Carnal in Cannes (4 page)

He walked like a matador, spine rigid, eyes sweeping his path, measuring each lazy stride. As the door clicked shut and his back disappeared, her knees, locked to keep her standing, buckled. She sank into the nearest chair and buried her face in her palms.

“I can do this. I can,” she whispered aloud. The image of her
grand-mère’s
lined and weathered face, her chocolate skin taut over too thin bones, the gnarled fingers too stiff to do her beloved embroidery, calmed her galloping pulse. A hundred thousand euros would purchase Sylvie Bellamy"s passage to France and buy them a cottage in a remote French village where they could live out their days in peace.

Shaking her head she bounded out of the plush upholstery and paced a furious circle around the furniture fronting a shale fireplace. No time to wallow in self-pity, no time to drown in what-ifs, no time left for dreams and fantasies. If only… She caught her reflection in the brass-framed mirror on the opposite wall; her lips twisted, and a lone tear streaked down one cheek.

“
Merde
, merde.” She fisted one hand over her mouth, applying pressure. The sting of lips crushed against teeth sharpened her focus. She took a slow gulp of oxygen, let the sweet air fill her lungs, and shook off the last lingering hope for a miracle. God had deserted her.

She stood alone.

Squaring her shoulders Martine turned to the comfort of everyday activities.

As she made her way to the bathroom, Martine extracted her hairbrush from her purse, all the while thinking of the night to come, about getting undressed in front Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

15

of him. Avoiding her reflection in the mirror above the sink, she brushed out the knots created during the short but windy walk from the bus terminal, wincing as a particularly stubborn tangle made her scalp prickle.

After setting the minibrush back in her purse, she studied the gold-plated geometric faucet and grinned when she realized the tap was one of those touchless types.
Rich people and their toys
. She shook her head, her smile widening when she remembered her first encounter with this kind of spigot and how long it had taken her to figure out how to work the damned thing.

As she worked up a rich lather, the aroma of ginger soap wafted to her nose.

She drew in a long breath and slowly exhaled, and some of the tension seeped from her knotted neck and shoulder muscles. When she finished washing and drying her hands, she pulled a tissue from the box built into the marble ledge that ran the length of the bathroom, dried the oval peach soap carefully, and used two other tissues to wrap the bar before tucking it into the side pocket of her large white Dior tote. She pulled the majority of the tissues from the box, folded them into a neat square, and placed them next to the soap.

She changed into the hospital gown and bathrobe Austen Tanner had given her, after hanging her designer skirt and top, bought from a consignment store, in the closet. Martine sat on the bed, unbuckled her sandals, and walked in bare feet to set the stilettos on the floor of the closet, aligning them toe to heel.

Dry but barely clothed, she sat on a pale rose upholstered chair facing the room"s entrance, spine steel-rod straight, ankles crossed, waiting. No one observing her tranquil hands, her still fingers, or her composed expression would guess at her cramping belly, the nausea roiling up her gullet.

Raised voices—one male, one female—battled some point on the other side of the closed double doors. It would give her an advantage to listen, to plot, to plan, but the thought of the humiliation to come vaporized the energy to do so.

Each day she awoke and wondered why the sun still shone, why the earth twirled, why she trudged forward. A good Catholic has faith, believes in God and that Jesus Christ guides his earthly flock. But she had never been good, never obeyed the Lord"s representative, Father Baptiste, the way she should have.

Father Baptiste
. Martine closed her eyes and locked the thought out of her brain. Once everything had been sorted out, she would contact Father Baptiste and make her confession. Visions of her last night in Haiti and her grand-mère"s heroic struggles to help her stow away on the cargo ship bound for Marseille danced through her brain.

Only when worn cowboy boots appeared between her gaze and the carpet did Martine managed to climb out from inside her horrific memories, the blood, the pain, the filth that had taken control of her mind. She licked dry lips and stood, staring at a royal blue denim shirt buttoned midchest. Not a hairy chest, more lightly furred, and the down seemed soft, her labored breathing tickling a few strands into motion.

Non, non, do not do this, Martine. Do not picture what is to come.

16

Jianne Carlo

“They are ready for you,” he said. “You need to sign the agreement before we go in.”

Martine avoided Harrison Ford"s gaze, certain guilt and embarrassment broadcasted from her flushed cheeks, her clutching fingers. The door opened, and a man at least four inches taller than Martine strolled into the room, carrying a sheaf of papers.

“I believe you know Sir Geoffrey Stanford.”

“
Oui
. Yes. Monsieur,” Martine said, inclining her head. Perspiration coated her palms as the two men flanked her, their stares intent and somber. She had met the English lord during the interviews required for the position, and the man never failed to ignite a hollow panic in her belly. No matter how often she tried to convince herself he didn"t know what she"d done, all her lies seemed obvious when she was in his presence.

“Miss Bellamy.” Sir Geoffrey laid five pages on a rectangular sideboard lined with fragile crystal decanters filled with liquids of brown and amber hues. He proffered an old-fashioned fountain pen with a brilliant gold nib. She accepted the writing instrument and searched the printed-paper for the familiar
X
, which would delineate where she should sign.

“Sign here.” He touched a forefinger to a series of dots. “Here. Initial here. One more right here.”

Angling her body, Martine managed to hide her trembling fingers and complete shaky scrawls where the man indicated.

“Your turn, Harry. Same spots.”

After they completed signing the prenuptial agreement, Geoff gathered the documents into one hand and stated, “I"ll make copies for both of you. The original will go to the bank safety deposit box.”

“Sit, Martine.” Harry waved at a plush lemon Queen Anne chair. “You need to know exactly what"s going to happen over the next twenty minutes.”

A throbbing started at her temples, but Martine obeyed his command. She swallowed once, twice, and a shudder racked her body.

Harry noticed. He fell to one knee in front of her.

“I"ll be in the room with you, right by your side. There"s a tent between you and the doctors and lawyers. You won"t see any of them. I"ll be sitting next to you at the head of the table. Look at me, Martine.”

Shaking her head, she whispered, “I can"t.”

Tipping a finger under her chin, Harrison forced their eyes to meet. “I won"t let them harm or humiliate you in any way, shape, or form. I promise you this. I know we"re strangers, but it"s you and me against them, understand? We have to trust each other. Can you do that? Trust me?”

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17

“Do I have any other choice?” Moisture threatened to overflow her eyes, and Martine choked back a hysterical laugh. Trust, what a laughable concept. In her world trust equaled death.

When they put her feet into the metal stirrups some eternity later, she squeezed her eyes shut and recited the Lord"s Prayer followed by the gospel of John, chapter one, verse one.
In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God.

The cold steel met her warm flesh, and she flinched, unable to stifle the reaction. Harry"s large warm palm covered hers, and he twined their fingers together.

Bending his head, his lips fluttered her ear when he whispered, “Easy. Easy.

Look at me, Martine. We are the only two people in this room. No one else is important. No, don"t look away. Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Non,” she replied, focusing on the way his pupils darkened and dilated to become a rich, dark molasses color. The lies came easier than truth. These days no matter how hard she tried, she lied, lied, and lied, even about the most mundane things. The urge to hide her past overwhelmed even everyday activities.

“Neither do I.” His full lips curled. “Always wanted a pack of sisters. Figured I could do without the brothers, though. What"s your favorite food?”

The abrupt question made her frown. His thumb stroked her palm, and she blurted, “Ice cream.”

“Chocolate?” The skin bracketing his brown eyes crinkled as a smile lifted his mouth.

She shook her head. “Coconut.”

Perfect tawny eyebrows rose in unison. “I"ve never even heard of coconut ice cream, much less tasted it.”

“They sell it in the Haitian sections of Marseille.” As soon as the words escaped her mouth, Martine clamped her lips together, choking back a moan. The less he knew about her the better.

Eyes widening he examined her face, and his features softened. “Coconut ice cream, huh? Must admit I prefer any form of chocolate to coconut.”

I do too, but you can’t get
chocolat
in Haiti. I must stop lying.

“I love chocolat,” she said.

“I like the way you say that, sugar. Chocolat. Have you seen the movie?”

She frowned, and her eyebrows rose. The man was insane. “Movie?”

“We"ll rent it,” he advised. “Much easier than explaining the plot. It"s a love story about a woman who makes wickedly delicious chocolate, which makes people do extraordinary things.”

“I see.” She didn"t, but he was going to pay her a lot of money, so he should be humored. Like all men.

And so it went on and on—him jumping from topic to topic. What was her favorite color, did she like the sea, what were her favorite books, did she like the 18

Jianne Carlo

Mediterranean climate? Martine grew giddy under his conversational assault, and it didn"t seem as if twenty minutes had elapsed when one of the doctors cleared his throat and captured her attention.

“All is in order, Monsieur Ford. Madame, we are finished with the exam.” The doctor stripped off cream plastic gloves as he spoke.

Even though his voice proved soft and soothing, Martine shuddered and struggled to sit up, taking her heels out of the metal stirrups. The medical men seemed to be in a hurry to leave the room, and Martine watched their white-coated backs vanish from her line of vision.

The woman from earlier, the one with long golden hair that rippled honey hues under the artificial light, came into her sight. She leaned against the door frame, arms folded across her chest, haughty chin lifted, lips curled into a sneer.

Acerbic fear rolled over Martine"s tongue when she recognized the hate blazing from the woman"s round black eyes. Clutching the steel gurney with shaking fingers, she tried to look away, but the woman held her gaze and paralyzed her breathing.

“Beat it, Delora.” Harrison stepped between them, hands balled into fists. “Get out. Now.”

“Remember how much fun we used to have when you lost that temper of yours, Harry? Getting down and dirty in the creek?” Straightening, Delora undulated her lush hips, putting one stiletto-clad foot in front of the other. Sultry red lips parted to reveal even, snowy teeth, and she swayed forward, halting when mere centimeters separated her and Harry.

“And now you"re going to screw that.” Delora angled a sweetheart chin at Martine. “I doubt you"ll get it up. You always did have trouble separating sex and emotions.”

Rage pinned Martine to the bed better than any stake the villagers had used to subdue a girl of thirteen. That first time they had shaved her hair off, she had screamed until no sounds came from her lips.

“Cat got your tongue, darling?” Delora placed a scarlet-painted square nail at the center of his collarbone.

“Merchandise"s not for sale, mi madre.” Harry snatched her wrist, his walnut knuckles paling to cream as he tightened his grip. “We do this to the letter of the law. Your part"s done until tomorrow morning. According to Daddy"s will you get to wait somewhere else until I say differently. Now, get out.”

He shoved her hand away, and she stumbled back three steps, hitting her back against the door. Delora spat out a series of expletives in a Spanglish combination untranslatable to Martine"s ears.

“You shit, Harry. I"m going to make you pay for this. Mark my words.” She slammed the door on the way out.

Martine crimped the back of the hospital gown together and waited for Harry to explode. Her toes scraped over the thin paper covering the metal gurney.

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

19

Plowing his hands through already mussed brown hair, he grimaced and turned to face her. “You"ll only have to see her one more time.”

She wondered whether Harry would cringe when trying to touch her and gulped when she thought about the secrets he might discover. “What happens now, Monsieur Harrison?”

“Have you eaten for the day?”

Eat? From under lidded eyes she glanced at the fruit bowl on the coffee table and swallowed hard when she noticed the fruit"s asymmetrical arrangement. She shook her head.

Cupping her elbow, Harrison urged her to her feet, then held out a bathrobe and set her purse on the gurney. Martine took the robe from him, careful to shield her back from his view, shrugged into the plush terrycloth, and belted the waist all the while staring at the Berber carpet. She had vacuumed similar rugs during her adolescence. She looped her purse straps around her wrist.