Carnal in Cannes (25 page)

Austen disengaged from the group and walked over to meet them in the center of the deck. “"Bout time. We ready to sign the legalese?”

“Ready and roaring, right?”

She nodded.

“You okay?” Austen asked.

“Oui. I"m good,” Martine answered, mimicking Austen"s turn of phrase.

“You sure you want to be tied to this selfish bastard for the rest of your life?”

Austen probed.

Martine flinched, and warmth crawled up her throat to suffuse her cheeks.

“The contract"s for a year.”

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Shaking his head, Austen rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, and I"m a monkey"s uncle.”

“Harry?” Martine faced her spouse-to-be.

“We"ll discuss that later. Austen, shut the frick up. Let"s get this party started,” Harry commanded. “Where are the documents?”

“On the bar.”

Yvonne"s hips swayed like a siren as she approached. She wagged a finger in Harry"s direction. “You are not spoiling my reception plans. You and Martine will dance the first dance, and then we will have dinner and speeches—”

“Speeches,” Harry interjected in groaned complaint. “Who"s going to give a speech?”

Suresh and the rest of the group had ambled over to join Harry, Martine, and Austen.

“Actually,” Suresh said as he pulled out a couple of sheets of notepaper from his inside jacket pocket, “I am.”

“So am I.” The English man who"d interviewed her brandished an index card.

“And Terry e-mailed his speech.”

“Can you believe it?” Harry grunted the rhetorical question. “Terry"s almost four thousand miles away, and he can still finagle a way to torment me.”

Yvonne said, “Excuse us, boys. We have girl stuff to do.”

A thousand and one questions plagued Martine as Yvonne repaired the damage to her makeup and reapplied perfume to Martine"s pulse points. What was Harry doing? What was he thinking? Why was he going through with the wedding?

What did he want from her? How much did he know?

The Mediterranean didn"t part, locusts didn"t swarm, the skies didn"t flood the earth, and no matter how she searched and searched her brain for answers, none materialized.

When they returned to the main deck, Yvonne hustled Martine and Harry to the bar. Suresh joined them, and the others huddled around in a semicircle to witness Martine and Harry sign the marriage certificate. Two strangers, a young man and woman, the photographers Harry had mentioned before, recorded the whole event on a digital camera and a camcorder.

Martine"s fingers shook so much that her signature came out wobbly even though she"d practiced her new name assiduously for hours only days before.

Yvonne and

Suresh added their John Hancocks, and Austen stamped the document with two different seals before rolling the certificate into a tube and tying it with a yellow satin ribbon.

“Should I put it in the safe?” he asked Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed.

124

Jianne Carlo

While the band retuned their instruments, Harry guided Martine over to Casmir and the English lord.

“Martine, I"d like to introduce you to Casmir.” He paused, and one eyebrow winged up. “D"you know I haven"t a clue as to what your surname is?”

“Bayor,” Casmir stated as he inclined his head and tilted forward from the waist. “A pleasure, Mrs. Ford. Congratulations on your marriage.”

Guilt scalded a path across her chest and face, and Martine couldn"t meet Casmir"s eyes. “Merci,” she said, staring at the cusp of his shoulder, noting the severe cut of his navy blue jacket. She"d never seen Casmir dressed formally and hadn"t expected him to be so comfortable wearing the trappings of civilization.

“And you remember Sir Geoffrey Stanford.” The man Harry presented wore aristocratic hauteur not as a second skin but as first flesh, as if his pedigree couldn"t be separated from his character. “He and Terry actually own the
Glory
.”

“Sir Geoffrey,” Martine murmured and extended her hand. “It"s good to see you again.”

“Geoff please, Martine. Despite my title and my stuffy appearance, I much prefer the informal American approach to life. Harry tells me you two are looking for a home.”

Martine glanced at her new husband.

“I"ve given my notice,” Harry explained. “Geoff and Terry need to have the time to replace me.”

His statement dizzied her brain. As if he read her mind, Harry murmured,

“That long talk, remember?”

At that moment the band struck up the tune “Lady in Red,” and the lead guitarist sang the first line of the lyrics as Harry snaked an arm around her waist and clasped her hand in his. “Relax,” he whispered as if he knew she"d never danced a step in her life. “I"m going to do a one-two, one-two-three step. Just follow my lead.

Close your eyes and savor the moonlight, the stars, the mistral, and me.”

Martine surrendered to his gentle persuasion, to the magic of the night, to the heat of his embrace, and nothing had ever felt so right, so perfect, so much a bubble of a dream that she held her breath, waiting for the inevitable puncturing ugliness.

But Mother Nature seemed determined to ensure the bubble persisted.

The moon, a ball of shimmering snow against the coal night sky, turned the rippling Mediterranean into the silver of spreading mercury, all radiant, all moving.

The icy mistral receded, and warmer winds swept in. Yvonne had decorated the deck with swinging lanterns, which exuded warmth and danced like fireflies in the slight sea breeze. No other boat was in sight; no sign of civilization marred the perfection of the setting.

Harry and Martine danced cheek to cheek, puffs from his parted lips tickling her ear and skimming her nape. Halfway through the song he began humming along. “There"s nobody here, it"s just you and me, it"s where I want to be, but I hardly know this beauty by my side. I"ll never forget the way you look tonight.”

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Moisture brimmed her carefully made-up eyes, and the pain she"d worn as a shield all her life cracked and splintered, and she turned so her mouth met the faint stubble on his cheek. “Thank you, Harry.”

“No,” he said, “thank
you
, Martine Ford. We"re not going to be able to disappear for a few hours. Hang in there, Martine. Trust me—we"ll work things out.”

The warmth and twinkle had returned to Harry"s eyes, and Martine smiled and said the first thing that popped into her head. “You didn"t wear your hat.”

“No, I didn"t,” he agreed. “The Stetson belongs to a different era, a pre-Martine era.”

What did that mean? Didn"t all Texans wear cowboy hats?

The song ended, and Suresh intercepted them as they strolled hand in hand to the railings. “Might I beg a dance from your bride?”

She danced with every male present, as did Yvonne, while the chef and his assistants set the tables with linen, china, cutlery, and flowers. Near midnight a sit-down four-course dinner was served to the accompaniment of three prepared speeches and multiple toasts. After dessert Harry rose, introduced Martine as Mrs.

Ford, thanked each individual for their help and for the evening, and bid everyone adieu as he led her from the table.

Yvonne bounded to her feet and yelped, “No, you can"t leave yet. We have one more thing to do.”

“Not another speech,” Harry protested.

“Non. Martine has to throw the bouquet,” Yvonne insisted as she pressed the flowers she"d retrieved from their spill in the hallway into Martine"s hand.

Martine couldn"t see the point, as Yvonne was the only other eligible female on board. “Why don"t I simply give it to you?”

“Non. It is bad luck. You must throw it.”

So Martine turned her back and tossed the bouquet. She heard a wail and then a splash and whirled around. The flowers had landed in the Mediterranean.

“I don"t think Yvonne"s ever going to forgive you.” Barely ten minutes had elapsed after her disastrous bouquet toss and Harry sequestering the two of them in their stateroom. “And Austen will forever be in your debt. I have a feeling something"s not quite kosher between those two.”

Harry unclipped his bowtie and threw it on the dresser.

“She should have let me give the bouquet to her,” Martine muttered as she wandered over to set the circlet of flowers she"d worn in her hair on the bedside table. Noticing a large box on the pillows, she asked, “What is this?”

“Open it,” Harry"s voice rumbled from behind her, his breath tickling her neck.

She twisted around to find him standing five inches away, his mouth curving.

“I"ve seen these before in the fancy stores in Cannes. Chocolat, non?”

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Jianne Carlo

“Coconut-chocolat bonbons,” he replied, and she smiled as his drawl changed the French pronunciation into a strangled Texas word. “Twenty-five different kinds.

I had planned to get you a ring and some other jewelry, but Austen pointed out that you"d probably want to pick those out yourself. Not exactly a thrilling wedding present.”

Willing back the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, she croaked, “I wish they could last forever. I almost don"t want to eat them. Merci, Harry.”

“No way, missy. I"ve been looking forward to you feeding me a couple all night long. No hands, of course.” He winked at her. “Let"s get nekkid and eat them in bed.”

She reached around for the zipper of her dress.

“No you don"t,” he griped, batting her hands away. “You"re not depriving me of the pleasure of undressing you on our wedding night.”

“You did that already,” she reminded him and straightened so he could have better access.

“And I"d do it every night if I could,” he retorted, pulling the zipper down.

As the material on her dress parted and the cool air in the cabin skittered up her spine, Martine couldn"t prevent a shiver.

“You"ve goose bumps on your shoulders.” Harry rubbed the cusps of her shoulders. “Let"s get you under the covers right away.”

“But I thought I would undress you tonight as well,” she protested.

Harry choked when the dress fell to the floor.

“I didn"t have the uniform, but I kept this,” Martine whispered, gesturing to the black garter belt, the nylons, and her lack of underwear. “I changed into it after Yvonne repaired my makeup.”

He just stood there raking her from head to toe with his gaze, his nostrils almost breathing fire, his hands fisted so tight the skin over his knuckles seemed stretched to splitting.

“Harry?” Her impulsive donning of the garments he had said were the most erotic he"d ever seen all of a sudden appeared to be a glaring mistake. “Thank the Lord I did not wear the mask. I"m sorry you don"t like it.”

“You have the mask?” he growled. “Fuck. I"m going to expire from sheer pleasure tonight.”

She blinked. “This is good, then?”

“This is paradise.” He shrugged out of his jacket and tore his cummerbund off.

The Velcro snap screeched in protest, and the satin material spilt down the middle of a row of pleats. “Under the covers, wife.” His eyes never left her as he peeled his shirt open and buttons took flight. He grabbed a shoe and yanked it off, balancing on one foot. The other shoe went next, followed by his pants and black silk boxers.

St. Pete stood tall and proud, jutting toward Harry"s navel.

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“Covers,” he ordered, and she turned around, picked up the box of chocolates with one hand, and drew the comforter down with the other. “Lose the chocolate.

Sorry,” he muttered when she pouted. “Later.”

* * *

“Martine?”

“Harry?” She opened one eye to find him staring at her.

“That was the best wedding present a wife could ever give her husband. You are never to throw that garter belt out. Or the mask. I"ll order you a supply of those nylons myself.”

“You should have let me save one chocolat,” she said, her tone a little plaintive.

“For a memento.”

“I needed all for the pattern.” He shrugged, and the movement scraped the underside of her breast over his chest hair, sending a tingle of delight over her skin.

“I"ll buy you another box.” He rolled a lock of her hair around the finger. “Why did you wear the contact lenses?”

She focused on the spot where his breastbone rose and fell. “I thought it might offend you. The mambo in Solino said I had the devil"s eyes. That I was Satan"s spawn and his evil was reflected in my blue eye. “

“Asshole,” Harry growled. “Mambo?”

“A voodoo priestess. The woman who owned me.”

“How long were you with them, this family?”

“Five years, but I ran away many times. Once I stayed away for a whole rainy season. Then I got sick from the malaria, and I lived with the nuns for a while. But when I got better, Jean—”

“Jean?”

“The master of the house. He came to get me.”

He rolled a little on the pillow and scooted down so their faces were aligned.

“No one will ever hurt you again. I have lawyers working on getting you a permanent visa in France. If you want to, you can also become a US citizen since we"re married.”

“I was a restavek.”

“The operative word is
was
. And that makes no difference to anything, not being legally married, not citizenship nor visas.”

“I cannot erase my past.”

“But you can let it go.” Harry captured her hand and brought it to his cheek.