The Hotel Riviera(40)

I said, “Surely you’re hungry?” He nodded, still without taking his eyes off me.

We didn’t bother to eat at the table I’d fussed over for so long, we just sat on the rug and ate off the coffee table. I hacked a couple of hunks off the loaf and some slivers off the cheese.

“There’s nothing better than champagne after making love,” Jack said, holding my hand, “unless it’s a hunk of bread and cheese.”

“Just think yourself lucky Bad Dog didn’t get around to the bread,” I said, with a full mouth. As usual I was starving but it was tricky eating with one hand. “And there’s better yet to come. I kept the lobster salad in the fridge so you won’t go hungry after all.”

“What about dessert?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you like lavender crème br?lée.”

He stared at me. “You’re joking.”

I giggled and almost choked on the bread. He was definitely not a crème br?lée man, let alone lavender crème br?lée. “Didn’t think you’d care for that somehow, so I made a chocolate cake instead.”

He leaned over to kiss me. “Sounds good to me.”

“Of course, it has pralines and cream and a few extra decorative and gastronomic touches,” I added, “though I could be persuaded to serve it plain with ice cream.”

“I’m your all-American boy. Just bring on the ice cream.”

First, though, we had more champagne, then I brought out the lobster salad which, though I say it myself, was the perfect after-love food. Or before love, come to think of it, though now I was thinking about it, love had not been mentioned between us.

I was still thinking about that as I speared a particularly good morsel of lobster and fed it to Jack. He returned the compliment, kissing me as I chewed.

“Did I ever tell you I love redheads?” he asked, pushing my slippery bangs out of my eyes, running his hand slowly over my hair, and sending new shivers down my spine.

Then we forgot about dessert and made love some more, on the rug under the beady-eyed gaze of Scramble, still on top of the armoire.





Chapter 36




We were in bed when I awoke to the sound of rain against the windows. I turned my head to look at Jack. He was awake too, looking at me.

“Rain,” he said lazily. “Who would have thought it, here in the south of France.”

“Better let the dog in,” I said, realizing too late how like a wife I’d sounded. “I mean, I wouldn’t want him to get wet,” I added hastily.

Jack had propped himself on one elbow and was looking at me. I didn’t want him to think I was interested in a long-term relationship; he was a man who enjoyed his freedom, I’d just take what I could get now. Besides, I was never going to fall in love again. Remember?

“I don’t believe in love at first sight,” I said, nervously making my point. “You know, eyes meeting across the room, sparks flying…”

“It was across the water,” he said.

I frowned, puzzled.

“Eyes across the water, remember, the telescope…”

“And the binoculars…”

Jack nodded. “Anyhow, you weren’t looking so great, the first time I saw you.”

“Yeah, well, probably not. But I just want you to know I don’t believe in all that love-at-first-sight stuff.”

“Me either.” He lay back against the pillows, his face an unreadable blank.

“So. No falling in love, then.” I sounded very firm, like a woman who knew what she was doing. Miss N would have been proud of me.

“You got it,” he said.

“Right.”

“So,” he said. “Now we know where we stand.”

“We certainly do. Anyway, what about the dog?”

Jack unraveled himself from the sheets, and sauntered to the door, naked as the first day I’d seen him and looking just as good as he had when I’d watched him climb from the sea, at one with his world. It was a world I knew nothing about, and one where I obviously did not belong. So I was right not to fall in love. Right?

I already felt my resolve crumbling. Oh God, you’re such a dummy, I told myself. It’s déjà vu all over again and you’re falling once more, hook, line, and sinker—was that a suitable nautical term?—for the wrong man.

Jack had let the dog in. I dried him off with my best bath towel, while Jack took a shower (I gave him a clean towel, in case you’re wondering). Then I sat on the edge of the bed with Bad Dog snuggled up to me, watching Jack put on his clothes. He slid his feet into the tired pair of loafers, then came and stood next to me.

“The food was great,” he said, looking serious.

I nodded.

“So was the champagne.”

“It’s my favorite.”

He pushed my hair out of my eyes. “You’re beautiful, Lola.”

I wanted to say, no, I’m not except when I’m in your arms. “You too,” I mumbled instead, wondering whether that was the right thing to say to a man anyway.

“Tell me something,” he said, “did you think of Patrick at all tonight?”

I gasped, shocked. Did he think I had no principles? That I would think of another man when I was in his arms? I shook my head.