Carnal in Cannes (3 page)

For a second, for a hairbreadth instant, he thought he"d found the woman from Grasse, the one with odd-colored eyes. She"d worn a mask like the other catering staff, but there was no mistaking the deep blue of her left iris or the rich brown of the right. Passion and fierce determination blazed in the way she tilted her chin, and her lips curled in a sneer, as if he hadn"t caught her half-naked in an empty room, and as if she wasn"t in the wrong.

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

9

A rose hue darkened twin spots at the apex of
this
woman"s cheekbones, and her eyes—Harry did a double take—her unremarkable
coal
eyes flickered down his form. Her blush deepened into a delectable cherry shade.

Mouth watering, Harry followed the direction of her gaze to his groin and knew his complexion matched this beauty"s. He wore faded jeans, a brown belt with a silver buckle, and tented couldn"t begin to describe how his erection strained against the tight denim.

Austen cleared his throat.

Harry jerked, and his stare collided with hers again for a hint of a second. In a rush to avoid another strained, uncomfortable ogling, he strode in the direction of the bar but halted as soon as his boot hit the floor, and swallowed an expletive.

Two zipper teeth pinched the underside of his cock"s crown.

Mortification and pain stamped his skin with a fiery heat, but even though his freaking organ throbbed, he couldn"t will it into flaccidity.

Harry twisted the cork out of a bottle of scotch, poured a stiff shot into a crystal tumbler, and downed the liquor using his right hand. The left he utilized to surreptitiously separate flesh from brass zipper teeth, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment as the sting subsided. Harry did a two-step spin.

“Introductions, Austen.”

“Miss Martine Bellamy, Harrison Indiana Ford.”

“Miss Bellamy.” Harry ambled her way, hand outstretched.

Chin cocked, eyes half-hooded, she returned the gesture, and her slender fingers gripped his hand in a firm shake.

“Mr. Ford,” she murmured, and she had that sexy French accent down to a purr.

“Under the circumstances I believe it best if we forgo the formalities, Martine.

My name is Harry.” He didn"t release her palm or her gaze.

She tried to tug away from him, but his hold tightened, and he exerted enough pressure to show who commanded this scene. Martine"s bottom lip jutted out, and rebellion flared ever so briefly in her half-hidden eyes before a rigid self-control battened down her emotions.

The elevator pinged.

Every follicle covering his flesh stood at attention as the ventilation system swirled Chanel No. 5 through the room. Harry fought his automatic gag reflex.

Delora.

“Miss Bellamy, would you wait in the bedroom until we"re ready?” Harry shuffled about as quickly as he could within the confines of the tight pants and bruised skin.

The last time he"d seen the onyx-eyed beauty standing at the entrance to the penthouse, she"d flashed a ten-carat engagement ring with matching eternity band under his nose.

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Jianne Carlo

“Why, Indy in the flesh.”

The years had been kind to Delora Consuela Perez Ford. Her creamy olive complexion still glowed, and those saucer-sized black eyes blazed her Gemini nature, one minute oozing passion and love, the next flashing contemptuous, taunting hatred.

“
Como estás, mi madre
?” Harry drawled, imitating an illiterate peasant"s pronunciation, knowing she hated when he reminded her of her origins.

Austen cleared his throat.

Suresh choked back the beginnings of a guffaw.

Harry glared at both of them.

Twisting his lips to one side, Suresh shrugged, and Harry turned his attention to Delora.

At least his damned prick had calmed down. Harry exhaled, stalked to the bar, and poured a stiff shot of bourbon.

“I see you haven"t changed.”

She"d perfected her English. Not a hint of her Mexican accent remained. He downed the liquor, measured another ounce, swallowed that too, and slapped the glass on the wood.

“Let"s get this show on the road,” he said, exaggerating his native old-boy drawl. Harry shifted and braced both elbows on the bar. Out of the corner of his right eye, he caught a slight motion and realized the beauty, Martine, hadn"t moved an inch.

He squinted his displeasure at Austen.

Suresh"s mouth twitched a couple of times, his onyx eyes twinkling their amusement. Harry zinged him with narrowed eyes.

A quick sweep of the room and he"d memorized each person"s position, assessed potential reactions, and formulated a change in direction.

“What"s Halliday doing back here?” He pointed his chin at the stout medicine man standing next to Delora.

“He"ll do what he"s supposed to.” Delora hadn"t taken her eyes off him. “He says you managed to find a woman, a
black
woman.”

Her voice radiated contempt. Delora liked finding those on a ladder rung lower than her to torture. And her prejudices ran deep; she"d been the one to sic her brothers on Silas, his father"s sole black employee. The grizzled foreman of the ranch had been more of a father to Harry than his actual daddy. Forgive and forget didn"t get close to working as far as Delora"s role in Silas"s ultimately fatal injuries went.

His stepmother"s nostrils flared, and Harry realized she"d thinned them—eye wrinkles smoothed too, he surmised—and wondered how many original body parts remained.

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

11

“You"re going to screw her,” she jeered and pointed a red-painted fake nail at him. “Your daddy"ll roll over in his grave. He"d have disowned you in a second.” She snapped her fingers.

“Ground rules, Delora. If I hear one more prejudicial remark from you, I"ll have Austen gag you and tie you to a chair. According to Daddy"s will you have to be present, not vocal. I"m marrying Miss Bellamy as soon as the exam"s complete and witnessed. You leave immediately, and I get to never see you again after today.”

“Where"s the executor"s lawyer?” Suresh asked. He held a cell phone to his ear.

“Geoff says three lawyers present, three doctors present, according to the will.”

A choked gasp caught his attention, and Harry"s fisted his hands when he saw Martine"s face. She schooled her features quickly, but that delicious complexion had paled, and though she stared unblinking at some spot on the far wall, he read the bleak acceptance in her rigid posture.

“Suresh, handle things out here. I need to speak with my fiancée.”

Harry stomped past Austen, who shook his head and said, his voice low, “I didn"t have time to go through everything with her.”

Freaking disastrous.

His compulsive procrastination had just bit him in the ass. If he"d placed the ad sooner, had started the search earlier, hadn"t waited till he"d almost turned thirty-two… Harry dragged both hands through his hair and halted in front of Martine. He"d been so certain he could prove the will a fake.

“We have a few things to discuss, Miss Bellamy.” He waved a hand at the bedroom door. “If you"ll step inside…”

The muscles in her slender neck worked, but she showed no other sign of nervousness, poignant features impassive, fathomless eyes unreadable. She swallowed again, and he had the urge to stroke her throat, soothe away the events that had to follow their conversation.

Until that moment he hadn"t realized how humiliating the procedure would be for this woman who seemed poised for flight. He tried to imagine having three people penetrate him with fingers in front of six witnesses, including one hostile woman and one redneck twit. A wave of nausea curled through his gut.

Martine"s sweetheart chin tilted, her bottom lip plumped, and she gave him an almost imperceptible nod before preceding him out of the room. Gaze glued to her hips swaying against the thin cotton of her long white dress, he traced the outline of her waist-cut thong and bit his tongue as his prick found zipper teeth with unerring accuracy.

Halting just inside the bedroom, Harry kept his focus fixed on her back, adjusted his cock, and then slammed the door shut.

“Exactly what did Austen go over with you?”

She stood about three feet in front of him, hands in tight little fists, and looked at something above his right shoulder. Spiky onyx lashes, so long he could almost 12

Jianne Carlo

count them, fluttered like a wounded dove"s wings, their shaky motion blaring a painful vulnerability.

“You need to marry a virgin and consummate the marriage. It is to be a business transaction. I give you my innocence, and you pay me a hundred thousand euros when we divorce.”

Captivated by her lyrical, soft voice, Harry didn"t register the number t first.

He frowned and blurted, “A hundred thousand? The deal"s for a million euros.”

“I do not need a million. Monsieur Stanford has agreed to the change.”

Those remarkable eyes held hints of amber, and her mouth took on a mutinous slant. Harry said the first thing that came to mind. “Why would you refuse more money?”

“If I am to whore myself out, I would set the price, Monsieur. I take what I need, no more.” Her nostrils flared, and she lifted her chin as if daring him to take issue with her statement. He frowned.

English wasn"t her first language, he guessed from her careful enunciation of each word. Again the image of the woman by the couch in Grasse flashed into his brain. For three weeks, every woman he"d screwed—and there"d been several different females—had had her odd-colored eyes. Every gaze he"d met, he searched for what he"d read in those astounding eyes that night—a desperation bordering on suicidal, a determination worthy of a special-ops warrior.

“What do you need the money for?”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

13

Chapter Two

Martine Bellamy knew she had to go through this farce of a wedding, knew she had no options left. She needed one hundred thousand euros, and this was the only way to raise the money short of the virgin auction she"d considered three weeks earlier.

All her life she had fought not to become a whore like her mother. She stifled a bubble of hysterical laughter. All her Haitian hillside neighbors had predicted her outcome—born to a whore, born to die a whore.

She held her head high, lifted her chin, and met Harrison Indiana Ford"s gaze without flinching. “That, Monsieur, is not part of our agreement. I do not have to answer your questions. And I will not.”

“Have you signed the prenuptial?” he asked.

“
Non
.” Martine uncurled her fingers one by one, hoping the action would lessen her humiliation somehow. Deep inside she knew nothing would alleviate how small and brittle she"d become, how unworthy of living.

“Austen did go over the procedure with you, didn"t he?”

“He said there would be a medical exam before the marriage.” Even though the room"s air conditioning blasted from the vents above, the sting of degradation fired her flesh when she remembered the doctor"s words, “
a darkie’s twat
.”

“I"ll delay the proceedings until we can find someone to replace Dr. Halliday,”

Harrison Ford said, his Texas drawl taking on an almost British enunciation. The ridges of his high cheekbones stained a deep rose beneath his bronzed skin.

“Please, Monsieur, do me no favors,” she stated. “I need money. You need a virgin. Emotions do not come into this business transaction.”

His mouth tightened, and he scanned her from head to toe. “If that"s how you want to play it, that"s mighty fine by me.”

“I"d prefer to get this finished as soon as we possibly can.” Martine swallowed, and she glanced around the room, taking in the sumptuous intimacy of the honeymoon suite. “Where do you want me for the examination?”

All at once the temperature spiked, the room"s walls grew closer, and a belt banded her chest. A flowery smell from the vent above circled to her nostrils. The aroma cloyed, and her claustrophobia, always seething through her veins, surfaced, coating her tongue with bitter saliva. Enclosed spaces made her skin tingle, made her nerves itch and want to jump out of her flesh.

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Jianne Carlo

“Since we"re to spend the night in this room, I"ll arrange to have the other one set up for the examination.” He cleared his throat. “If you"d care to wait in here until they"re ready for you…”

He waved his hand, indicating the sofa to the right, and the flowery aroma was replaced by the scent of his aftershave, grassy with a hint of citrus and smoke. The mixed odors reminded her of the outdoors, of trees and fires. Her jangling nerves steadied.

“
Merci
. Thank you,” she said and couldn"t prevent the relief from showing in her voice.

“I"ll give you a ten-minute warning.”

“Merci. Thank you,” she said again, biting her tongue on the last word.

Speak in English. Think in English. Make no mistakes.

As he turned around a dizzying realization settled into her brain—Harrison Indiana Ford didn"t make her skin prickle, didn"t make her want to disappear under a bed or into a closet. She felt no fear in his presence. Instead he made her insides grow warm and fluttery, and the golden glints in his brown eyes did strange things to her lungs, strangling the very oxygen out of the air. And her mind went into peculiar tangents when she smelled a hint of the grassy aftershave he wore, her gaze flying to the stray hairs peeking through the lapels of his shirt. She marveled at his bronzed complexion and wondered if he smelled that good everywhere.