Carnal in Cannes (21 page)

“How long did you live with the nuns?”

Merde.

102

Jianne Carlo

Her head whipped up, and their gazes collided.

She struggled for control, but her hands twisted back and forth of their own accord. “How did you know?”

“You mentioned that the Mother Superior would roast you in the fires of hell before.” He pursed his lips, and his intense stare never wavered.

“I can"t be certain,” she answered. “I was sick when they took me in.”

“Who gave you the scars on your back?”

She gasped, clamped a hand over her mouth, and squeezed her eyes shut while shaking her head. “I cannot.” The words came out muffled.

For seconds that seemed longer than the entire terror-filled trip from Haiti to France, Harry didn"t speak, and her stomach rocked and roiled.

“You don"t have to answer that one,” he whispered and pulled her head down to his chest. His lips brushed the tip of her ear, he smoothed her hair, and she wanted to burrow into the safety of his embrace. “Where"d you go after you left Yvonne?”

I’m so tired, tired of lying, tired of hiding, tired of being afraid.

“I went to see a friend from the café.” Pressing a thumb to a pulsing spot between her eye and the bridge of her nose, she mumbled, “My head aches.”

An icy sea breeze curdled the skin on the back of her neck, raising tiny bumps, and Martine couldn"t prevent a sudden shudder. Harry"s arms tightened, and he said, “There"s aspirin in my medicine cabinet.” He lunged to his feet, catching her close to his chest, and headed to the stern staircase.

Nothing could"ve prepared Martine for the feeling when he first carried her, and no matter how often he"d done it since that first night, her reaction never varied. Her bones liquefied, the hairs covering her flesh skittered to a ninety-degree angle, and her thoughts emulsified. When he brushed his lips on her forehead, she surrendered, buried her nose into the crook of his neck, and kissed the pulse beating beneath a faint green line. “Merci, Harry.”

“How is it that you"ve lived on an island all your life, yet you can"t swim?”

They reached the cabin. He punched in the pass code, turned the door handle, stepped into the room, and automatically kicked the door shut.

“I lived in a remote village in the hills with Grand-mère when I was young.”

She couldn"t think enough to formulate a defensive reply. “No ocean.”

“Let"s get you on the bed,” he muttered, whipped the comforter aside, and settled her under the sheets. Pressing a palm to her forehead, he said, “You"re not warm. I don"t think you have a fever. How"re you feeling?”

“Okay,” she replied. “It"s just a headache. It"ll go away.” She tried for a smile, but from his expression, the attempt failed.

“I"ll get the aspirin,” he stated.

Martine didn"t protest when he insisted on getting into bed with her after she"d swallowed a couple of pills. Half sitting, half lying against the headboard in Harry"s Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

103

arms, cheek resting on his chest while his fingers combed the ends of her curls, she relaxed, and the nagging drums playing in her skull waned. Dozing and half-waking, she didn"t realize how much time had elapsed until her eyes alighted on the iPhone"s docked display.

Harry must have realized she"d awakened, for he cupped her chin and scanned her face. “Better?”

“Much.” His eyes held no anger.

“I"ll cancel the meeting with the Realtor.”

“Non. I am fine,” she declared, rose onto one elbow, and glimpsed a pile of boxes on the far side of the room. Brows winging up she turned to Harry.

“Your shopping,” Harry explained. “They arrived while you were asleep, and I had Austen bring them in here.”

Horrified at the number of packages, Martine sat up and twisted to face him.

“Something is wrong. We bought one skirt.” She held up a finger. “One skirt and one pair of shoes. A few underwear, but I swear, Harry, we did not buy all of that.” She waved a hand at the various boxes and bags.

Catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he forced her to meet his gaze. “I know you didn"t. I told Yvonne to get you a complete wardrobe. And no, this isn"t part of our deal. This is because you"re my wife. I can"t have you wearing the same thing all the time, now, can I? People know me. They"ll say I"m treating you badly.”

She hadn"t considered his image and reputation. Still, hooking a glance at the pile over her shoulder, Martine exclaimed, “But there are so many.”

“Come on. Let"s go see what Yvonne bought for you.” Harry caught her hand and tugged. Reluctantly she let him pull her off the bed and drag her to the sofa in the living area. “You sit. I"ll haul them over here.”

Ninety minutes later she couldn"t even see the couch"s upholstery, so many garments decorated the piece of furniture. “Tell me again why I need four pairs of jeans, Harry?” She lifted the denim in her lap and picked up over three dozen thongs of various colors, shapes, and decorative trimmings. “And these? I can make do with three easily.”

“Sugar, then I"d be deprived,” Harry said and winked. “Think about it. I can undress you every night, and I"ll never know which one of these you"ll be wearing.”

He snatched a thong out of her hand. “I"m not sure about the yellow stripes. Why don"t you model this one for me?”

“Harry,” she yelped and tried to grab the underwear.

He leaned back.

She followed and slipped off the couch as he sank to the floor, and she fell on top of him.

104

Jianne Carlo

“My favorite position,” he growled, snagging his arms over her back. “You on top.” He kissed her forehead. “St. Pete goes nuts when you turn pink like that. And he"s thinking when we go out tonight you should wear the yellow panties.”

Their faces were inches apart, and his light eyes grew darker as they stared at each other. The breath puffing through his parted lips carried a hint of brewer"s yeast and mingled with his aftershave and spice.
I owe you more than you’ll ever
know, Harry
. Impulsively, she brushed her mouth over his, but when he stiffened, she drew back to look at him.

“No?”

“Yes, wife.” Sparks flared in the wake of his finger outlining her lips. Martine waited, desire climbing, lungs spasming to keep pace with the heart pumping faster and faster, sending the blood speeding to her puckering nipples. “But first you need to learn how to use your new iPhone.”

“Harry,” she protested, scrambling off him and worrying her lower lip. “I don"t need an iPhone.”

“Yes you do,” he pronounced, pushing off the ground. “This afternoon proved that. I nearly went crazy wondering what had happened to you.”

Wanting to flee, to hit him, to burrow into a hole, she instead buried her face in her hands. “I don"t need a cell phone.” Her fingers muffled the words.

Harry pried her hands free and tugged her into his lap. “It"s not complicated.

And it"s easy to learn.”

“I don"t want to,” she grumbled, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Tough,” he retorted, cupping her chin and forcing their gazes to connect. “I want you safe, and the phone will help. After I show you how to use the phone, we"re heading to the bank. I"ve set up an account for you. It"s in your name only. I want you to meet the bank manager. He can advise you on any purchases you want to make. Stocks, bonds, stuff like that. I put thirty thousand euros in the account—”

“Harry! You can"t,” she wailed.

He gave her a little shake. “I can and I have. The money"s your spending money for the next six months. Spend it on anything you want. I don"t have anything to do with
your
account. No one will report to me how you spent the money. Do you understand?”

“Why? I don"t understand. It"s too much. Why are you so nice to me? I am nothing but a whore. I sold myself to you. Why aren"t you like other men? Oh!” She shoved him hard. “How am I supposed to make this business? You make me so—”

“Martine. Speak in English.”

She hadn"t even realized she"d reverted to Haitian Creole until he said that.

“I haven"t a clue what you"re ranting about. Why are you mad?” He threw his hands up. “Never. Never in a lifetime will I understand the workings of the female brain. Think if I"d done this for Austen he"d be spitting French and smacking me?”

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Harry looked so annoyed and confused and a little hurt too. His frown could"ve scared the devil, yet he hadn"t knitted his eyebrows, and his lips hadn"t thinned.

“I"m sorry,” she whispered, rubbing the place her palm had connected with his chest. “You bought and paid for me—”

“I"m warning you, Martine. Say that once more, and you"ll be very sorry.”

“Oh, Harry,” she said. “C"est vrai. It is the truth.”

“We have a business deal,” Harry agreed. “But being lovers doesn"t prevent us from being friends too. I like you. I admire your gumption. And I want to do something for you. Is that wrong?”

“But so much money. A few hundred euros would be a great gift.”

What am I doing? Grand-mère’s medicine. I can buy it now. I can pay back the
Bandoleer.

“The amount is not negotiable, Martine,” Harry growled. “And it"s not returnable.”

“Then thank you, Harry.” She flashed him a smile so wide she thought her lips would split. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Throwing her arms around his neck, she rained kisses all over his stunned face.

He sat unmoving, his glance sweeping her features. “That was an about-turn.

But why look a gift horse in the mouth? Reach for the iPhone.” He jerked his head at the coffee table. “It"s closer to you.”

Martine"s mouth canted down, but she obeyed and handed the instrument of torture and humiliation to him.

Hours later Harry tunneled both hands through his hair and stated, frustration evident in his growly tone, “I wish I could say that went better than I expected. Talk about blood and a stone. Remind me to hire a tutor the next time you need to learn something.” He stood. “I"m gonna have a beer. Want one?”

Martine shook her head. As soon as he turned to go to the minifridge, she stuck her tongue out at him, knowing the gesture was childish but not caring. The iPhone in her hand clanged. She jumped; the thing fell out of her hands and clattered on the coffee table.

“Stupid beast,” she spat in French and picked up the phone with both hands.

Peering at the screen, she saw the red and green lines Harry had explained stood for accepting or declining the call. Gritting her teeth, she thumbed green and brought the phone to her ear. “Hello.”

“Perfect. Now call me back.”

She glared at Harry, his hip leaning on the sideboard, iPhone to his ear, and a bottle of lager in one hand.

“
Imbéciles
,” she muttered under her breath.

“I heard that,” he called out. “And that word doesn"t require translation.”

Concentrating, Martine found the recent-call symbol and tapped the first line.

106

Jianne Carlo

Across the room Harry"s phone rang, playing the lyrics from Santana"s “Black Magic Woman.” Since the phone was still attached to his ear, his finger moved, and he said, all the while fixing her with a gaze that no longer spoke of frustration but reeked of desire, “Hi, sugar.” He used the voice that wrapped magic around a woman.

“Imbéciles,” Martine said and lifted her chin defiantly.

He hooted, and when he went to slap his hand on his thigh, the bottle jerked, and froth spewed from the brown bottle"s mouth.

Martine chortled.

He set the beer on the side table and leaped across the dining table. She bounded to her feet and ran for the bathroom. He caught her as she sprinted through the doorway and hugged her from behind. “I really do like you, Martine.”

I wish I could stay with you forever.

She sagged against his chest, the unbidden thought weighting her shoulders.

“Well?” He shook her. “It"s customary to reciprocate.”

Uncertain, Martine twisted around to look at him. The always present twinkle in his eyes seemed to have been placed on hold.

“I like you too, Harry.” The admission triggered a fountain of panic, and she wanted to wrench her gaze away from the trance his commanded. Out of nowhere she blurted, “I was with the nuns for two years. They found me unconscious in the streets. My mother took me away from my Grand-mère and sold me to a family.”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

107

Chapter Eleven

“Your mother
sold
you?” Harry couldn"t believe he"d heard right.

Martine"s jaw clenched, and her eyes swept right to where his hands dug into the flesh above the cusp of her shoulders.

Splaying his fingers, he ground his teeth together and counted to ten, hoping the red-hot fury hazing his brain would dissipate. His wife"s pinched features and the wild pulse jumping erratically at the base of her throat sliced the edge off his rage. Swallowing the ballooning anger constricting his throat, he said, “You"ve never told anyone before, have you?”

She shook her head and then looked away, the proud angle of her chin dipping, her ramrod posture slumping.

“And you didn"t mean to tell me. And now you"re regretting it. Look at me, Martine,” he coaxed, stroking her long, slender neck.

She shook her head again and fixed her gaze on the Berber carpet.

“C"mere,” he crooned, bending to sweep one arm under her knees, and then gathered her warm, limp body close to his chest. “You"re not alone anymore. It"s you and me against the world. We have each other"s backs, remember?”

Harry walked as he spoke, knowing the next few minutes would prove critical in gaining his wife"s trust. He sat on the bed and cradled her in his lap. The deflation of her normal pride and discipline reflected in the lifeless drooping of her head, the tremulous quiver of her lips, and the humping of her back seemed absolute.