Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(22)

“Renaud lives in California,” he finally says, his voice growing quiet. “He started out with a few of our wineries here in Bordeaux and then kept expanding and expanding. He now stays at his biggest winery in Napa. Actually, he’s been trying to get me to develop a hotel there for a while, but . . .”

“You don’t want to leave France.”

“It’s not that. I love California, and I haven’t expanded to the States yet. But . . . I think I need to stay near my family. For now.”

I don’t want to pry more than I have already. I read that his mother died in a car accident about four years ago, so I figure he may be supporting his father in more ways than one, even if he wants nothing to do with that side of the business.

“Have you been to California?” Olivier asks me. The question sounds natural, but I can already tell that he’s just trying to change the subject. I tell him I’ve been there with a friend—to Universal Studios to see Harry Potter World. Actually, I went with Tom, but I don’t want to bring that loser up—and we get onto the subject of traveling, which is something I can now talk his ear off about, letting him off the hook.

Can’t say I blame him for being a bit cagey about his family. In many ways, we’re still total strangers, and I know it usually takes a long time before I start opening up to people about my life. And I mean the real, nitty-gritty, not-so-pretty parts of it. On the surface we might seem like two completely different people from totally different lives, but perhaps we’re not so different if you dig a little deeper.

But, as usual around Olivier, I’m getting a little ahead of myself. I don’t know why I keep trying to make this something it’s not, when it’s not even anything to begin with.

And yet, here I am on his family’s yacht, under a twinkling night sky, floating on the Mediterranean, while a Michelin-starred chef serves us a seafood feast the likes of which I’ve never experienced before. The Dumont wine is at the ready, and Olivier is giving me his undivided attention, as if he’s feasting on me with his eyes and ears.

I wish he would feast on me in other ways.

I wish I had the nerve to touch him, kiss him, do something.

I’m growing afraid.

But I’m no longer afraid of what might happen—I’m afraid of what might not. When I first saw Olivier, when he first took care of me and brought me here, I was so sure that his main goal was to seduce me. I couldn’t explain why, because, let’s face it, I’m not his usual type, but that’s honestly what I thought. Then, as the days started to tick by and we got to know each other in a purely platonic way, well, then that little theory of mine started to melt away.

If I started out with jitters and butterflies in my stomach over the idea of Olivier and me together physically, then those butterflies inside me have now morphed into desperate, voracious beasts.

I want to consume this man, and I want him to consume me.

I want to feel this part of him before we say goodbye and the fairy tale ends and my old life begins again. I want Olivier before it’s too late.

It’s just after dessert—a meringue-and-almond dish with a raspberry coulis—when Marcel drops anchor, the chains noisily clattering into the sea.

“Where are we?” I ask, looking around. We had been steadily moving back toward the many lights of land when we stopped. We aren’t that far from shore; I can see the bleached, rocky edges of the land glowing under the moon and shrubs dancing in the light sea breeze, and I can hear the sound of the waves gently lapping over the rocks.

Olivier grins at me, his smile shadowed by the warm glow of the cockpit lights, and starts to undo his bow tie.

Meanwhile, Marcel heads down the stairs into the boat, throwing up a couple of fluffy towels.

“What’s happening?” I ask, though I have an idea.

“Care to go for a swim?” Olivier asks, his tie now loose, his hands deftly unbuttoning his shirt.

Oh God.

“Um,” I manage to say feebly, “I don’t have a bathing suit.”

“Go in your underwear.”

“I’m not wearing a bra.”

He smirks. “I’ve noticed.” Then he shrugs off his jacket and shirt until he’s topless.

Even in the dim light, he’s a sight to behold. Wide, firm chest, rigid abs, those lickable Vs on the side of his hips—all wrapped up in a smooth golden package.

Speaking of package, now his fingers are undoing his belt, and I’m not sure I’m ready for what’s next.

“I’m going in,” he tells me. “You’re free to join me. I highly advise a dip in the Mediterranean. The sea salt here is good for your soul.”

I’ll tell you what else is good for the soul: watching Olivier Dumont take off his clothes, that’s what. The sound as he undoes his zipper is so loud it seems to bounce off the waves.

I quickly avert my eyes, even though the temptation to stare is overwhelming, and then he moves into my vision: his perfect shoulders, back, and, yes, one hell of an ass, all lit by the soft moonlight.

He stops just at the stern of the ship, climbs over the railing, and with one quick smile back at me over his shoulder, swan-dives naked into the sea with barely a splash.

I get up and scramble over as quickly as I can with my ankle and peer over the side.

He’s swimming and grinning up at me, his wet hair pushed off his face. But that’s not the only thing that’s taking my breath away.