Carnal in Cannes (22 page)

Gently he adjusted his wife so her cheek lay in the nook between his neck and shoulder, all the while stroking her spine with one hand and combing her curls with the other. “Tell me about it. Trust me, it"s cathartic—healing, I mean—to talk about past hurt. Do you know why she sold you?”

“Non,” she replied, her voice barely audible in the silent cabin.

“How old were you?”

He felt her shrug, but she didn"t answer and instead burying her face into his shirt, her nose burrowing into his chest. A sad thought mushroomed, and he said, keeping his tone even, “You don"t really know how old you are, do you?”

A hiccupped sob tore from her lips; she buried her face in her hands.

“It"s okay, Martine. Cry. Get it all out.”

108

Jianne Carlo

“Non.” She burst out and pushed off his chest. “I will
not
cry.” Both hands fisted at her sides, and, chin firming, she met his stare. “I am almost twenty. I have a birth paper signed by the parish priest.” Her voice wavered. “I don"t remember when my mother took me away from Grand-mère…”

“What happened after that?”

She snorted, her mouth turned down at the corners, and she shut her eyes before answering. “In Haiti they call children like me…” Clenching her jaw she bit out, “Children like I
was
, a
restavek
. It is the Creole word for a child owned by a family.”

“Were they the ones who beat you?”

Turning her face to the wall so he could only see her profile, she snapped,

“Why is it always the beating with you? I would have taken a thousand beatings instead of those years in Solino.”

Harry latched on to the name. “Solino?”

One side of her mouth quirked as she angled to him, nostrils fluttering, her features contorted, and the bleakness in her eyes bespoke her mental pain. “Hell. I lived in hell.”

The dam she"d erected had broken. This was the point an interrogator worked for, the puncturing of a prisoner"s shield, and he knew she was no longer aware of him but was locked in the past, haunted by the memories playing in her head.

“Maman sold all her children. I was her first child. My grand-mère took me to live with her before Maman could sell me. I was the lucky one. For a few years, anyway.” For long moments she didn"t speak. “I went with Maman when she came to get me, foolish child that I was. I stole out of my grand-mère"s hut to meet Maman to go to Port-au-Prince. I thought she loved me. Idiot Martine. Maman left me with them, the family from hell who lived in hell.”

Only by tensing every muscle in his body did Harry resist crushing her into his embrace. All external noise faded to the point where her ragged breathing sounded like thunderbolts in the stateroom.

“I waited and waited. I was so frightened. Grand-mère and I had lived on a hill a morning"s walk from the nearest village. We hardly saw any other people. There were so many people in Solino. Everywhere people, dogs, goats, cats, chickens, and garbage. Filth everywhere. I couldn"t get away from it. I stank of it. I didn"t mind the work, but only the mistress was allowed to talk to me. The children didn"t talk to me except to call me Satan"s child, tell me I had devil—”

Knocking thundered on the cabin door. “Harry, you gotta get on deck pronto.

Delora"s here.”

Damn you to hell, Delora.

All the color seeped from Martine"s café au lait complexion, leaving a gray cast to the skin stretched across her cheekbones. Her eyes opened wide, and her jaw dropped. She swung in the direction of the stateroom"s entrance and muttered, Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

109

“Imbéciles,” before scrambling off the bed and rushing into the bathroom and slamming the door.

“Freaking perfect timing,” Harry spat, shoving off the mattress and then marching to fling the door open.

“Sorry,” Austen said, and he looked discombobulated, sporting reddened corneas, tousled black curls, and a two-day stubble. “I tried to stop her from boarding, but…”

“I know. She"s a fricking bulldozer.” Harry"s lips curled. “I hope you didn"t leave her alone.” Two long strides took him to the coffee table. He grabbed his Stetson, stuck it on his head, and swiveled. “Any idea as to the subject of her visit?”

“She"s got two suits with her. I"m guessing they"re her lawyers.” Austen fell into place next to Harry after he"d exited the cabin, and they strolled down the hallway. “By the way, I managed to persuade the chef to return. I left him serving them coffee and sandwiches in the lounge on the main deck.”

“Whatever Delora"s here for, it ain"t gonna be good,” Harry quipped.

His mind kept rewinding to Martine"s desolate visage and the monotone voice in which she"d recited the horrific details of her childhood. Slave. Even thinking the word curdled the saliva in his mouth. Martine had been a child slave. How had she escaped? When? He prayed she"d escaped within months of her enslavement. Living on the streets at least she"d have her freedom.

“Yo.” Austen snapped his fingers in front of Harry"s nose. “Ground control to Major Tom. No spacing out. You"ve been behind the ground ball during this will battle. Jeeves, Mary, and Jacob, you"re ex-special ops. Take control of the situation and ambush
her
for once. I"m tired of seeing you reeling.”

The scowl Harry shot Austen had quelled the most raucous man under his command in Afghanistan. Apparently the glare had no effect on Austen, as he continued, “Mark my words—she"s not here for her looks. My scalp"s tingling like it did on lookout just before that last raid that took me out of service.”

An ex-SEAL, Austen had been forced into desk duty when he"d been shot during Desert Storm.

“I know. My neck"s prickling more"n an armadillo cornered by a coyote.” Harry squeezed Austen"s shoulder. “I"m aiming to rope and hogtie my stepmother and have her squealing like the pig she is. But it ain"t gonna happen overnight or today.

I have to let her think she"s sideswiped me. Play along.”

One of Austen"s bushy brows winged up. “The lion roars. "Bout time. Want to fill me in after she"s gone?”

“Planned to,” Harry said and grinned, feeling like a wolf about to steal the only egg-laying hen from the coop. “It"s time to call in the reinforcements.”

Delora pounced the second he stalked into the lounge. “We have a court order requiring you to prove that your wife"s a legal resident of France.”

Ignoring her completely Harry ambled over to the bar and poured a shot of Señor Frogs, a deliberate taunt, as Delora had been the one to introduce him to 110

Jianne Carlo

tequila, though back in the day they"d imbibed cheap Cabrita, intoxication, not taste, their goal.

“Still start shooting it back the minute you roll out of bed?” Delora sneered.

He downed the liquor, measured another couple of ounces, swallowed that too, and slammed the glass on the marble.

Austen cleared his throat.

Slapping a stapled together wad of legal-size papers on the striated marble counter of the bar, Delora barked, “Prove she"s legal. I can"t believe you screwed a
black
woman,” she pointed a finger bearing a three-carat princess cut platinum ring at him.

“Ground rules, Delora. The captain of a ship has to grant you permission to come on board. This is my territory.” Harry rammed a booted foot onto an armchair"s footrest. “Whatever that is.” He jutted his chin at the stapled pages fluttering as an air vent above sprang to life. “Your lawyers can serve them to my lawyers.”

“You have eight hours to provide the proof your darkie"s legal.” Delora jammed one hand onto her ample hip. “If not, I"ll have your father"s will declared null and void, and I"ll inherit everything.”

“Y"all are trying to scratch your ear with your elbow,” he said, exaggerating his native-old-boy drawl. Harry swiveled and braced both forearms on the bar. “Austen, throw my stepmother off the
Glory
. I"m fixing to down this bottle of Señor Frogs, and the notion of having her hogtied and duct taped is mighty appealing.”

“I dare you,” she spat. “I"ll have you arrested for assault and battery.”

“Martine.” Austen"s voice held a hysterical note.

Harry jerked his head up and around, and his stare collided with Martine"s for a hint of a second. For a hairbreadth instant the woman from Grasse filled his brain. Thrown off-kilter he straightened, shook his head, and schooled his features into his impassive interrogator expression. “Sugar,” he drawled, “you"re a sight for sore eyes.”

The gray skies outside coated the room in shadows, which dipped and danced, half concealing Martine"s features. When she turned her head to greet Austen with a husky murmur, Harry took in the results of her shopping spree.

Barely restraining a
yes
! elbow yank, Harry drank in his transformed wife.

Thank you, Yvonne.

She wore a barely-there chiffon dress with split wispy sleeves, which fluttered and grazed her toned biceps, the primrose color enhancing the stardust quality of her coffee-and-cream complexion. Sensual elegance personified, she glided across the room, hips swaying seductively, the handkerchief hem of the dress teasing her knees and calves. On her feet she wore taupe CFM four-inch stilettos that had St.

Pete rearing to attention.

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

111

Not in any particular hurry, he let his eyes linger on the three-inch-wide leather belt the exact color of her shoes. The belt hugged her narrow waist, and he salivated when his gaze encountered the heart-shaped bodice curving lovingly around her breasts. Harry ate up the distance between them, moving to stand so close their hips bumped.

She raised her head just so, at that jaunty angle he relished, and their gazes engaged. Her lips curved into a smile that drained all the blood from his brain to his cock.

“What you do to me, Martine,” he murmured, sliding his arms around her waist, cupping her ass cheeks, and drawing her belly against his erection. In the background he heard Delora hissing and sputtering, but her words didn"t register.

Bringing his lips to Martine"s ear, he whispered, “Better now?”

Assiduously studying his chest, she dipped her chin twice.

Keeping his back to Delora and her coterie of legal professionals so he blocked Martine"s view completely, he said, “Austen, escort the riffraff off the
Glory
now.”

“Certainly.” Austen choked around the word and subsided into a snorted guffaw. “If you"ll follow me, I"ll show you to the pier.”

Harry waited until the room grew silent; then he nudged Martine"s thighs with his. “Got your phone with you?”

That did the trick. Her stiffness dissolved in a flash as she smacked his chest and protested, “And where am I supposed to carry it?” She raised a wrist from which dangled a velvet brown pouch the size of a large peach. “This is the purse that matches the shoes and dress. Even my brush couldn"t fit in it.”

“I surrender.” Harry reluctantly removed his hands from the small of her back and held them up in the age-old gesture of defeat. “You won"t need the phone anyway since we"ll be together all night and I have mine.”

“Harry, I
am
illegal.” With the high heels their eyes were almost level. All she had to do was hook one leg over his hip, and he could enter her standing and rock her to orgasm while he drowned in the dark lagoons of her eyes.

“I"ve got your back,” he quipped. “Let"s get this show on the road. I have a big surprise planned for you tonight.”

“I don"t like surprises,” she groused and resisted when he linked their fingers and tugged her to the doorway.

“You will this one.” Harry winked. “Here"s the scoop. We"re heading to the bank first to sign all the documents. Then the Realtor"s picking us up. She has three properties to show us, and after we"ve seen them, we"ll have dinner in town.”

“But what about your stepmother?”

“She sent a PI to Haiti yesterday, Martine. I figured she"d show up as soon he gave his first report. Let"s wait until we"re out in the open before we continue this conversation, okay?”

112

Jianne Carlo

Her eyes grew big and round as they strode across the deck. The sunlight hit her pupils, and Harry caught the almost translucent outline of a contact lens. She"d been an illegal stowaway who barely earned enough to keep her living from hand to mouth. How could she afford contact lenses, much less the optician"s services?

At the end of the pier, a vendor selling gelato from a two-wheeled parked wooden cart blocked their way. Martine stumbled; she gripped the edge of the cart to right her balance, and the street hawker, a blond Adonis with the sculpted features and build of the Greek god Apollo, flashed her a dimpled smile.

Harry stiffened as the vendor made eye contact with Martine and pulled out an ice-cream bar wrapped in red-and-white-striped wax paper. “Mam"selle, for you a chocolate decadence bar, for the sunshine you bring to this ugly and faded jetty.”

“Merci,” Martine murmured, accepting the bar. “Please let me pay you for this gift.”

“Ah, but then it wouldn"t be one, would it?”

“Thank you, then,” she replied. “Next time I will buy.”

For a few minutes they strolled in silence while Martine unwrapped the bar and bit into the cold concoction.

“I"ve never seen that particular vendor before,” Harry stated, craning his neck for a better view of the man. “And I"ve never seen a gelato vendor that young before.”

“I saw him earlier today.” The ice-cream bar oozed white goop from its chocolate shell.

“He try to pick you up?” Harry"s hands flexed, but when he looked back again, the muscle-bound hawker had disappeared.