing up to my feet. “Okay, turn around now.”
He sighs but pivots in the water so he’s facing the shore. I quickly reach down and slip off my underwear, not wanting to get them wet, then unzip my dress and pull it over my head. I toss it back on the deck and look to see if he’s peeking.
To his credit, he’s not, but he is letting out a sly whistle of sorts as if he might have been earlier.
“You better not have seen anything,” I warn him as I hobble over to the edge.
“My imagination is pretty good at filling in the blanks,” he says, and I can hear the grin on his face. “Though I have no doubt it won’t do it justice for when I see the real thing.”
“When?” I repeat with a dry laugh, but inside a million fireworks are going off.
Time to take the literal plunge.
There’s nothing as nerve-racking as the moment before you’re about to jump, when something goes from a concept that you’ve talked about and considered to a real, actual thing. It’s scary. It doesn’t matter if it’s taking your first trip overseas or jumping into the Mediterranean Sea at night. The abstract becomes your reality, and it’s happening.
So I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and jump.
CHAPTER SIX
SADIE
With a deep breath of the warm, scented night air, I jump into the bracing chill of the sea. I feel every inch of my naked skin dance as I drop deeper into the water, until I’m enveloped in the shimmering ocean like a mythical creature.
Then I’m rushing up to the surface and bursting through, gasping for air, tasting the salt on my lips, my legs kicking to stay afloat.
I push the wet hair off my face and wipe my eyes to see Olivier smiling at me as he swims over.
“You did it,” he says, and I don’t know how it’s possible, but being in the water has transformed him into something larger than life as well, like he’s some mythical merman.
“I did,” I say, and my gaze is battling between staring at the shimmery, white stars in the water or the languid, sexual nature of his eyes.
I’m suddenly very, very conscious of how naked I am; the tops of my breasts are glistening from the moonlight, and he’s drifting closer and closer to me as we tread water together.
My heart is really rocketing now, not only from the adrenaline push from the jump, but because I can
feel myself being drawn to him like stars toward a black hole. If my body were to press against his, I would feel every single hard and wet inch of him, and I’m pretty sure I would combust, fire spreading out along the glowing water.
“You’re beautiful, Sadie,” he says to me, his chin dipping into the water as he stares up at me intently through his long eyelashes.
For once, I resist the urge to laugh it off or downplay it, like I usually do when someone gives me a compliment. I don’t do anything like that, because it feels like Olivier is offering it up to me as a sign of reverence. Like it means something.
I swallow thickly, unable to say anything. I can only stare at him and the glowing water reflected in his eyes.
And then it happens.
His warm hand is at my back like a current, pulling me gently forward until my skin is brushing against his skin, and the water comes alive. One hand goes to my cheek, gripping me softly, while the other keeps us both afloat. He leans in, and it feels like whatever this is is meant to be, a cosmic dalliance, universes above and below us colliding in a sea of stars.
Another life becoming more real than the first one.
His lips press against mine, soft and slow and wet, tasting of salt and need and want. I gasp hungrily as I feel his erection press against my hip, sliding against me as my hand goes to his shoulders to hold on.
“You’re too beautiful for words,” he whispers to me, his lips brushing against mine. “None of the words in English will do. None of the words in French will do either. There is no language that can describe what I see before me.”
And I’m melting. If I weren’t holding on to his strong shoulders, I would be sinking like a stone.
But while I’m melting, I’m also firing up. Flames are building in my core, rising high, spurring a need in me like no other.
I kiss him hard, wanting so much of him at once, wanting to keep kissing him and drowning in his depths. My hands are roaming everywhere on his body as his hands do the same to mine, and we’re barely staying afloat.
But if I drowned right here, I think I’d only need his kiss to keep me alive.
I don’t know how long we make out like this, bathed in glowing water, indulging in the feel of each other for the first time, but eventually a noise brings us out of our fevered state.
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