Lucky Bastard (34 page)

Christophe
proved to be a delightful host, squiring me around his house, showing me all the good places to hide. We looked at his toys—he was seriously into heavy equipment. We played several tennis matches on his Wii, before the boy’s energy began to flag. Seizing the moment, Jean-Charles bustled his son off to a bath—I got in on the sudsing, then we both put him to bed. Before I left his room, Christophe rewarded me with a kiss—one on each cheek. The kid was going to be a heartbreaker.

Waiting in the family room, I chose a modest Bordeaux from Jean-Charles’s impressive collection, decanted it to breathe, and set two bowl-shaped wineglasses on the bar.

I was really getting in deep. Things were happening so fast. I felt adrift, yet strangely anchored. My mind shouted for me to run, my heart willed me to stay.

So, I did what every self-respecting woman of a certain age would do in this situation—I poured myself a drink. A glass of wine, to be more precise—Jean-Charles would just have to catch up.

Sipping my wine, trying to make it last, I stared through the French doors to the patio and pool—lights casting shadows that moved with the invisible wind—like ghosts…or angels, waiting, watching.

Jean-Charles snuck up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, putting his chin on my shoulder. Our reflection in the glass made me smile.

“You were a huge hit with my child, as I knew you would be.” He took my wineglass and set it on the bar next to him.

“He is his father’s son, delightful in every way.” I leaned back, pressing against him, my head lying back on his shoulder, my cheek against his. “Would you like some wine?” I asked.

“Mmmm, that means I would have to move.” He nuzzled my neck, sending delicious jolts to my core.

“Jean-Charles, right now all of this seems so fantastic, so perfect. But what if we don’t work? We’re adults and can deal with the fallout, but what about Christophe? Aren’t we setting him up for a fall?”

“Is that what you believe the future holds for us?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be here. But I’m smart enough to know there are no sure things.”

Jean-Charles turned me to face him, holding my body pressed to his. Gently, he brushed my cheek with the back of his fingers. “None of us gets through life without a little heartbreak. I want to teach my son to seize life, squeeze the joy out of every day. Life is wasted if you let worry and fear make your choices for you. We are resilient—so is Christophe. Trust life, Lucky. Trust me.”

His kiss was tender, with a hint of things to come. My body molded to his, my arms around his neck, my hands in his hair. He deepened the kiss and I lost myself.

Pulling back, his breath coming hard, he said, “The time must be right for you. You do not have to stay.”

“No. I don’t.” I tried to calm the beat of my heart, but it wasn’t happening. “Do you want me to stay?”

“More than anything.” Jean-Charles met my gaze, his eyes dark and serious.

“Then ask me.” I no longer cared whether this whole thing was too fast, or not fair to Christophe, or the wrong thing right now, or whether I was on the rebound, or would get my heart broken. I simply had to be here—I had to stay, to feel his arms around me, his flesh on mine.

“I know this seems so fast, too fast to be real,” he said. “But, when I look at you, when I hold you, I know in my heart this is right, this is good—it
is
real. Please stay with me. Let me show you how I’ve come to feel about you.”

“Only if you let me do the same.”

***

The shades in his bedroom were closed, the lights dimmed, a few candles flickering softly. I gave him a grin as he led me inside then secured the double doors behind us.

“I had hopes,” he said with a shy, half-embarrassed smile that warmed my heart. Opening the doors on the fireplace, he lit the logs, then extinguished the lights leaving us bathed only in the glow from the flickering flames.

My hands moved to the buttons on my sweater.

Jean-Charles shook his head. “Let me.” His head bowed, he concentrated on undoing each of the tiny buttons. His hands shook a little—I liked that.

Where his fingers brushed my skin, warmth radiated. If he didn’t hurry, I wasn’t going to have a functional sweater to wear home.

When he had my sweater undone, with both hands he pushed the delicate fabric back, over my shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. He swallowed hard when he looked at me.

From the look on his face I guessed the black lace had been a good choice.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered as he hooked one finger under a strap. “Did you wear this for me today?” he asked as he slid both straps over my shoulders. His breath caught as the delicate fabric gapped away from my skin.

“I wear this every day—for me.”

“You are more French than you think.” His hands slipped around behind me and undid the catch, letting the lace fall away. His hands found my flesh—his thumb brushing an already taut nipple, taking my breath. “Every day, when I catch sight of you at work, this is what I will see.” His hands drifted to the waistband of my slacks.

I stilled them. “Not yet. Now it’s my turn.”

He waited while I unbuttoned his shirt. His eyes never left mine as my hands roamed over his chest before pushing his shirt away. Warmth radiated from his skin, taut muscles rippled under my touch, his desire barely contained.

“You know what they say about not trusting a trim chef?” I teased as I delighted in him.

“In Europe, we know how to appreciate the finer things in life,” he whispered as his eyes wandered the length of me, then recaptured mine. His hands filled with my flesh. “Quality over quantity.”

“Show me.”

His mouth captured mine, demanding, plundering, taking my breath and firing a need, a desire, like none before.

Finally, flesh on flesh, we fell on the bed, a tangle of limbs…feasting. His mouth, his hands, tasting, touching, for the first time…arousing, making me his own.

***

Wrapped in Jean-Charles’s arms, thoroughly sated, yet somehow knowing a lifetime of having him would never be enough, emotions tumbled through me. So fast, yet so perfect. Terrifying, yet comforting. A complete surrender.

A cool breeze wafted through the open doors—I vaguely remembered him opening them. Actually, what I remembered was brief moment where his skin was not on mine, his hands were not teasing, arousing…pleasuring. I sighed and pulled him tighter to me, burrowing into him. My Frenchman and his emphasis on quality had been mind-blowing—but the quantity was pretty darn impressive as well.

As I nuzzled his neck, I felt him stir. “Are you asleep?”

“Drifting,” he whispered as he nibbled my ear. “From the first day I met you, this is what I have been dreaming about.”

“As I recall, our first meeting was a shouting match.”

He chuckled. “Yes, there was fire even then. And we will argue more—it is inevitable.”

“Lovers and business partners,” I mused. Life with the volatile Frenchman wouldn’t be dull, if we lived through it. “I’ve heard make-up sex can be amazing.”

“What is this? Make-up sex? I do not think imaginary sex would be so much fun.”

“That would be
made
-up sex. I’m talking about where a couple fights, then reconciles—in colonial English that is called ‘making up.’”

“Ah. Sex is about passion. Anger is passion. So, one could make the other better,
non
?”

“Between you and me,” I whispered as I pulled his lips to mine. “I don’t know how it could be any better.”

***

A scratching noise jolted me awake. Disoriented, it took me a moment to remember where I was. Then the memories flooded back, warming me to my toes. Spooned around me, Jean-Charles breathed softly in my ear, the measured cadence of sleep.

The noise sounded again. Someone was at the door.

“Papa?” Christophe whispered as he worked the door handle.

Jean-Charles didn’t stir. Clearly he was exhausted. For some reason, I didn’t feel badly about that at all.

Easing myself from his arms, I rooted in his closet for a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. Clothed, I unlocked the door and greeted a very surprised little boy.

“Shhh. Your father is asleep.” I took his hand. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I’m starving.”

Christophe allowed me to lead him across the great room. At the foot of the stairs curving upward to the second floor, he paused. “We have so many rooms. Why did you sleep in my father’s bed?”

Formulating an answer, I stared into his wide, innocent eyes.

“You slept with Uncle Jean?” came a lilting, female voice from the landing above. A trim young woman, with a tangle of brown curls, wide, knowing eyes, and a lush mouth, which was now curved into a huge grin, bounded down the stairs.

The two youngsters stared at me.

“You must be Chantal,” I said to the beautiful girl standing in front of me. “My name is Lucky, and to answer your question…yes.” I never had learned the subtle art of beating around the bush. “Would you happen to be hungry? I know it’s only six
a.m.
here, but it must be dinner time in France.”

“Can you cook?” The girl eyed me warily.

“What I do in the kitchen would probably be a punishable offense in your family, but I can make pancakes. You two up for that?”

***

Chantal took my list of ingredients. Searching the cabinets, she found all the essentials—only a chef would have made sure his kitchen was fully stocked when he moved in—a chef and a father. I melted butter, while the girl sifted all the dry ingredients together in a large bowl.

“I want to help,” Christophe said from his perch on the edge of the counter. “Pancakes are my favorite.”

“Your turn is coming up. You have the most important part.” I caught Chantal looking at me and I gave her a wink. She rewarded me with a grin.

I turned on the griddle and plopped a wad of butter on it.

Handing me the bowl, Chantal asked, “So how was it? Uncle Jean is pretty good,
non
?”

Caught by surprise, I juggled the bowl, catching it in the nick of time. I gave her a wide-eyed look.

“I thought so,” she announced as if she knew what she was talking about. She couldn’t be any more than fifteen. She gave me one of those shrugs. “He is French,” she said as if that explained everything—which perhaps it did.

“You, behave,” I said to her with a grin. “And you,” I said to Christophe. “Now it’s your turn.”

He moved to his knees on the counter, peering into the depth of the bowl. “What is my father good at?”

“Everything. Ignore your cousin; she is being precocious.”

I corralled him with my body so he couldn’t fall. “Take this,” I handed him a long-handled wooden spoon, “and mush down the middle so we have a little hole.”

His face a mask of concentration, he did as I asked.

“Now pour in the milk.” I handed him the measuring cup.

He spilled a little bit, and looked at me with worried eyes.

“If you don’t make a mess, the pancakes won’t turn out right. Now the butter.”

He did as I instructed.

“Do you know how to crack an egg?” I asked.

He shook his head.

The egg was almost too large for his hand. Covering his in mine, I showed him how to rap the shell lightly on the edge of the bowl, until it cracked. Then I pressed his thumbs inside the crack and he opened the shell over the bowl. “Perfect! The first time I did that, the egg squirted all over me.”

Christophe beamed as I took the bowl and began mixing. Chantal moved the butter around the griddle, coating it as it heated.

“I like helping,” Christophe announced. “My father doesn’t let me help.”

“When he sees what a wonderful job you did this morning, I’m sure he will change his mind.” Pausing in my beating, I ruffled his hair.

Jean-Charles’s voice sounded from the doorway. “You can be assured of that,” he said, a grin lighting his eyes and splitting his face as he lounged in the doorway, arms crossed across his chest. Dressed only in a pair of gym shorts, with his hair disheveled, a day’s worth of stubble, his lips a little swollen, Jean-Charles looked good enough to eat…again.

“Papa!” Christophe shouted. Jumping to his feet, he bounded across the counter and launched himself into his father’s arms.

My heart caught in my throat, but Jean-Charles snagged his son midair with a practiced swoop. He gave him a squeeze, then a good tickle as he held him tight.

Yeah, another course of the incredibly delectable Frenchman would be perfect for my breakfast.

When his eyes caught mine, I could tell we were thinking along similar lines.

But we had entertaining to do, and hungry bellies to fill.

“How long have you been standing there?” I asked.

“A little while.”

Chantal ambled over to him, bussing him on both cheeks, she said, “Uncle,” her tone amusingly accusatory.

Jean-Charles set Christophe down, then much to the delight of all present, he took the bowl from me, setting it on the counter, then wrapped me in his arms and gave me the best wake-up kiss ever. “Good morning,” he said, when he had released my lips.

“Fabulous morning, actually,” I said. The look in his eyes told me he agreed.

The butter started to sizzle, so I grabbed Christophe, deposited him on the counter once again, handed him a spatula, and said, “Be careful, it’s hot. But I am going to teach you to toss pancakes.”

Taking a stool across from us, his chin in his hand, his elbow on the counter, Jean-Charles watched, a smile tickling his lips. Christophe’s first two attempts didn’t turn out so well—one pancake landed on a burner, oozing into the pan below, the other landed half on, half off the griddle.

I glanced at Jean-Charles, but he didn’t seem at all upset at the mess.

By the third, the boy had it figured out—gently moving the spatula under the cake, then flicking his wrist so it formed an arc, turning over before it again landed on the griddle. Kids…so precocious these days.