The Hotel Riviera(37)

“I knew you’d have to come home sometime,” he said.

I caught the gleam of his smile in the midnight-blue darkness and felt my heart do that little flip that always means trouble. Stop it, I told myself sternly, this man means nothing to you, you mean nothing to him. He’s just a friend, a new friend, who’s trying to help you out, that’s all.

“Well, I’m here,” I said, plumping down next to him.

“Yeah.”

I could feel him looking at me.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I think so. Thank you for asking, though.”

“That’s okay.”

We listened to the soft slurp of the Mediterranean washing the shore.

“I spoke to my detective friend in Marseilles,” he said. “Forensics found nothing in the Porsche. Just fingerprints. They were all Patrick’s.”

I nodded. “Thanks.” I was just glad it wasn’t blood.

“You’re a terrific cook, y’know that?” Jack changed the subject.

“That’s my job.”

“Yeah, but some cooks hate what they do. You cook with love.”

“Gotta spread that love around somewhere,” I said flippantly, but he didn’t laugh. “So, if you think I’m such a good cook—and by the way the word is chef—why not come to dinner tomorrow night?” I said out of the blue. “It’s my night off, we could dine here.” I didn’t add alone, a word which was cropping up in my vocabulary a lot tonight, but he knew what I meant.

“Thank you, I’d like that.” He got to his feet and stood, looking down at me. “You sure you’ll be okay tonight?”

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

“So what time?”

“How about nine?” I said. We dine late here in the south of France and nine was early enough so as not to look as though I were asking him to spend the night.

“I’ll be here.”

We stood, looking at each other.

“Lovely night,” he said, scanning the stars.

“Do they look the same from your boat?” I asked and he smiled.

“Better.”

“Everything’s better on a boat, I suppose.”

“Not everything,” he said, reaching out for my hand.

Those little electric tingles filtered from our clasped fingers as we stood, looking up at the stars. I felt him turn slightly, sensed he was looking at me. I met his eyes.

“Lola?” he said, and then he bent his head and kissed my hand.

It was the sweetest gesture, so gentlemanly, but in a way, sooo sexy, I turned to liquid gold. He ran his hands up my bare arms, lifted my heavy hair from my nape, grasped my head, pulled it toward his. Then we were kissing.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, but lips are the first wonderful link in the game of love, that first gentle kiss, hesitant, seeking each other, searching for that moment when, eyes wide open, you link body with soul.

My first kiss from Jack Farrar was like nothing I’d experienced before. I wanted to melt into his body, to become part of him. All my ladylike pretensions were swept away in one tiny moment, and I was no longer Patrick’s abandoned wife. I was a woman again and, even though it was for this night only, Jack Farrar was my man.

After a long while he lifted his mouth from mine and we stood wrapped in each other’s arms, weak-kneed with longing.

“More,” I said, running my tongue across his lips and he laughed and said he was just about to say that himself. Then, to my astonishment, he picked me up and carried me through my own front door, straight to the bedroom.

“No messing about with you,” I said, smiling back at him, because this was a truly happy occasion. In fact, it was one of the happiest moments of my entire life.

“Come here,” I said, flinging off my shirt and reclining on the bed like a true Jezebel. And he laughed, flinging off his own shirt, and then his pants, his underwear. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Up close and getting closer my Naked Man was even more perfect than through the binoculars.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he said, laughing, “but all your secrets are intact.”

“I want to share them with you,” I whispered, licking his ear, shivering with delight at the touch of his hands.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, “so beautiful, Lola, here, let me touch you, let me find you…”

His lips searched my body, sending ripples of pleaure through me, and I smiled. “Delicious,” I said, tasting him, “you are the most delicious man…”

And my old four-poster rocked to our rhythm as we made love through the night.

“Never,” I said to him softly, “it was never like this before…” And he sealed my mouth with kisses and entered me again, and again, until I was one delicious dish of pleasure myself. And nothing else mattered.

We woke to the dawn and the sound of Big Dog whining and snuffling along the crack under the bedroom door. We lay on our backs, his arm under my shoulders. I turned and smiled at him. “Bonjour,” I said softly.

“How’re y’doing?” he replied with a grin.

And then we were laughing and kissing, and I had to dash into the shower and get ready for my day and he had to rescue Bad Dog from near-abandonment, and get out before any early guests wandered down the path to the beach.