Barefoot in Lace (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 2) (26 page)

But edited next to that shot was Gussie in the same location, a breeze lifting her skirt and hair in the same way, a profile shot that caught her scar. The angle of her face showed an expression of someone who’d survived and thrived, a woman who had her priorities in order, a woman who knew her true beauty came from the inside. And in that shot, he’d gotten the bottle perfect, the label like a flashing neon sign that said her inner beauty was fired and fueled by what she put in her body…LaVie.

Damn it, why had he made the shot so perfect? For a
test
. Across the market, he tracked Gussie and Alex. They’d moved about a block away, to a vegetable stand, and Gussie stood back, taking a picture of Alex, who playfully dangled a bright red pepper before dropping it into a basket.

He was about to answer Suzette when he noticed that same man, the one who’d made the sudden turn that they had, and he, too, had his phone out and was taking a picture…of them. Instantly, Tom stood, scowling.

“Tom, you must see that we have hit the ballpark!”

He choked at the idiom, as screwed up as this situation. But his focus was really on the stranger.

“Our brand is highlighted. Our message is clear. And our audience has responded exactly as we’d hoped,” she continued excitedly. “In fact, in one of the comments, we found the theme for the whole campaign. Are you ready?”

Gussie and Alex disappeared again, rounding a flower cart out of sight. And the man—a bit taller and huskier than Tom, with a short, military-style haircut—followed. Gussie and Alex were a good city block away from him, so Tom got up and moved fast.

“We’re changing the entire campaign.”

He lost the guy at the flower cart.

“Don’t you want to know our new theme, Tom?”

Was this because Gussie had gotten famous overnight? Now she had stalkers? Or was he some pedophile after Alex? Tom dodged a few tourists without an apology.

“We’re working on ‘Beauty isn’t perfect, but LaVie is.’” She made a soft shriek. “We love it! Don’t you? Our whole campaign will feature not just real women, as you suggested, but
flawed
women. Women who celebrate their imperfections and find—”

They were all out of view now, and Tom’s pulse pumped along with his legs as he practically ran through the market now. “I have to go.”

“Don’t you love it?”

“It’s fine. I have to go, Suzette.”

“Be sure to tell Gussie she has inspired the whole campaign!”

“I will.”
If she’s still alive.
The thought spurred him on, elbowing through a pack of shoppers who scowled at him. He ended the call with a jab of his thumb, pocketing the phone as he reached the flower cart and whipped around to the other side.

And there they were, picking flowers one stem at a time, laughing and talking and totally safe.

Breathless, he scanned the area, searching for the man in the black T-shirt and jeans, but he was gone.

“What’s the matter?” Gussie asked him.

“Are you okay? No one talked to you? No man?”

She drew back, fighting a smile. “No, but are you worried one might?”

“He’s jealous,” Alex teased.

“No, no, I’m…” He looked again, peering at a guy standing next to a display of hanging Persian rugs, but that dude was about fifty. The one following them hadn’t been a day over thirty-five, if that. “I saw someone taking a picture of you.”

“Really?” Gussie’s eyes widened, and then she puffed out a breath that sank her shoulders on the exhale. “Well, I guess if a person wants to get over a weird phobia about having her picture taken, getting her face splattered all over the Internet for a million people to see is the way to go.”

“Only eight hundred thousand,” he corrected, giving up his search.

Gussie grunted and closed her eyes. “Are they taking it down? Did you fight her? Did you tell her you didn’t give permission to—”

“What did he look like?” Alex’s question stopped Gussie short.

“Who, honey?” Gussie asked.

“The man. The one taking our picture. The one you saw.” Alex was trying to stay calm, he could tell, but the low-grade desperation in her voice came through loud and clear.

“Oh, Alex, there’s nothing to worry about,” Gussie assured her. “It was a tourist—”

“Are you sure? Uncle Tommy seems to be concerned.” She looked from side to side, spinning again, searching the crowds. “Did you see his face?”

“Gussie’s right,” Tom said, although he didn’t agree completely. No reason for the girl to be worried. “A tourist or, more likely, one of those eight hundred thousand views.”

Gussie handed the bouquet she’d been making to Alex. “You can finish picking the flowers, honey. What did Suzette say, Tom?”

They took a few steps away, but Alex was still peering hard at every man in the flower market.

“Damn, I hope I didn’t scare her,” he whispered to Gussie.

“I don’t think she’s scared, more like hopeful.”

He frowned, then suddenly understood. “Her father?”

Gussie lifted a shoulder. “She harbors the hope.”

Hope that would never be fulfilled, he knew. “I’ll fill you in later,” he said quickly, something instinctive making him walk back to his niece. “Come on, Alex.” He put a protective hand on her narrow shoulder, guiding her away and kicking himself for overreacting. “Let’s pay for those and finish shopping. I promised you I’d cook a true Niçoise dinner, and we can’t make that out of daisies and violets.”

She took one more look over her shoulder, then fell into step with him. Gussie joined him on the other side, and without thinking too much about it, he held her hand and led the three of them through the market.

He tried really hard not to think about how good and right and, damn it,
permanent
it felt to be flanked by two people who suddenly mattered a whole hell of a lot more than he’d ever expected them to.

“I can’t have dinner with you guys tonight,” Alex said.

“Don’t tell me, you have a date,” Tom said dryly.

She giggled and turned as red as the roses she clutched to her chest. “Miss Annie invited me to go to the French cinema with Lizzie.”

“And Eddie?” he asked.

More blood rushed to her face, and Gussie squeezed his hand in warning. “Well, yeah, he’ll be there. Is that okay?”

“Over my dead body.”

“Uncle Tommy!”

Another squeeze tempered his reply, so he patted Alex’s shoulder. “Of course it’s okay. I was playing with you, Alex,” he said.

She looked up at him, her eyes a little uncertain before she broke into a smile. “Well, that’s a first.”

It sure was. Inside, he could almost feel something click in his chest. An adrenaline dump from the chase or something else? Something like…an adjustment of his heart.

Chapter Twenty

Gussie settled more comfortably on the barstool at the island counter, mesmerized by Tom’s ease and competence in the kitchen. Okay, his ass in jeans and his biceps in a loose-fitting T-shirt were kind of compelling, also.

The tangy aroma of sautéed onions and shallots wafted through the air, the glow of the day hung over every inch of the cozy apartment, and the man who cooked for her had Gussie’s every nerve ending tingling with anticipation and interest.

This was good. This was all so flipping
good
.

So, of course, the familiar sensation of dread crawled up her spine and spread all over those tingling nerve endings, promising to numb every sensation like a bucket of ice water.

“I hate when this happens to me,” she whispered, mostly to herself, but he turned from the stove, always tuned in to those kinds of comments.

“You hate what?”

She tipped the glass with what she hoped was a flippancy that wouldn’t give away her real worries. “Oh, you know, when someone exceedingly hot cooks dinner for me after a dreamy day in the south of France and I have to watch while sipping perfectly chilled chardonnay.” She went for a light smile. “I hate that.”

He shook the sauté pan, spreading the garlic and oil with an expert touch. “You had me at exceedingly hot.”

She rolled her eyes. “As if this is a big shock to you.”

“But you’re lying,” he said.

“Lying? I may have my own personal issues, big guy, but if you try to pretend you don’t know that you are…what do we say back in the old USofA? A stone-cold fox, then you’re pretty blind for a man who uses his eyes to make a living.”

He left the stove to pick up the cutting board covered with sliced vegetables. “I meant you’re lying about why you whispered that you hate this. You hate something, and it’s not me, the day, or the food. I call bullshit. What do you hate?”

If he hadn’t been so dang adept at getting inside her head like that, she’d have laughed. Or lied. But why bother? “I get nervous around anything that’s too good to be true,” she admitted.

He snorted as he dumped mushrooms and onions into the pan. “I hope you don’t mean me, ’cause we both know I’m not.”

“I didn’t mean you.” Yes, she did. “I meant”—she made a quick, sweeping gesture that encompassed everything around her—“this. This day, this trip, this place, this”—
go ahead, admit it
—“this man.”

He splashed some wine from his glass into the pan, causing a sudden flare and sizzle. “I thought you were still stewing over the LaVie situation.”

“Not stewing, exactly. Trying to get used to it. I certainly have never sought fame or fortune, but Ari and Willow seem to think the whole thing is cool and might even help the Brides business. Alex thinks it’s a riot, of course, and you…” He hadn’t really tipped his hand yet. “I’m not sure how you feel about anything.”

She glanced at her glass, still nearly full, but maybe the wine was too potent for her if she was going to start confessing things better kept inside.

“My opinion doesn’t matter.”

Like hell it didn’t.

Leaving the stove, he came around the counter behind her, setting his glass next to hers. “So what are you hating?” he asked, genuine confusion in eyes the same blue as the flames flickering under the burner.

“I just told you…all of this is too…good.” Wonderful, really. Impossibly, perfectly wonderful.

He slid his hands over her bare shoulders, his thumbs slipping right under the straps of her tank top. “But why is that a problem, Gussie?”

She tipped her head to the side to rub her cheek against his knuckles, a hungry puppy taking all the affection he gave her. “Because it’s too good to be true.”
Too good to last
.

“But it is true.” He rubbed his thumbs in circles, causing a cascade of chill bumps on her arms.

“And it is too good,” she cooed into his touch. “When things are really nice and easy and swell and sweet, then I’m in suspended animation, waiting for it all to blow up in my face.”

He was quiet for a moment, then she felt his lips press against the back of her head, over the hair that partially covered her scar. “Understandable, I guess,” he whispered. “Since your good life did once blow up more or less in your face.”

More chills exploded, but not because of his warm lips or gentle hands. It was the softness of his words and sympathy that gave her a slight shiver. This man
understood
her like no one she’d ever met.

And that slayed her heart.

“You know, Tom, I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t be quite so ideal.” She turned the stool to face him. “That way, when it blows up—or over, as the case may be—it won’t hurt so much.”

He searched her face, his eyes piercing, his mouth unsmiling. “What do you want me to say to that?” he asked.

How about…
It’s not going to blow up, Pink.

Except that would have been a lie. And Tom didn’t lie.

“I want you to say exactly what you feel,” she said. “Because that’s what you get me to do. So do the same for me. Tell me exactly what you feel.”

She could take it. She could take his explanation of how he liked her, but he was a loner, drifter, desperado type, and the end was inevitable, and this couldn’t la—

“Let’s skip dinner and go right to bed.”

She choked on her unfinished thought. “Why didn’t I see that coming?”

“You did.” He leaned in and whispered the words over her mouth. “I want you.”

And every single cell that carried a double-X chromosome started marching in order, preparing for the onslaught. Yes, yes,
yes
.

“Skip dinner? I’m hungry,” she lied. Well, she
was
hungry. But not for chicken
chasseur
.

“You’re scared.”

“No shit.”

He opened his mouth and scared her some more, this time with plenty of tongue. She put both hands on his shoulders, ready to ease him back, but that didn’t work at all. The moment she touched his arms, all she could do was dig in and pull him closer to kiss some more.

“Don’t be scared,” he murmured.

She laughed into the kiss. “Easy for you to say.”

He drew back, opening his eyes slowly. “No, Gussie, it’s not easy at all.” All the sexual playfulness evaporated at his tone. “I’m scared, too.”

“Forgive me if I find that a little hard to believe.”

“Why?” He took his hands off her, and immediately, she felt cold, but she followed suit and let go of his arms. “Why is that so hard to believe?” he asked. “You think I’m fearless?”

“I think you’re the leaver. You’re the mover. You’re the guy who lives for his independence and tattoos proclamations of solitude on his arm.”

“Proving my point,” he fired back. “A man who embraces his solitude has a lot more to lose when faced with…”

She froze, not even breathing as she waited for him to finish. But he shut down, shaking his head.

“With what?” she demanded.

“This.” The word was barely audible.

This
. This? “What exactly is this?” she asked.

“This is”—he swiped his hand through his hair—“getting complicated.”

“And falling into bed together is really going to simplify things.”

He started to turn away, then froze, taking in a quick breath. In a flash, he wrapped her in his arms and pulled her off the chair, practically lifting her to nearly the same height, crushing her chest against his.