Faking It (21 page)

Maybe it’s not as bad as my mum is making out. I scroll through the retweets until I come to one posted by Hollywood gossip columnist, Steven Schpiel.

Steven Schpiel@TheWholeSchpiel

#RunawayBride Dumps Fiancé for #Jericho

Schpiel attached a link to his tweet. When I click on the link, it redirects to an entertainment news site. The picture of Jett and me flashing peace signs is above an article titled: Jett Jericho Caught Canoodling in Cannes.

“This is bad, Luc. Really bad.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

I turn the screen so he can see it. He squints.

“Is that—”

“Yep, it is.”

“Your mum is right. This has gone epidemic.”

“Viral.” I say, automatically correcting him.

“Viral.”

I go back to my texts. It seems everyone in my address book has seen the photos and sent a text. I am scrolling through the names when my heart skips a beat. Nathan sent me a text an hour ago.

Text from Nathan Edwards III:

Check your e-mail.

I open my e-mail box, scroll through the e-mails, and select the one from Nathan.

“My fiancé sent me an e-mail.”

“Ex?” Luc corrects me. “You do mean ex, right?”

Guilt flushes my cheeks with a wave of heat. From the look on his face, Luc is as confused by my relationship status as I am. Poor guy. He’s wondering if he just had his hands all over another man’s piece of “ass.” My complicated ball-of-yarn life has just entangled him. I wonder if he will cut himself free and pedal like mad away from me.

“I’m sorry, Luc.”

“For what? Are you still engaged to Edwards?”

“No.”

Luc exhales. I am not sure if he’s feeling relief or exhausted.

“Yesterday, when I was getting on the bus, you said you liked me, a lot.” I draw a shaky breath, gathering strength for what I am about to say. “I like you, but my life is a mess.
I’m a mess
. You don’t want to get involved with a pink haired unemployed homeless mess.”

He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and fixes his brown-green gaze on me. “Do you trust me, Vivia?”

“Yes.” I’ve only known Luc for a week, but I do trust him. He exudes this strength and honesty.

“Then trust me to know my own heart. I want to be with you, Vivia, even if that means holding your hand while the world crashes down around you.” He leans forward and presses his lips to mine. “I don’t know what the future holds for us, if it holds anything. I just want to be with you now.”

If I wasn’t so worried about having monster morning breath, I would kiss him harder and deeper than he’s ever been kissed.

“You sure know how to woo a girl with your words. Not bad for a bike guide.”

I was aiming for light humor, but I think I missed the mark. Luc doesn’t laugh. He sits back, crosses his arms, and looks at me from beneath a raised eyebrow. I feel like he’s weighing and measuring me, like he wants to tell me something but isn’t sure he can trust me.

“Read your e-mail from Edwards. Find out what the
baudet
wants.”

“
Baudet
?”

“Jackass.”

“You don’t like him very much, do you?”

Luc shrugs. “I don’t know him, but I think he has treated you dishonorably.”

“You do?”

“
Oui
.” Luc stretches one of his long, muscular legs in front of him. “When a man asks a woman to marry him, it means he’s pledged to love and honor her. It’s the beginning of their eternity. Edwards didn’t honor his pledge. I don’t respect that.”

Wow. Just, wow. With his devastating good looks and vagabond lifestyle, I just assumed Luc was a player. I didn’t think he would have such deep convictions. And what he said is resonating, striking a chord in my heart. Nathan didn’t honor his pledge. He broke his promise to me as easily as one might cancel a lunch date.

Luc nods his head at my phone. “Aren’t you curious?”

Not so much. Wow. The realization that I’m not burning with curiosity over the content of Nathan’s e-mail comes as a shock. This day has been filled with shockers and it’s not even lunchtime.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subj: Engagement Ring

Pursuant to California Civil Code 1590, you are compelled to return the ring I gave you upon our engagement. “Where either party to a contemplated marriage in this State makes a gift of money or property to the other on the basis or assumption that the marriage will take place, in the event that the donee refuses to enter into the marriage as contemplated or that it is given up by mutual consent, the donor may recover such gift…”

I think most would agree that your behavior has left me with no alternative but to dissolve our relationship. I was on the verge of forgiving you for lying about your sexual history when I saw the photographs of you whoring it up in France. It didn’t escape my notice that you are still wearing your engagement ring. My engagement ring. You have humiliated my entire family with your behavior. I am usually a good judge of character. I was wrong about you. Enjoy the honeymoon. Return the ring. ~N

If Mike Tyson launched an uppercut to my solar plexus it wouldn’t be as painful as Nathan’s e-mail. I can’t speak, can’t breathe. His words have stunned me into immobility.

“Vivia?”

Luc leans forward, grasps my chin between his fingers, and tilts my head up so I am forced to look him in the eye.

“He’s s-s-s-suing me, “ I sob, waving the iPhone at Luc. “Nathan says he’s suing me for the engagement ring because I am whoring through France.”

“What?”

Luc seizes my phone. When he finishes reading Nathan’s e-mail, he hands the phone back without saying a word. He’s the picture of calm, unemotional detachment. His lips, pressed together in a grim line, are the only clue to what he might be feeling.

“He’s not suing you…
yet
. His e-mail is a thinly veiled threat.”

“What should I do?”

“What do you want to do?”

“Well, I don’t want this stupid ring.” I pull the engagement ring off my finger and toss it on the table beside the sofa. It clatters on the glass surface. “He can have it back. I’ll FedEx it to him today. If he didn’t care about me enough to give me the benefit of the doubt, I don’t want his ring, not even as a sentimental token.”

I stand up and pace the length of the suite. I can’t believe Nathan actually threatened me with a lawsuit. He could have just asked me. Does he really think I am a gold digger, that I don’t care about our breakup, that I am laughing through Europe on his dime? It just makes me so sad.

Anger replaces my sadness. Scathing anger.

“Whoring? He said I am whoring through France. He wouldn’t know a whore if it dropped out of the sky, landed on his face, and started twerking.” I pause long enough to punctuate my words with sharp stares at Luc, who’s sitting quietly, taking in my rant. “I am not a whore! Okay, I have slept with a few more men than he knew about, but that doesn’t mean I am a whore. I’ve never cheated on a boyfriend, never dabbled in bisexuality, never had a
ménage a trois
. I’ve never even watched a porno!”

Luc growls vehemently in indiscernible French. I am not sure, but I think he called Nathan a profane word that means to copulate with one’s maternal parent. Even if he didn’t, motherfucker seems like an apt curse.

He gets up, pulls me into his arms, and plants a kiss on me that drives the thought of Nathan’s nasty e-mail into a far corner of my mind. It’s one of those all over body kisses. The kind that makes you feel tingly all over. The kind you feel clear down to your toes. The kind that makes you go all weak in the knees. I don’t even care about my monster morning breath. It’s that good.

Luc pulls back and draws a jagged breath.

“Go.”

“Where?”

“Get dressed. I’m taking you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere that will make you forget all about Jett Jericho and Nathan Edwards.”

“Who?” I saunter to the bathroom, turn when I reach the door, and wink. “I already have.”

Wham Bam Thank You, Ma’am

When I come out of the bathroom, Luc has called room service, ordered a chicken sandwich, and a drink he calls the “hangover killer.” It’s thick and looks a little like pureed vegetables in orange juice.

He hands me two aspirin.

“Here, take these.”

I take the aspirin, pop them into my mouth, and wash them down with a gulp of Luc’s hangover cure, gagging at the unusual concoction’s chunky texture.

“Trust me, you want to finish it.”

“Not really.”

“Okay, if you’d rather spend the day fighting a throbbing headache and nausea. That’s your choice.”

“Fine.” I hold out my hand for the drink. “Give it to me.”

An hour later, I’m sitting on the deck of a sleek sailboat, the wind in my pink hair, the sun on my face. Luc is at the helm. He’s removed his linen jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. He looks tanned, confident, as if he were born to pilot a ship. The wind ruffles his black hair and my heart skips a beat. He’s just so damned handsome.

And kind.

When I asked him how he was able to charter a sailboat on such short notice, he shrugged and said, “When it comes to making you happy, you’ll find I have many, many ways.”

He notices me staring at him and smiles.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I smile and nod. I am more than okay, which is shocking considering that in last twenty-four hours I have gotten blind drunk, partied with a superstar, landed on the paparazzi’s most wanted list, and been threatened with a lawsuit. Luc’s hangover killer has indeed killed my hangover. My head has stopped pounding. My stomach is as calm as the Mediterranean.

I still don’t have a job or a home. I don’t know what this thing is between me and Luc, but I’m not stressing. I am taking Jett’s advice and enjoying the moment.

I shield my eyes with my hand and watch Cannes stretch out on the horizon, becoming narrower and narrower, until I can’t tell the Hotel Martinez from the other buildings. Luc unties a rope attached to the sails. The sails billow, flapping in the breeze, and the boat loses speed. He drops anchor just off the rocky shore of a small, uninhabited island.

“Ready for a swim?” he asks, sliding onto the bench beside me. “Let’s swim to the island.”

I nod. I suddenly feel shy. I’m hesitant to take off my sundress and reveal my bikini-clad body to Luc, which is silly since he’s already seen me in a bikini—and fondled my bum!

“What’s wrong?”

I shrug.

“Vivia?”

“I don’t know. It’s stupid. I just—” I look down at my bare feet. “I’m embarrassed for you to see me in a bikini.”

Luc sighs heavily, and I fear I’ve annoyed him with my childishness.

“Would you feel more comfortable swimming without your bikini? I would be fine with that, too.”

He chuckles and pulls me to him. He’s warm and solid.

“I am kidding. Sort of.”

He leans back so he can look at my expression. A quick check to be sure his words have made me smile.

They have.

While Luc ducks below deck to change into his trunks, I shrug out of my sundress, rub sunblock on my petunia-pig pink skin, and push up the sistas, probably an unnecessary act since I am wearing an über-padded Victoria Secret Hello Bombshell bikini top. The salesgirl promised it would add two cup sizes. What she didn’t tell me is that the top doubles as a floatation device. That means if our sailboat goes down like the Titanic, we won’t have to endure a sad Rose-Jack moment with both of us desperately grappling to ride a tiny piece of flotsam. Luc can just grab a boob and float to safety.

I am giggling at the image of Luc clutching my padded bra while doggy paddling us back to Cannes when he arrives back on deck. He’s wearing black swim trunks and a drop-dead gorgeous smile. Remember that scene in Casino Royale when Daniel Craig rises out of the ocean wearing a pair of hip-hugging trunks and a menacing expression? I literally gasped when I saw a larger than life Daniel own the beach, all tanned and pumped. Luc has elicited the same reaction out of me.

He moves with the same restrained intensity as 007, stalking across the deck to where I am standing, dumbstruck. He takes the bottle of sun block from my hands, turns me around, lifts my hair off my neck, and begins rubbing lotion on my back.

My body instantly reacts to his touch. A tingly heat travels down my spine and ignites a fire in my abdomen. The heat spreads like wildfire down my legs. I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning. I’ve been hot for someone, but never like this. Luc’s hand slides over my back in slow, deliberate circles, fanning the flames of lust. My nipples tighten. My most feminine muscles spasm. I close my eyes and imagine Luc making love to me on the deck of the boat. Here. Now. When his fingers briefly slip inside the back of my bikini, the heat building between my legs explodes in a white hot flash. I’ve never climaxed over something as simple as a backrub before. It’s a little embarrassing.

“Ready?” Luc asks, his voice husky and low.

To have sex? Absolutely!

I turn around and stare at Luc behind the safety of my sunglasses, searching his face for signs that he knows my delicious little secret, but he’s as inscrutable as Bond.

“Ready for what?”

“To swim.” He reaches out and lifts a lock of hair off my breast, absently twisting the curl around his finger. “Would you rather do something else?”

Uh, yeah. Hump like horny rabbits.

“Swim.” My mouth is so dry I can barely speak. “A swim would be nice. I’m really hot.”

He smiles slowly. “Yes, you are.”

My stomach is flipping. My palms feel damp. It’s like I’m a virgin again, all nervous and gawky.

“Thank you.”

“
De rien
.” Luc stops playing with my hair, walks to the back of the boat, hops down onto the swim platform, and holds out his hand. “Let’s go.”

Luc is the first one in, diving off the platform with the same effortless grace as when he’d plunged into the pool at Châteaudouble. My entry into the Mediterranean is effortless, but completely lacking grace. I try copying Luc, but my dive comes off more like a belly-flop, a loud, painful, stomach-smacking face-plant. Fortunately, Luc is still under water, which means he didn’t catch my grand aquatic performance.