The Hotel Riviera (13 page)

With the dream of last night's lovemaking in my head, I was excited as a girl at her first prom. Tonight, everything must be perfect, including myself.

I rechecked the table I'd checked at least ten times before, I smoothed the linen cloth and refolded the napkins, feeling them between thumb and finger to make sure they were crisp. I adjusted the position of the plates, fussed over the silverware, and gave an extra polish to the bubbled green glass goblets. I fiddled with the bunch of white daisies, then, dissatisfied, hurried back to the kitchen and changed the crystal vase for a squat yellow jug. My fingers itched to light the candles but it was too early, and instead I rushed around redistributing lily-scented candles on the stone fireplace and floating votives in bowls of water on the coffee table.

It was all as ready as it could be, I decided, as I ran back up the path to the kitchen.

The restaurant was closed and the staff had the night off. The kitchen was all mine and I twirled, surveying “my home.”

 

It was
still
my home, and I wasn't going to think about all the worries and problems. Tonight was “tonight” and my love, Jack Farrar, was coming to dinner.

I piled everything for our
dîner-à-deux
into containers, took them back to the cottage, and set the food out on the counter ready to serve.

Then I ran a bath, flinging in perfumed oils with abandon, lying there with the water up to my neck, thinking lascivious thoughts about my Naked Man that I told myself if I were a “lady” I should certainly not be thinking. So I pulled out the plug, turned the shower onto cold, and stood under it as long as I could bear.

Now I was freezing, I even had goose pimples. I toweled my hair, shook it free to dry; then lotion, powder, and the Tendre Poison scent.

I hurried into the bedroom to dress, and caught sight of myself in the mirror. I stopped and took a long, severe look. Tan lines and goose bumps notwithstanding, I thought there was a kind of glow about me tonight. I lingered over my reflected image, running my hands over my breasts, still high and firm; then over my belly—a little too curved and a touch Rubenesque, but hey, I'm a chef; then along the length of my thighs—firm and muscular because I'm on my feet all day. Somehow my fingers managed to tangle in the bush between my legs—it's redder than the hair on my head and almost qualifies me as a true redhead. I stared at myself in the mirror, pink-cheeked, red-haired, and glowing like the votives I had so carefully arranged, and felt last night's thrill all over again.

I took a deep breath and turned guiltily away, tugging on my underwear—lace of course, but a bikini not a thong, which I've never been able to get accustomed to. And cream, not black, because I think black seems to say, hey, here I am, ready and waiting and all yours. Even though I was, I didn't want to advertise it. The matching bra felt like a whisper against my skin, and I heaved a deep sigh of pure pleasure. Was that just great sex? Or was I falling for him? Who knew? Right now, all I knew was it was the best thing to happen in a long, long time.

I wore the gauzy apricot dress I'd almost worn the time Jack had come to the Hotel Riviera, then taken off at the last minute in favor of Capris and a tee. I still thought it swirled rather charmingly around my knees, especially when I had on the beribboned espadrilles, though I doubted they were meant to go with the dress. Big gold hoops in my ears—the thin kind; a jangly bead bracelet bought in Saint-Tropez market; a run of the hands through the hair so it ended up in its usual disarray. And there I was. Ready.

I headed outside, waiting until I saw the dinghy heading for my cove. Then I went back inside and lit the candles.

Jack

Jack strode up the path to Lola's house on the dot of nine, bearing flowers. The door stood open, the bead curtain was swinging in the breeze, and he almost expected Scramble to poke her head out and give him the once-over. Instead Bad Dog galloped up from the beach with what could only be described as a big silly grin on his face.

“Better behave yourself,” Jack warned, pushing aside the curtain. And she was looking at him, looking at her in her slinky little peachy dress, with those silly espadrilles strapped around her skinny ankles in cute little bows.

“Sorry, guess I should have dressed.” He glanced down at his crumpled cotton pants, the old loafers, and the ancient denim shirt he would never part with unless his very life depended on it.

“You look…
scrumptious,
” Lola said.

“Do you relate everything to food?”

“In your case, yes. You're edible,” she said, moving into his arms.

“And you.” He gave her the same up-and-down look she'd given him. As he kissed her, he thought she looked so girly and vulnerable, it almost brought a lump to his throat.

She pulled away from him. “For a minute there, I thought you hated the dress.”

“I
love
the dress.” He was still standing on her doorstep, still clutching the bunch of flowers. Suddenly Bad Dog dashed past, almost knocking them off their feet.

He aimed a mock-kick at Bad Dog's butt. “Sorry, he's a street dog, never could teach him manners.”

“Hey, boy, sweet dog,” Lola said, and the dog came running.

Jack watched as she put her arms around him, murmuring, “Sweet baby dog,” and darned if the mutt didn't give her his soulful “good dog” face and also a good lick that took off a swathe of makeup, but Lola just laughed.

Then Bad Dog spotted Scramble perched on top of the armoire, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. After a minute Bad Dog gave a plaintive little whine and slunk off, ears and tail down, a bewildered look on his face.

“Meanwhile…,” Jack said, handing Lola the flowers.

“Meanwhile…”

She was looking at him from under those long Bambi lashes, clutching the flowers to her breast. Then the flowers fell forgotten to the floor, and he was kissing her and she was kissing him, and they were telling each other how long they had been wanting to do this…

“What about dinner?” Lola asked when they finally came up for air.

“What about it?” He claimed her mouth again, felt her body sink into his. He was trembling as he whispered, “Lola, are you sure you're ready for this?”

Her voice was soft, breathy, in his ear. “Yes, I'm ready,” she said.

Lola

Have you ever felt your body melt into a man's so that you're not even sure you exist anymore, except as apart of him? That's how it felt, making love the second time with Jack Farrar.

Under his exploring hands I was suddenly delicate as spun silk and slippery as fresh cream; I was Cinderella turning into a princess, I was a starburst in the sky, and I was a long way, baby, from that ingenue chef in Encino, California. I was a woman again. And I loved it.

“I knew you'd look like this,” I said to him, stretching my body the length of his, stroking his golden flanks, licking his cheek, his neck, anything I could get my tongue around. I loved the texture of his skin, the crisp hair on his chest, bleached gold by the sun, his hard sailor's hands.

“That's because you already saw.” He was biting my lips now, shutting me up so he could kiss me properly.

I giggled because it was true. “I would have known anyway.”

“Can't say the same,” he said, exploring my mouth with his tongue until I had to turn away to catch my breath. “You're a complete surprise.”

I pushed up on my elbow. “A
nice
surprise?”

“The best.”

Then he pulled me back under him, slid his mouth the length of my body, sank his face into me, breathing me in, gentling me with his fingers and then his tongue. I arched into him, I was a starburst again, the planets had never looked so lovely and real life was forgotten as he entered me, lifting me onto him with a gentle expertise.

“Sweet, sweet, sweet,” he murmured in my ear as he made love to me. “Sweeter than honey, my lovely Lola,” he groaned later as we trembled together, and then that delicious fall over the edge into that starry starry night.

After a while, he edged his body off mine and I lay there, clutching his hand, hardly knowing where I was, who I was, only that I was in France, making love on a summer night with the breeze from the sea blowing through the open window and my man's happy sighs in my ears.

“Lost in France in Love.” The memory of an old song flitted through my head and I hummed a few bars, happier than a kid with an ice cream—and smiling like the cat who'd got the cream. Or more likely like Bad Dog, who'd probably gotten our dinner by now!

I jolted upright. I'd left all the food on the kitchen counter. I scrambled out of bed and ran for the kitchen.

I surveyed the damage. Licking his lips, Bad Dog gazed at me without the remotest sign of guilt. I stamped my foot. “Bad dog!” I yelled.

Jack came in. He looked at the scattered remains of the hors d'oeuvres; at the mangled bones of the lamb chops; at the greasy blob amid the chestnut leaves that was all that remained of the Banon cheese; and at the cracker crumbs.

“Jesus,” he said. Then he threw Bad Dog outside and slammed the door. We could hear him snuffling along the gap at the bottom. He gave a disconsolate whine, then slumped with a thud onto the step.

“Serves him right,” I said, still angry, but Jack was laughing. I glared at him, but he was naked and gorgeous and he was eyeing me in a way I liked to be eyed, and I began to laugh too.

“I already had dessert anyhow,” he said, pulling me into his arms and kissing me again.

We stayed in that position for quite a while, then, ever the hostess, I said, “I have Parmesan cheese and a good bread…”

Jack groaned, still holding me. “Lola,” he said, “do you ever stop thinking about food?”

“Not when I have a hungry customer on my hands,” I said, leading him by the hand back to the bedroom, though not for the reason he thought.

I handed him a white cotton robe, the kind we supply all our guests with, slipped one on myself and went back to the kitchen. I took a bottle of my favorite champagne, Taittinger La Française, from the fridge, filled the ice bucket, went back into the living room and handed the bottle to Jack to open. I returned to the kitchen, put a slab of Parmesan on a plate and a crusty round loaf on a wooden board, along with knives, butter, and plates.

I plonked them on the coffee table and stood, hands on my hips. I thought how domestic we looked. In fact, I almost told Jack how “at home” he looked here in my cottage in his bathrobe, opening champagne, but I thought better of it. We said
santé,
clinking glasses, washing the taste of sex down in good champagne without ever taking our eyes off each other. Drinking each other in, I thought with a pleasant little shiver.

I said, “Surely you're hungry?” He nodded, still without taking his eyes off me.

We didn't bother to eat at the table I'd fussed over for so long, we just sat on the rug and ate off the coffee table. I hacked a couple of hunks off the loaf and some slivers off the cheese.

“There's nothing better than champagne after making love,” Jack said, holding my hand, “unless it's a hunk of bread and cheese.”

“Just think yourself lucky Bad Dog didn't get around to the bread,” I said, with a full mouth. As usual I was starving but it was tricky eating with one hand. “And there's better yet to come. I kept the lobster salad in the fridge so you won't go hungry after all.”

“What about dessert?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you like lavender crème brûlée.”

He stared at me. “You're joking.”

I giggled and almost choked on the bread. He was definitely not a crème brûlée man, let alone
lavender
crème brûlée. “Didn't think you'd care for that somehow, so I made a chocolate cake instead.”

He leaned over to kiss me. “Sounds good to me.”

“Of course, it has pralines and cream and a few extra decorative and gastronomic touches,” I added, “though I could be persuaded to serve it plain with ice cream.”

“I'm your all-American boy. Just bring on the ice cream.”

First, though, we had more champagne, then I brought out the lobster salad which, though I say it myself, was the perfect after-love food. Or before love, come to think of it, though now I
was
thinking about it, love had not been mentioned between us.

I was still thinking about that as I speared a particularly good morsel of lobster and fed it to Jack. He returned the compliment, kissing me as I chewed.

“Did I ever tell you I love redheads?” he asked, pushing my slippery bangs out of my eyes, running his hand slowly over my hair, and sending new shivers down my spine.

Then we forgot about dessert and made love some more, on the rug under the beady-eyed gaze of Scramble, still on top of the armoire.

We were in bed when I awoke to the sound of rain against the windows. I turned my head to look at Jack. He was awake too, looking at me.

“Rain,” he said lazily. “Who would have thought it, here in the south of France.”

“Better let the dog in,” I said, realizing too late how like a wife I'd sounded. “I mean, I wouldn't want him to get wet,” I added hastily.

Jack had propped himself on one elbow and was looking at me. I didn't want him to think I was interested in a long-term relationship; he was a man who enjoyed his freedom, I'd just take what I could get now. Besides, I was never going to fall in love again. Remember?

“I don't believe in love at first sight,” I said, nervously making my point. “You know, eyes meeting across the room, sparks flying…”

“It was across the water,” he said.

I frowned, puzzled.

“Eyes across the water, remember, the telescope…”

“And the binoculars…”

Jack nodded. “Anyhow, you weren't looking so great, the first time I saw you.”

“Yeah, well, probably not. But I just want you to know I don't believe in all that love-at-first-sight stuff.”

“Me either.” He lay back against the pillows, his face an unreadable blank.

“So. No falling in love, then.” I sounded very firm, like a woman who knew what she was doing. Miss N would have been proud of me.

“You got it,” he said.

“Right.”

“So,” he said. “Now we know where we stand.”

“We certainly do. Anyway, what about the dog?”

Jack unraveled himself from the sheets, and sauntered to the door, naked as the first day I'd seen him and looking just as good as he had when I'd watched him climb from the sea, at one with his world. It was a world I knew nothing about, and one where I obviously did not belong. So I was right not to fall in love. Right?

I already felt my resolve crumbling. Oh God, you're such a dummy, I told myself. It's déjà vu all over again and you're falling once more, hook, line, and sinker—was that a suitable nautical term?—for the wrong man.

Jack had let the dog in. I dried him off with my best bath towel, while Jack took a shower (I gave him a clean towel, in case you're wondering). Then I sat on the edge of the bed with Bad Dog snuggled up to me, watching Jack put on his clothes. He slid his feet into the tired pair of loafers, then came and stood next to me.

“The food was great,” he said, looking serious.

I nodded.

“So was the champagne.”

“It's my favorite.”

He pushed my hair out of my eyes. “You're beautiful, Lola.”

I wanted to say, no, I'm not except when I'm in your arms. “You too,” I mumbled instead, wondering whether that was the right thing to say to a man anyway.

“Tell me something,” he said, “did you think of Patrick at all tonight?”

I gasped, shocked. Did he think I had no principles? That I would think of another man when I was in his arms? I shook my head.

“Thank God for that,” he said, and I wondered if he viewed our lovemaking as some sort of therapy, a modern-day version of marriage counseling.

“I'd like to invite you onto my boat,” he said. “I can't promise you a gourmet dinner, but a sunset cruise around the bay is pretty nice, and I'll supply the champagne this time.”

“I hate boats,” I said truthfully.

He groaned. “Learn to love 'em, baby,” was what he said, then he lifted my hands to his lips, kissed them, called for his dog, and was gone.

I fell back onto the sheets, staring at the beamed ceiling, asking myself why I was such an idiot. Lack of practice, I suppose. Then I was asleep in minutes with Scramble on my pillow and the memory of Jack's body on mine, and the sound of the rain on the windowpanes.