Carnal in Cannes (23 page)

“He spoke to Yvonne.” Martine dumped the bar into a circular trash container and fumbled in her purse for a tissue.

Harry noticed she was chewing the insides of her cheeks. Fighting the sudden urge to march back to the gelato seller and stomp him into the ground, he growled,

“Delora could"ve hired him to keep a watch on you. Don"t get friendly.”

“I won"t.” Martine blotted a chocolate drop from the back of her wrist with a tissue retrieved from her dainty handbag. “The gelato was too sweet anyway.”

Too sweet? He"d watched her devour a marzipan nested in a cotton-candy cloud meant as a garnish. There hadn"t been a speck of food left on her plate. Too sweet?

Was the vendor her friend from the café? Flesh-eating bacteria couldn"t compete with the jealousy running rampant through his veins. When he met with Casmir tomorrow, he"d have the Gypsy arrange for the gelato purveyor to run into a few pairs of fists.

The matter settled in his mind, Harry managed to have a pleasant conversation with his wife on the way to the bank. A few pointed questions revealed some of the gaps in her education. While she seemed to know the alleyways and back routes of both Marseille and Cannes, her grasp of basic European geography Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

113

had glaring holes. Her knowledge of history either European or North American was almost nonexistent, and she eschewed technology of any sort.

The meeting at the bank finished without a hitch, and the Realtor met them as prearranged outside the bank. Harry had instructed the woman to concentrate on the area near his friend Terry"s farm north of Nice. He drank in Martine"s enjoyment of the car ride, charmed by her excitement at seeing the million-dollar mansions nestled in the hillsides between climbing bougainvillea, palms, and tall grasses.

They drove by three properties—one a two-story stone building Harry guessed to be around thirty-five hundred square feet, another a sprawling Roman-style villa, and the last a farm house with stables in the rear and a rose garden in the front.

Martine clasped her hands in her lap but never uttered a word, instead simply stared at each dwelling.

Harry answered the Realtor"s questions and manufactured appropriate appreciative phrases while surreptitiously studying his wife"s profile. Her words from earlier bounced around his brain, and he vowed she"d never, ever have to worry about a roof over her head again.

The Realtor thanked him for the offer to join them for dinner but listed a litany of appointments and offered an apology. She dropped them off at the pier after sunset, and Harry blew out a sigh when he scanned the crowds and couldn"t find the gelato cart or the stud wheeling the wooden structure.

They strolled to the
Glory
. Martine halted when she glimpsed the new five-foot-span bridge, the rough asphaltlike surface glistening like black diamonds under the light of swaying lanterns strung on either side.

She turned to face him, a tear leaking from the corner of her left eyes, her lips tugging and retreating. “You did this for me.”

Her whisper floated on a gentle breeze.

“It"ll make you feel safer until you"ve learned how to swim.” He thumbed away the teardrop but another followed in its wake. “And we"ll begin swimming lessons tomorrow. Now it"s time for your surprise. Shall we go on board together?” He held out his hand palm up.

She nodded and gave him a tremulous smile that didn"t match the sadness in her eyes.

“This way,” he said when they stepped onto the
Glory’s
deck. Harry led her to the stern and lifted her onto a swivel stool before ducking behind the bar. A bucket of pink Moët Champagne stood upright in a silver bucket. Plucking the bottle from its icy nest, he asked, “Remember when I said I had your back earlier?”

“About our marriage being not legal because I"m not?”

Twisting the metal tie on the cork, he replied, “Yes and no. To get married in France, you have to prove that you have forty days of legal residence. You can"t prove that. But I had my lawyers go over my daddy"s will with a fine-tooth comb.”

114

Jianne Carlo

When Martine frowned he elucidated. “I had them check the fine print. I have to be married before I turn thirty-two, which happens tonight at midnight. There"s no stipulation as to when, where, how, or who performs the ceremony. It just has to be legal.”

A low rumble heralded the
Glory’s
engines" thundered ignition. The boat rocked from side to side, and the yacht edged away from the pier.

“We"re going back to Cannes?”

“Nah, we"re heading into international waters. The
Glory’s
registered in Bermuda, which recognizes a wedding in international waters.”

A broad smile crept across Martine"s lips; she clapped her hands and snickered. “You are
so
smart, Harrison Indiana Ford. But who will marry us? Is there a priest on board?” She swiveled back and forth on the stool, peering into the ship"s interior.

“The captain of the
Glory
has to marry us. Terry designated Austen the acting captain in a fax this afternoon. I had a Bermudan friend fill out the required marriage forms and pay the required fees in Bermuda this morning.”

“C"est tout?” she asked. “Is that all we need?”

“Yeah, that"s it.” Harry tossed the wire into the trash under the counter and began twisting the cork. “Yvonne"s your bridesmaid, Suresh is my best man, and they"re our two required witnesses.”

Because the boat had passed the port"s farthest promontories and the city"s background noises had faded, the cork sounded like a shotgun in the quiet of approaching open sea. Harry reached up, slid two flutes out from the overhead wineglass holder, and set the crystal containers on the counter.

“I didn"t want to chance Delora questioning anything, so I also asked a few other people to be our guests.” Harry tipped one flute, poured the bubbly, and righted the glass before handing it to Martine. After filling his own flute, he twisted the green bottle back into the ice bucket.

“This is the surprise?”

Martine hadn"t taken her eyes off him, and he preened a little, rocking back on his heels and winking at her before answering. “Part of the surprise. Yvonne has a wedding dress for you in our stateroom. I have a tux, and we even have a flower girl and a ring bearer. The chef"s niece and nephew,” he explained. “I hired a small band with a singer. Chef"s cooking us a wedding dinner, and we"re going to have a wingding of a reception. Yvonne even managed to line up a couple who"re going to shoot the wedding and do the official photographs.”

“First the bridge,” she mumbled, swiping the back of her hand across a moist cheek, “and now this. Why, Harry?”

“Because a wedding should be special, because our wedding
is
special.”

Warmth scalded his face. Harry"d never done anything romantic in his entire life.

He added, his voice a tad defensive, “Because one day our kid will want to hear the story behind our wedding.”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

115

“Oui, she should,” Martine agreed.

“She?” he asked, his eyebrows scaling up. “It could be a he.”

“Non,” she replied, her arm curling protectively over her belly. “She.”

Harry grinned, pictured a miniature Martine, and found the image appealing.

“Here"s to our firstborn, Martine Bellamy.” Harry lifted his glass, waited for Martine to raise hers, and clinked the crystal flutes together. “To a healthy, happy son or daughter of our loins.”

She flushed and giggled and repeated, a puckish twinkle in her dark eyes, “To a healthy
daughter
of our loins.”

They both drank, tipping their flutes back and taking healthy swallows without breaking their locked gazes.

Harry set his glass down, relieved Martine of hers, and placed the two crystal flutes on the bar. Resting his forearms on the counter, he leaned forward and growled, “Kiss me, sugar.”

Ducking her chin, she peeked up at him, her eyes enormous and unfathomable, and trailed her fingers up to his elbow. She angled in and skimmed her lips against his so softly his mouth crackled as if static electricity sparked from the flickering caress.

“Non, non.” Yvonne materialized on deck behind Martine, waving a finger.

“Harry, you know better. No kissing, no touching until after the ceremony. Vite, vite,” she ordered, gesticulating to the left. “To your cabin. We have to do your hair and makeup. Non, non.” The finger did a little dance below Martine"s nose. “This time you
will
wear mascara and eyeliner and lipstick. You
will
be a proper French bride.”

The ceremony took place ninety minutes later under a full moon and on a calm Mediterranean. The chef"s niece and nephew led the procession. The dark-haired moppet, clothed in a flowing floor-length froth of pastel peach ruffles and lace, scattered confetti as far as her chubby little arms allowed. The ring bearer"s morning coat flapped in the crosswinds scurrying across the
Glory’s
stern. All solemn and cross-eyed, the six-year-old boy never took his gaze off the ring in the center of the pillow he carried.

Yvonne followed the two children, carrying an artfully arranged bouquet of wild daisies, bluebells, intertwined through yellow rose buds and ivy sprigged with satin yellow ribbons. She wore a gown of the same empire style and pastel peach hue as the flower girl"s.

Harry would later swear he swallowed his tongue when Martine appeared. She wore satin ivory. The rich color made her skin glow, and the moonlight made her complexion almost luminescent. She glided across the deck, the wind tickling her curls into motion, the yacht swaying in time to her movements. The four-man string band played a melody Harry didn"t recognize, but the jazzy notes reminded him of the Gypsy Kings" guitar melodies.

116

Jianne Carlo

At the edges of his mind, he noted the presence of his friend, Sir Geoffrey Stanford, part owner of the
Glory
and an MI6 adviser. Suresh bent to the ring bearer, retrieved the twin wedding bands Harry"d ordered earlier, and ruffled the boy"s bowl-shaped straight brown locks.

Austen cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, we"re gathered here today to witness the marriage of Martine Bellamy and Harrison Indiana Ford.”

Suresh had to nudge Harry when the I-doing came around, as he and Martine hadn"t been able to unfasten their gazes. “I do.”

When Martine uttered “I do,” Suresh passed him her wedding band, and he fumbled to get it on her finger because he didn"t want to stop drowning in her eyes.

His big knuckles made her have to twist his ring back and forth before it lay nestled on his finger, but still they devoured each other.

“Kiss the bride, you dumb-ass Texan,” Austen advised.

Cradling her chilled face between his palms, he grazed her mouth, sipping and nuzzling before parting her lips and melding their tongues together. Lost in the magic of her taste, mint and softness and a sweetness that brought an ache to his chest, he vowed to fill her life with luxury and comfort and to keep her by his side for as long as he could, by fair means or foul.

Horns tooting and razzle-dazzle cranking, all the sounds of New Year heralding, preceded the band, breaking into a raucous rendition of Mendelssohn"s

“Wedding March.” Someone cuffed Harry"s shoulder; he ignored the pointed cue, tightened his arms around Martine, and deepened the kiss.

“Give it up,” Austen growled. “There are kids here.”

Harry broke the kiss and stared into his wife"s eyes. “We"re married for real this time.”

For a split inhale he saw in Martine"s eyes what he"d read in the masked woman"s odd-colored eyes that night in Grasse, a desperation bordering on suicidal, a determination built on steel and concrete, a connection he felt to his core because the mystery woman"s eyes had echoed the hollowness of his soul. The memory of her contacts glinting in the sun reared, and Harry knew, knew without a doubt. “You"re the woman from Grasse. The one with no panties, the one wearing the stripper garter belt and stockings. The stripper who posed for me.”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

117

Chapter Twelve

Martine hissed, “I am
not
a stripper, and I was
not
posing.”

“Delora
did
hire you,” Harry retorted. “I should"ve known better. I almost believed your crap. You really had me going there. What the fuck have I done?”

“I"ve never told anyone about what my mother did. Never.” She beat a fist on her chest. “Vous êtes un idiot, un imbéciles, Martine Bellamy.”

The last stanzas of the “Wedding March” crested, drowning their heated accusations. Martine"s shoulders sagged; she tore her eyes away from Harry"s, spun around, and bumped into a hard chest. She looked up at Casmir. “You too?”

Unable to face anyone for a second longer, she raced across the deck, down the hallway, and took the stairs to the second level, searching for a storage closet, a crawl space, any nook she could burrow into.

“Martine.” Casmir"s shout echoed in her ears, and she stumbled. The bridal bouquet crushed in one hand flew sideways as she grabbed a door frame for support, and a fingernail snapped on the metal"s edge. Losing her balance she teetered, gravity overcame her flailing arms, and her temple connected with a brass handle.

The impact sprouted stars and polka-dot circles before her pupils. Her lungs couldn"t expand, couldn"t draw in oxygen, and the room took flight, twirling and whirring. The floor rippled and rolled into waves, darkness ate away her blurred vision, and she welcomed the nausea and dizziness that shut down her mind.