Summer Sins: Bedded, or Wedded? / Willingly Bedded, Forcibly Wedded / The Mediterranean Billionaire's Blackmail Bargain. Julia James
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came up to him, perching herself on a corner of the table that stood on the terrace, at which they generally ate breakfast and lunch. As it always did when she set eyes on Xavier, Lissa’s heart squeezed. She had thought him devastating in business clothes—or none at all, she blushed mentally—but in casual clothes such as the chinos he was wearing now, with a polo shirt stretched across his lean torso, his hair slightly ruffled, he looked even more devastating, lounging back on the padded chair with a lithe grace that made her breath catch.
Was she really, truly here with Xavier? Or was it some fantasy she was imagining real? Yet the glow of her body as she looked at him told her that it was real. Every day—and every night. Real and rapturous.
And it was a rapture that just seemed to get more and more blissful. Every time, it seemed to her, dazed and amazed, was better than the last. In Xavier’s arms she had discovered a sensuality that she had never known she possessed. Although he was clearly so very much more skilled in the exquisite art of lovemaking than she was, she never felt inadequate or inexperienced—never felt that she could not give the same pleasure as he gave her in such breathtaking abundance. And that, she recognised, was the greatest skill of all—to make her feel that she was as beautiful, as sensual, as desirable as she knew he would want a woman to be. She glowed in his arms, and came alive in a way she had never known before.
And it was not just when she was in his arms that he made her feel beautiful and desirable. With every look, she read it in his eyes. And it sent a thrill through her that she treasured.
And a glow that warmed her. Warmed her deep into the core of her being. Just being here, with him. With Xavier.
Yet it troubled her, that warmth she felt. Into her head, words darted a warning: be careful.
She did not—would not—put into words or even thoughts what it was she was warning herself about, but she knew, with some inner instinctive sense of danger, that she must heed that warning.
The blind fate that had taken so much from her in a handful of moments on that terrible day of twisted metal had all but destroyed everything she had once thought would be there for ever. In the same unfathomable way, it had given her this radiantly happy time now. Xavier Lauran had walked into her life—she knew not why, only that fate had made it happen, had given her this gift. For that was what he was to her, she knew. A gift.
Coming from nowhere and, she knew, with clear, non-decieving eyes, going to nowhere.
There was no future with Xavier. There could not be. He was like a glass of the finest vintage champagne, handed to her by the whim of that same fate that had taken so much from her. She would drink the champagne that was her time with Xavier to the full. She would let him go to her head like champagne.
But she would be wise, and never let him go to her heart.
And now, with the bubbles beading at the brim, she gazed smilingly across at him from her perch on the table. She was at ease with him—had been at ease for all their time together. What had they done, day after day? Their nights had been spent in each other’s arms, full of passion and desire that melted the bones in her body, that took her to ecstasy and beyond. Their days had been spent easily, drifting, slipping away one by one. The deep exhaustion that had been a constant part of her life for so long had finally drained out of her in the lazy, lotus-eating days they’d passed here. There was no work to be done in the little villa—a local couple took care of housekeeping and meals and what little gardening there was to attend to on the private grounds.
What did they do each day? She tried to think. They breakfasted late—for sleep came late after lovemaking, and had a tendency to be interrupted by yet more in the night, and their levée was languorous and sensual and protracted. They lingered over breakfast, feasting on fragrant coffee and fresh croissants, with the aroma mingling with the tangy scent of the pine trees and the sun shafting between their trunks, glittering on the azure sea beyond. They would read, and sun themselves, and take a walk through the pine woods or along the sea’s edge. Though it was too cold to swim, the shoreline was beautiful and deserted. There was a motorboat drawn up in the cove, a little one, with an outboard motor, and Xavier had taken her out in it, pottering around the islands, crossing over to the larger, more populated ones. She had loved the Île St Honorat, with its working monastery and old medieval fortifications, and even the twin Île of Ste Marguerite, though its natural beauty had been dimmed by the sad tale of the Man in the Iron Mask, who had been so mysteriously incarcerated in the now-ruined fortress there in the seventeenth century. But both islands had been peaceful and beautiful, with wooded walks and secret beaches.
Xavier had offered to take her to the mainland once, but she hadn’t wanted to go. Her reluctance was not only because she could see little appeal in the overdeveloped coastline, with its marinas stuffed with massive yachts, and its shoreline built up with hotels and high-rise apartments. There was another reason, too—and it was not just because she revelled in having Xavier to herself.
It was because here, on this tiny, secluded isle, she could keep the outside world at bay. Here, she was utterly with Xavier, thinking only of Xavier, being only with Xavier. Absorbing all her mind, her time.
Keeping her mind very far away from what was happening in America, and when she would hear again from Armand.
She did not want to think about that. Did not want that biting undercurrent of anxiety to well up when there was nothing she could do about it. All she could do was wait until Armand contacted her. Then she would know.
Until then, she had Xavier. And she must make the most, the very most of him. How short a time she had with him.
Anguish pierced at her, but she pushed it aside. She would not let it spoil this brief, precious time. This magical, wonderful time. All that she would have with him.
Now, reaching out one bare leg, she toed the market report that Xavier held in his hands. She grinned across at him.
‘Oh, chuck the boring old report, Xavier, and come beachcombing with me,’ she teased.
‘Beachcombing?’ he echoed, with a humorous frown at the colloquialism.
‘You know—wandering along the beach to see what you can find.’
‘But there is no beach, only rocks,’ he objected.
She made a face. ‘Oh, you French are so logical. Do come. The water may be freezing, but it’s absolutely beautiful and crystal-clear.’ She looked about her and took a deep breath. ‘I love the scent of the pines—it permeates everything.’
He gave a smile, putting down the report, glad to do so. ‘You have missed the mimosa, which is a shame—its scent is quite exquisite. We’re missing the lavender, too—we saw the fields on the Île St Honorat, remember, where the monks grow it to make their liqueur.’ He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Would you like to visit Grasse while we are here? It is the centre of the perfume industry in France—and XeL has a parfumerie there which I could show you. And we really should go to St Paul de Vence, which is not too far from there. The Matisse chapel is nearby, and in the village itself is the celebrated Colombe d’Or Hotel, which has its very own art collection from the famous artists who stayed there. We should have lunch there.’ He made a rueful face. ‘I have shown you very little of the Cote d’Azur, hélas.’
He sounded regretful as he watched Lissa drop with her innate grace into the lounger beside him.
‘It hasn’t bothered me,’ she assured him. ‘I’m happy here at the villa. Blissfully so!’
It was true she could hardly recall ever knowing such happiness, as she had here in their private, secret world, with their private, secret happiness.
She sought to rationalise her reluctance to leave the island and the villa.
“I wish the whole Riviera were still like this—just pine trees and a rocky shoreline, with a few villas and maquis up in the hills, with deserted bays and headlands and beaches every few miles. It’s such a shame it’s been so spoilt.’ She caught herself as she finished, and it was her turn to put