The Hotel Riviera(39)

Jack watched as she put her arms around him, murmuring, “Sweet baby dog,” and darned if the mutt didn’t give her his soulful “good dog” face and also a good lick that took off a swathe of makeup, but Lola just laughed.

Then Bad Dog spotted Scramble perched on top of the armoire, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. After a minute Bad Dog gave a plaintive little whine and slunk off, ears and tail down, a bewildered look on his face.

“Meanwhile…,” Jack said, handing Lola the flowers.

“Meanwhile…”

She was looking at him from under those long Bambi lashes, clutching the flowers to her breast. Then the flowers fell forgotten to the floor, and he was kissing her and she was kissing him, and they were telling each other how long they had been wanting to do this…

“What about dinner?” Lola asked when they finally came up for air.

“What about it?” He claimed her mouth again, felt her body sink into his. He was trembling as he whispered, “Lola, are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Her voice was soft, breathy, in his ear. “Yes, I’m ready,” she said.





Chapter 35




Lola

Have you ever felt your body melt into a man’s so that you’re not even sure you exist anymore, except as apart of him? That’s how it felt, making love the second time with Jack Farrar.

Under his exploring hands I was suddenly delicate as spun silk and slippery as fresh cream; I was Cinderella turning into a princess, I was a starburst in the sky, and I was a long way, baby, from that ingenue chef in Encino, California. I was a woman again. And I loved it.

“I knew you’d look like this,” I said to him, stretching my body the length of his, stroking his golden flanks, licking his cheek, his neck, anything I could get my tongue around. I loved the texture of his skin, the crisp hair on his chest, bleached gold by the sun, his hard sailor’s hands.

“That’s because you already saw.” He was biting my lips now, shutting me up so he could kiss me properly.

I giggled because it was true. “I would have known anyway.”

“Can’t say the same,” he said, exploring my mouth with his tongue until I had to turn away to catch my breath. “You’re a complete surprise.”

I pushed up on my elbow. “A nice surprise?”

“The best.”

Then he pulled me back under him, slid his mouth the length of my body, sank his face into me, breathing me in, gentling me with his fingers and then his tongue. I arched into him, I was a starburst again, the planets had never looked so lovely and real life was forgotten as he entered me, lifting me onto him with a gentle expertise.

“Sweet, sweet, sweet,” he murmured in my ear as he made love to me. “Sweeter than honey, my lovely Lola,” he groaned later as we trembled together, and then that delicious fall over the edge into that starry starry night.

After a while, he edged his body off mine and I lay there, clutching his hand, hardly knowing where I was, who I was, only that I was in France, making love on a summer night with the breeze from the sea blowing through the open window and my man’s happy sighs in my ears.

“Lost in France in Love.” The memory of an old song flitted through my head and I hummed a few bars, happier than a kid with an ice cream—and smiling like the cat who’d got the cream. Or more likely like Bad Dog, who’d probably gotten our dinner by now!

I jolted upright. I’d left all the food on the kitchen counter. I scrambled out of bed and ran for the kitchen.

I surveyed the damage. Licking his lips, Bad Dog gazed at me without the remotest sign of guilt. I stamped my foot. “Bad dog!” I yelled.

Jack came in. He looked at the scattered remains of the hors d’oeuvres; at the mangled bones of the lamb chops; at the greasy blob amid the chestnut leaves that was all that remained of the Banon cheese; and at the cracker crumbs.

“Jesus,” he said. Then he threw Bad Dog outside and slammed the door. We could hear him snuffling along the gap at the bottom. He gave a disconsolate whine, then slumped with a thud onto the step.

“Serves him right,” I said, still angry, but Jack was laughing. I glared at him, but he was naked and gorgeous and he was eyeing me in a way I liked to be eyed, and I began to laugh too.

“I already had dessert anyhow,” he said, pulling me into his arms and kissing me again.

We stayed in that position for quite a while, then, ever the hostess, I said, “I have Parmesan cheese and a good bread…”

Jack groaned, still holding me. “Lola,” he said, “do you ever stop thinking about food?”

“Not when I have a hungry customer on my hands,” I said, leading him by the hand back to the bedroom, though not for the reason he thought.

I handed him a white cotton robe, the kind we supply all our guests with, slipped one on myself and went back to the kitchen. I took a bottle of my favorite champagne, Taittinger La Fran?aise, from the fridge, filled the ice bucket, went back into the living room and handed the bottle to Jack to open. I returned to the kitchen, put a slab of Parmesan on a plate and a crusty round loaf on a wooden board, along with knives, butter, and plates.

I plonked them on the coffee table and stood, hands on my hips. I thought how domestic we looked. In fact, I almost told Jack how “at home” he looked here in my cottage in his bathrobe, opening champagne, but I thought better of it. We said santé, clinking glasses, washing the taste of sex down in good champagne without ever taking our eyes off each other. Drinking each other in, I thought with a pleasant little shiver.