Rags To Riches: A Desire To Serve. Janice Maynard
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face to know he’d crossed the line.
The line he’d been stupid enough to draw! He was the one who’d assured her they would work things out. He’d spouted that inane drivel about giving their arrangement time.
To hell with waiting. He ached to drag Grace out of the shop, hustle her back to The Elms and strip her down to the warm, perfumed flesh that was sending his senses into dangerous overload.
“Monsieur?”
The shop clerk’s voice cut through his red haze. Before Blake could bring the woman into focus, he had to exercise the iron will that allowed him to appear calm before judges and juries.
She finally appeared, smiling and eager. “Do you wish to purchase a vial for your so-lovely wife?”
God, yes!
At his nod, she whipped out a sales slip. “Do you stay here in Saint-Rémy?”
He knew his address would up the asking price by at least half but was beyond caring. “We’re at Hôtel des Elmes.”
Her glance sharpened. “Ahhh. I recognize you now. You came to Saint-Rémy last year, oui? With… Er…” She broke off, then recovered after an infinitesimal pause. “With your so very charming mother.”
Riiiight. Blake seriously doubted his twin had timed a visit to the villa to coincide with one of their mother’s protracted stays. Alex and Delilah were both obviously well-known in town, however, so he didn’t bother to correct the clerk’s misconception.
“We’ll take a bottle of that scent.”
Beaming, she rattled off the price for a three-ounce bottle. He was reaching for his money clip when Grace gave a strangled gasp.
“Did you say two hundred euros?”
“Oui, madame.”
“Two hundred euros?”
“Oui.”
“That’s like…”
Blake paused in the act of peeling off several euro notes while she did the mental math.
“Good grief! That’s almost three hundred dollars U.S.” Horrified, she closed her hand over his. “That’s too much.”
A pained look crossed the salesclerk’s face. “You will not find a more distinctive or more delicate scent in all Provence. And…”
Her glance cut to Blake. When she turned back to Grace, a conspiratorial smile tilted her lips.
“If I may say so, madame, your husband does not purchase this fragrance for you. He is the one who will detect its essence on your skin. If it pleases him…”
Her shoulders lifted in that most Gallic of all gestures, and Grace could only watch helplessly as Blake dropped the euro notes on the counter.
Even with Grace’s seductive scent delivering a broadside every time Blake turned his head or leaned toward her, he didn’t plan what happened when they returned to the villa. His conscience would always remain clear on that point. When he suggested a swim, his only intent was to continue the easy camaraderie established during lunch.
What he hadn’t anticipated was the kick to his gut when Grace joined him poolside and slipped off her terry cloth cover-up. He’d already done a half dozen laps but wasn’t the least winded until the sight of her slender, seductive curves sucked the air from his lungs.
“How’s the water?”
Blake tried to untangle his tongue. Damned thing felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool. “Cool at first,” he got out after an epic struggle. “Not so bad once you’re in.”
Oh, for God’s sake! Her suit was a poppy-colored one-piece that covered more than it revealed. Yet he was damned if he could stop his gaze from devouring the slopes of her breasts when she bent to deposit her towel on the lounger. That unexpected jolt was followed by another when she turned to dip a toe in the water and gave him an unimpeded view of the curve of her bottom cheeks.
“Yikes!” She jerked her foot back with a yelp and zinged him an indignant look. “You think this is cool? What’s your definition of cold? Minus forty?”
He grinned and tread water as she dipped another cautious toe. Her face screwed into a grimace. She inched down a step, her shoulders hunched almost to her ears. Eased onto the next step. The water swirled around her calves, her thighs.
“Coward,” he teased.
She took another tentative step, and his grin slipped. The water lapped the lower edge of her suit. The bright red material dampened at the apex of her thighs and provided a throat-closing outline of what lay beneath.
“Oh, hell.”
He barely heard her mutter of self-disgust. Or felt the splash when she gathered her courage and flopped all the way in. She bobbed up a moment later, her hair a sleek waterfall of pale gold. Sparkling drops beaded her lashes. Laughter lit her eyes.
Something inside Blake shifted. He didn’t see the woman who’d lied to him and his family by omission, or the conspirator who’d withheld crucial information about the mother of his child. There were no shadows haunting the eyes of this laughing, splashing water sprite. For the moment at least, no memories constrained her simple pleasure. It was a glimpse of the woman Grace must have been before she took on the burden of her cousin’s secrets. An even more tantalizing hint of the woman who might reemerge if and when she shed that burden.
Without conscious thought, Blake realigned his priorities. Convincing his bride to trust him remained his primary goal. Getting her into bed ran a close second. But keeping that carefree laughter in her eyes was fast elbowing its way up close to the top of the list.
“All right,” she gasped, dancing on her toes. “I’m in. When does it get to ‘not so bad’?”
“Do a couple laps. You’ll warm up quick enough.”
She made a face but took his suggestion. He rolled into an easy breaststroke and kept pace with her. She had a smooth, clean stroke, he noted with approval, a nice kick. Two laps turned into three, then four. Or what would have been four.
She made the turn, pushed off the wall at an angle and submarined into him. They went under in a tangle of arms and legs. She came up sputtering. He came up with his bride plastered against his chest.
“Sorry!”
Blinking the water out of her eyes, she clung to him. They were at the deep end, in well over their heads. Literally, Blake thought, as her thighs scissored between his. Maybe figuratively.
Hell, there was no maybe about it. He wanted her with a raw need he didn’t try to analyze. She must have seen it in his face, felt his muscles tighten under her slick, slippery hands. She looked up at him with a question in her eyes.
“According to our contract,” he got out on a near rasp, “any and all physical contact must be by mutual consent. If you don’t want this to go any further, you’d better say so now.”
After a pause that just about ripped out Blake’s guts, she clamped her lips shut and matched him look for look. With another growl, he claimed her mouth.
The kiss was swift and hot and hungry. If he’d interpreted her silence wrong, if she’d tried to push away, Blake would’ve released her. He was almost sure of that. She didn’t, thank God, and he threw off every vestige of restraint.
They went under again, mouths and bodies fused. When they resurfaced, Blake kept her pinned, gave two swift kicks and took them to the wall. He flattened her against the tiles, using one hand to hold them both up while he attacked one strap of her suit with the other. The skin of her shoulder was soft and cool and slick. The mingled scents of lavender and chlorine acted like a spur, turning hunger into greed.