One To Watch(98)

From the very beginning, Bea had thought Luc was the most attractive man in the house. Was that why she couldn’t trust him—why she could never quite believe he might actually like her as much as he said he did? She had grown to believe that Asher had true feelings for her, as did Sam. Was it so impossible that Luc could too? And, more to the immediate point, was she so certain he was a liar that she’d throw away an opportunity for them to spend another night together off camera to find out more?

Luc gazed at her deeply, the candlelight illuminating his five-o’clock shadow that had started to grow in.

“What are you thinking, my Bea?” he asked, lifting a hand to her cheek.

She was thinking of how long she’d been here, of how much she’d changed since that first night of filming. She was thinking of Asher, and of Sam. She was thinking of Ray, how much she still missed him, how far away he seemed.

“I was thinking …” Bea formed the words slowly, like if she wasn’t careful they might disappear before she could speak them. “Maybe you and I should go back to our hotel?”

Luc’s whole beautiful face warmed as his lips spread into a smile. “Together?”

She nodded. “Together.”

As they gathered themselves to head back to the vans, Bea saw Lauren standing near the castle entrance, talking with a couple of the camera ops. She looked over at Bea and caught her eye—then gave her an assuring nod. Bea nodded in return, and Lauren smiled.


Sleeping with Luc was nothing like sleeping with Ray.

With Ray, there had been an oppressive urgency, a shared knowledge that whatever the two of them would ever have together could only exist in the space of these few hours, this one night. It was ending as it was beginning, their long-delayed happiness already mingling with their inevitable destruction. They didn’t luxuriate in lengthy explorations of their bodies—there wasn’t time for that. They consumed each other instead, and when morning came and he was gone, Bea felt chewed over, destroyed.

With Luc, everything was different. The soft way he kissed her, how tenderly he removed her clothes.

“And you’re sure you are okay?” He must have asked a dozen times, and every time she laughed and told him she was, and every time he smiled with genuine relief, and every time she let herself fall for him just a little bit more.

“You understand my concern,” he said, kissing the edge of her jaw beneath her ear. “At the chateau, I kissed you, and they had to call the paramedics. I would not want to cause a cardiac arrest.”

Bea tried to come up with a rejoinder, but she was having trouble being quippy. Then Luc started kissing her neck and slowly moving his mouth down her body, and she stopped being able to form any thoughts at all.

“You’re certain you want this?” he asked a few minutes (or maybe hours) later. He’d gone to find a condom and now was back in bed, lying beside her, his muscled body fully displayed in the lamplight. Bea ran her hands along the dark tattoos on his arms, marveling at how unself-conscious he was—she had pulled a sheet up to her armpits as soon as he’d gotten up.

“I think I do,” she said, but her voice was small and unsure.

“Bea,” he said, kissing her gently. “It’s okay if you’re not ready. Tonight, next week, next month. I’m not going anywhere.”

She reached for his neck, and he pulled her close to kiss her. “I’m ready.”

He slid the sheet down her body, and the light touch of his fingers grazing her torso gave her chills. She leaned over to turn off the bedside light, but he stopped her.

“Why are you doing this?”

Bea blushed. “I just—that’s what I usually do.”

Luc grinned at her. “But you know the chef eats first with his eyes.”

“I’m no expert, but I thought the chef ate pretty well with his mouth.”

Luc threw his head back and laughed, then leaned down and kissed her deeply.

“Let me see you,” he whispered. And Bea nodded.

“Tell me,” he urged. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” she implored—there was nothing uncertain in her voice now. “I want this.”

He lowered himself down, his body hovering above hers. “Do you remember what I said, the first night I met you?”

Bea’s eyes searched his—the moments all jumbled together, she couldn’t pick out the one he meant. She shook her head, then gasped softly as she felt him move into her. He let his weight press her down, and she loved the feel of him pushing her deeper into the mattress. She twisted her limbs around him, pulling him closer, kissing him harder.

“Tell me,” she pleaded, and suddenly she was desperate, she had to know. “Tell me what you said the night you met me.”

He moved his fingers down, and she felt everything being pushed out of her body and brain except him and this; the sounds they made were low and primal.

“I said,” he rasped, “you should have everything you want.”

He moaned her name, and his voice was full of gravel; the stones flooded over her, rough and smooth like the banks of a river, remembering and forgetting, and she was gone.


The next morning, Bea woke in an effervescent mood, despite the audacity of the production staff banging on their hotel room door at some indecently early hour.