Carnal in Cannes (9 page)

The twinge of pain subsided, and she experimented, wriggling her hips.

His fingers tightened on the ridge of her pelvic bone. “Are you hurting?”

“Non. Kiss me, Harry.” She could bear anything when he kissed her.

One hand left her hip, and he cupped her jaw. Their eyes met and locked, and he kissed her mouth, a chaste touch while their gazes held. Martine couldn"t draw oxygen into her lungs, and an ache grew in her chest under her rib cage. Her lids fluttered shut as his tongue swept the seam of her lips, her bunched shoulders relaxed into the mattress, and she opened for his delicious invasion. When he tickled the roof of her mouth and explored the inside of one cheek, she arched, and her throbbing nipples scrubbed the hairs on his chest.

He smelled of the outdoors, of the Mediterranean wind, of the tanginess of the sea, of smoke and male arrogance. He tasted like fruit and wine and prosciutto. His damp, heated skin set a fire blazing through her veins.

40

Jianne Carlo

When he withdrew slowly, his cock almost leaving her warmth, her fingernails dug into his shoulders in protest. When he filled her again, moving so unhurriedly that her inner walls burned around him, Martine wanted to beat his back with her fists. He did it again, even slower, his movements agonizing and torturous. The third time he retreated, she canted her hips off the mattress, her walls sucking at his cock, and she grabbed his bottom, refusing to let his thickness go.

“Fuck.” She barely heard his muttered curse because he started moving faster, harder, thrusting in and out, his cock growing fatter and longer and filling her more and more. She matched his movements, discovering the rhythm of coupling, of joining two bodies into one. His hand slipped between their bodies, his thumb rested on that spot that drove her insane, and pressure built inside, outside, her thigh muscles tensing, her ass cheeks contracting. Her lungs smoldered, her breath came in short, sharp pants, and she reached and reached and detonated. Bastille Day fireworks burst and exploded into glorious stars and sparks and streaks behind her eyelids.

Martine collapsed into the bed, limbs molten, spine relaxed, muscles too lazy and drained for any nuance of tension. Harry"s weight pressed her into the mattress, his heaviness both comforting and stifling; his nose settled into her neck, just below her ear. Hot air skirted her lobe as he inhaled and exhaled. She felt as if he breathed through her, his chest expanding and releasing against hers, their hearts beating in cadence. Suddenly he pushed up onto his elbows and cupped her chin. “Look at me.”

His voice sounded gruff and hoarse and growly and somehow soothing.

It took all the energy she had left to lift her eyelids. His irises had all but disappeared, and his darkened and dilated pupils had turned the color of his eyes from their normal honey to a rich, dark caramel.

Harry"s lip curled at one corner. His thumb drew a circle under her chin.

Heat crawled across her skin, and she knew she blushed all over. “Not too bad?”

She shook her head.

“Not going to talk?”

To her horror a wide yawn she couldn"t stifle captured her mouth; she ducked her head as her skin flamed. Another yawn erupted, and she clapped a palm over her lips.

“Sleepy?” His knuckles skated across her cheek.

“A bit,” she replied.

“Me too,” he said, kissed the tip of her nose, and withdrew from her vagina at the same time. Her sex clutched at his cock, trying to prevent him from leaving. “It"s been a helluva day for you.”

He snatched his iPhone from the nightstand closer to his side, then glanced at the LCD and muttered, “We don"t have much time left. The
Glory
will dock soon.”

She pushed onto her elbows. “I shall dress quickly.”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

41

“You can"t wash. I left you some supplies in the bathroom.”

“I know, Monsieur. I understand what I must do.”

“Damn it, Martine.” His gaze trapped hers. He rolled over and cupped her jaw.

“You call me that once more, and I swear I"ll tan your backside. Do you need help?”

He angled his chin at the bathroom.

“Non,” she yelped. “Sacre bleu, Mother
Supérieure
would roast me in the fires of hell for that.”

Harry drew back, brows knitting together, and he scrutinized her from head to toe. Gradually the tight creases bracketing his brown eyes slackened. “Why don"t you meet me on deck when you"re ready?”

He left her then, his mouth flattened, and shot her a glare over his shoulder as he walked bare assed out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

Predawn bustle wafted to the
Glory’s
decks as Martine joined Harry at the stern.

Harry grinned, white teeth flashing, and then said, “We"ll be docking in about two minutes.”

Only then did Martine register the fact that he was fully clothed and that he must have changed elsewhere. “I called a cab, and you should sit until it arrives.”

“I am fine, Mon—” At his ferocious scowl she corrected her words. “I"m fine, Harry.”

Her brain barely registered the yacht"s docking in Cannes or the arrival of the taxi.

“Will we not draw attention?” She gestured to the black automobile.

“I"m done jumping to Delora"s tune.”

What did that mean? “You are dissolving the contract?”

“No.”

Her breathing stopped. “I do not understand, Harry. I have done what I was supposed to.”

They"d been sitting side by side in the back of the vehicle for three long minutes, and not once had he glanced her way. Gathering her courage, she touched his forearm. “Harry?”

“Not to worry, Martine. You"ll get your money, and I"ll get Delora out of my life once and for all.”

For all his angry words, they didn"t brave the main entrance of the hotel but went through the servant"s entrance they"d used earlier. In silence they climbed the stairs and entered the suite.

Harry escorted her through the bathroom and past her bedroom to his. She dressed quickly in the Ralph Lauren nightdress she"d purchased for tonight as she heard him speaking to his plan-B friend.

42

Jianne Carlo

She left the lamp on the bedside table lit and crawled under the sumptuous covers of the magnificent king-size bed, her heart booming like the voodoo banga drums of her youth. Such a puzzle this man, her husband. He"d been angry but hadn"t struck her. He had been patient with her even when she"d spilled the champagne. If she"d spilled a morsel of food, a drop of juice, Jean-Claude"s wife had made her kneel outside in the rain, her hands up on either side of her head, her palms weighted with the heaviest boulders. How many hours had she spent like that, aching from the strain, cringing as the passing children spit at her?

Enough, Martine. You have married a man who doesn’t seem to be cruel. Be
grateful. And there are the million euros
. She smiled and pictured all the chocolat she would buy for her grand-mère.

Harry came into the room so silently his body weight was her first realization that he had lain down on the bed. He rolled over to her side and spooned her body, his arm around her waist tugging her bottom tight against his groin. She flinched when she encountered his arousal.

“Didn"t mean to be short in the cab, Martine.” His lips brushed her nape, and a warm slice of air curled over her collarbone.

“And the contract?” Her pulse skipped, raced, then dipped to nonexistent.

“Don"t worry,” he muttered. “I have your back. Go to sleep.”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

43

Chapter Five

“Open up, Harrison. The shit"s hit the fricking fan.”

Harry shot out of bed, his GLOCK G26 in his hand, before the pounding on the door stopped.

He muttered a curse, pulled the bedside table drawer open, cocked the gun"s safety back into place, and glanced over his shoulder. Damn it, Martine had gone paler than a Texas farm in a whiteout blizzard. She looked scared sweatless.

“It"s the friend who took our place last night, Martine,” he explained, shutting the drawer after he"d set the gun on the wood.

Her eyes fixated on the drawer, she bit her bottom lip so hard Harry feared blood would spurt. “I used to be in special ops.” At her frown he added, “A division of the US Army. The gun"s for protection.”

There had to be a crisis if Terry was pounding on the doors. Gaze sweeping in the direction of the thundering, Harry said, keeping his voice soothing and calm and belying the adrenaline flooding his veins, “I need to let him in.”

A rattler couldn"t corral a hen faster than the way she scooted against the headboard. Sheet pulled up to her chin, she froze in place and nodded.

“Harry, for Christ"s sake, open the blasted door,” Terrence O"Connor barked.

He stalked to the door of the highly secured penthouse, which was designed to protect the privacy of the rich and famous, punched in the alarm code, and flung open one of the mahogany double doors to the suite.

Terry barged in, and the sheer size of the WWE-built man—forearm muscles bunched and bulging out of his short-sleeved black polo, his mouth pinched, and his long auburn hair tossing mile-wide shoulders—made Harry glance back at Martine, who had one hand cupped over her mouth.

Terry halted when he spotted Martine and did an about-turn on the spot.

Leaning his shoulder on the wall, Harry crossed one ankle over the other and said through gritted teeth, “This better be freaking good.”

Terry"s gray eyes dropped to Harry"s red-and-white-striped knit boxers. He shook his head, and matching white molars showed when he grinned.

If Terry so much as muttered a word… Harry"s fingernails dug into his palms.

They"d served side by side in a combo Brit/US squad for years, worked the
Glory
together after quitting the forces, and each knew the other"s sleeping preferences, which included nudity and a multitude of similarly unclad females of 44

Jianne Carlo

assorted shapes and sizes. “Plan B had a fatal flaw,” Terry stated. “My wife and I took your place in the hotel suite no problem. I even wore your fricking Stetson. But your stepmother had a PI at the back entrance to the hotel.”

Crap
. “I didn"t see a single person on the way to the
Glory
.”

“I had our SEAL buddies watching the hotel. The PI was stationed on the roof of the building opposite.” Terry threw a gunmetal BlackBerry onto the couch, and the phone bumped a couple of times before settling on the fringes of a large cushion.

“We got his camera and phone.”

Harry glanced at the ceiling and sent a mental thank-you to his Irish mama"s pot-of-gold famous luck. Cracking his neck to reduce a sudden tension, he walked over to stand in front of the bed and spun around. Terry turned to face him. He blocked Terry"s view of Martine, who hadn"t budged a single square centimeter.

“But we"re not out of the woods,” Terry muttered. “The PI got a shot of you and Martine returning to the hotel this morning.”

That sniper-in-the-vicinity crawl did a soft-shoe from one shoulder blade to the other. Distracted when Suresh Singh waltzed through the open doorway, Harry snapped, “Getting to be Grand Central round here.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Suresh waved a Y shape with both hands and clarified Harry"s unspoken question. “Terry left me to tip the valet, explain why he manhandled the manager into giving him a key card to your suite, and, in general, clean up.”

Suresh spotted Martine in the bed and flashed a smile in her direction, his tanned complexion making his even teeth glisten like piano ivories. “Good morning, Martine. I apologize for the rude and unexpected interruption.”

“Can we drop the courtly manners?” Terry growled, dragging both hands through his hair. “Time is of the essence.”

“So cliché,” Suresh quipped. “But unfortunately, Terry"s spot-on.”

Terry"s seething temper about some unknown something and Suresh"s diplomatic minuet notched Harry"s irritation level to new heights. His fingers flexed and curled as he envisioned smashing both their noses.

Harry straightened, and he jammed his fist into his palm, relishing the fierce sting. “We have the camera and the phone. What"s the fricking issue?”

“The PI e-mailed the picture to your stepmother and cc"d a bunch of other people,” Suresh answered. “From the e-mails on the cc, I"m guessing the PI sent the shot to your stepmother"s lawyers.”

“So much for Irish luck.”

“Maybe not,” Suresh stated. “The SEALs caught the PI around four forty-five.”

When Harry"s forehead puckered, Suresh rolled his eyes and added, “As in four a.m.”

Harry shuffled a hand through his sleep-tangled hair. “We"ve got to intercept the PI"s e-mail.”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

45

“What we really need is your stepmother"s phone,” Suresh interjected.

“Now, that notion sits just right with me.” Harry"s mind did a few NASCAR

laps. “If my memory"s anything to go by, Delora"s brain"s lazier than a blister in the morning. And those lawyers of hers are so old-school their secretaries answer their cell phones.”

“No phones, no e-mails, no evidence you left the room,” Terry mumbled.

“My thinking precisely. That Gypsy pickpocket Casmir—how can I get a hold of him? Delora and her lawyers are supposed to be here at nine.” Harry glanced at the grandfather clock visible through the master bedroom"s open double doors.

“That gives me seventy-five minutes.”

“To arrange what?” Terry"s auburn-tinted eyebrows climbed.

“Casmir and his pickpockets can steal a gendarme"s gun when he"s on duty.