“This is awesome. I feel like passing royalty or something. Oh, that’s Mrs. Turlington,” she said, giving a happy little squeak when she spotted the town’s most notorious gossip. “This will be all over town by lunchtime. This was a great idea, Mason.”
“Glad you’re finally developing an appreciation for my genius,” he said with a self-satisfied grin, and she rolled her eyes.
“Wipe the smug off your face, mister. It doesn’t become you.” He laughed outright at that, and as they reached the end of Main Street, he revved the engine a bit before picking up speed and leaving Riversend behind.
CHAPTER SIX
Mason snuck a few glances at Daisy’s profile as she stared out at the scenery. She was surprisingly familiar with a lot of the older songs on his playlist. She occasionally hummed along and seemed to have a preference for the Queen ballads. Mason had a hard time keeping a straight face when she unexpectedly belted out a hilariously off-key accompaniment to “Bohemian Rhapsody,” complete with screeching guitar solos and all. He didn’t even know if she was aware of it—but it was fucking adorable. When Prince’s “Purple Rain” came up, she bounced excitedly in her seat and looked at him.
“I love this song!” And once again with the off-key lyrics. This time, Mason joined in, leaving his inhibitions on the side of the road and enjoying himself thoroughly in the process. He never sang along with his tunes, preferring to just listen and enjoy . . . but as he sang, his voice sounding rustier than a two-hundred-year-old nail, he found a freedom of spirit that he couldn’t recall ever having before.
“This is so wonderful. I never knew it was here.” Daisy stared out at the rustic log cabin tucked away in the forest like a perfect little fairy-tale cottage. It even had smoke curling from a fieldstone chimney. If not for the discreet sign above the door—“Le Café de la Forêt”—she would have thought it was a private residence instead of a restaurant.
“It’s a bit out of the way, usually only frequented by hikers and campers.”
“Is that how you know about it?”
“Nah, an old buddy of mine owns it.”
“Army buddy?”
“No.” Daisy was fascinated by the tinge of red suddenly highlighting his sharp cheekbones. “Modeling buddy.”
“I didn’t know one made buddies in the modeling industry. I always imagined it being quite cutthroat.”
“Nah, the male modeling industry is just one happy family of outstandingly good-looking guys. All getting along, bromancing or romancing—depending on one’s proclivities—having sing-alongs and danceathons. It’s awesome, nothing cutthroat about it at all.” He unbuckled his seat belt as he spoke, ignoring Daisy’s helpless giggles, and reached over to unbuckle hers as well.
“Come on, you’re going to love Chris, he’s an awesome guy and a freaking great chef.”
“He’s a chef?”
“He was modeling to pay for culinary school.” He exited the car and rounded the front to open the door for her. She still couldn’t get used to that, and when he held out his hand, she couldn’t do anything but place hers in it. She tried—unsuccessfully—to gracefully swing her legs out of the car, and he assisted her with the gentlest of tugs.
He didn’t let go of her hand once she was out and instead tucked it into his elbow as he led her to the front door of the picturesque cabin. The rain had let up a great deal since that morning, and it was drizzling slightly, creating havoc with her curly hair by frizzing it uncontrollably.
Her glasses steamed up when they stepped into the warm, rustic interior of the restaurant, and Daisy inhaled appreciatively. The place smelled of baked bread. It was warm and homey, and she immediately loved it.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” a deep male voice boomed dramatically, and they turned to face the most amazing-looking man Daisy had ever seen in her life.
“Close your mouth, Daisy,” Mason instructed mildly. He reached out, gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and gently shut her gaping mouth.
“Mason Carlisle, mon ami! What a pleasure this is,” the tall, well-built, beautiful man with absolutely perfect facial bone structure said. Straight nose, sharp cheekbones, luscious mouth, chiseled jaw, and intense eyes, combined with absolutely flawless ebony skin. His shaved head just made him look even more classically beautiful. For a man like this to be hidden away in such an isolated place seemed a total waste.
“You’re . . .” Her voice failed her, and she cleared her throat and tried again. “You’re Christién.” Of course she recognized him. He had been the male equivalent of a supermodel, and to find him here, practically in her backyard, was just surreal.
“Ah oui. I am. And who are you, ma petite?” His French accent was so sexy. He was Congolese, she remembered reading that somewhere. She wondered how he had wound up in this tiny corner of Africa. She would have expected him to live in Paris or Milan or somewhere equally cosmopolitan.
“I’m, uh . . . I . . .”
“This is Daisy McGregor.”
“You’re as pretty and fresh as the flower you are named after, ma belle.” Daisy giggled like a giddy teen. The sound was so bubbly and adolescent it completely threw her, and a self-conscious hand flew up to her mouth as if to force the foolish sound back in. Mason’s face was completely unreadable. Nothing there, not even the constant little amused smirk that he usually wore around her. He always looked like he found her endlessly entertaining. She hadn’t really known that until she now noticed its absence.
“Mason, it’s been months, nearly a year, if memory serves.” He then launched into some excitable French, and Mason completely stunned Daisy by responding in the same language. She hadn’t known that he was multilingual. Then again, there was so much that was still a mystery about the man, and for all his seemingly laid-back attitude around her, she didn’t think he’d be very forthcoming about his private life and past. Not with her. Their relationship wasn’t the kind to inspire confidences from him.
“But we are being rude. Forgive us, ma petite.” Christién suddenly switched back to English, and taking Daisy by complete surprise, he placed his hands on her shoulders and tugged her toward him to plant a kiss on each cheek.
Whoa! He smelled almost as good as Mason.
“This is the way of friends who have not seen each other for many months. But I have a new friend now. Oui? Come, sit. You must eat. You have the glorious look of a woman who enjoys her food very much, non?” The observation, coming from anybody else, would have been considered an insult. But Christién said it in such an overtly admiring voice that it couldn’t be construed as anything other than a compliment.
The place was empty, which was unsurprising, considering how far away from everything it was. And since it wasn’t advertised anywhere that Daisy knew of, she immediately worried about the economic viability of Christién’s business.
He ushered them to a gorgeously crafted round wooden table, with padded spindly-legged chairs. The place was beautifully furnished. All the woodwork was stunning and obviously bespoke. More people should know about this place.
As she sat down, she reached for the beautifully bound menu, but Christién snatched it away.
“Non. You will eat a special meal. Nothing you can find on this common menu.” She doubted very much that there was anything remotely common on that menu, but she allowed him to take the decision from her. Mason was watching her keenly, that inscrutable expression still on his face, and his intense stare was starting to make her uncomfortable. Christién ensured that they were warm, promised to be back with something to drink, and left them abruptly alone.
“I love it here.” She sighed, breaking the long and awkward silence that had descended over their table. Mason made a noncommittal sound and toyed with the place settings.
Daisy’s fingers absently traced over the detailed scrollwork carved into the wood, and his eyes dropped to watch the movement, his gaze disturbingly intense.
“So your buddy is pretty famous,” she observed, he
r voice laced with amusement, and Mason shrugged.
“You seem a little starstruck.”
“Well. The guy’s a supermodel. Wasn’t he voted the sexiest man alive like three years in a row? And he modeled for Calvin Klein, Alexander McQ—”
“I’m aware of his résumé,” Mason interrupted. “I just didn’t think it was the type of thing you’d be conversant with.”
“Why? Because I’m not a fashion plate and outstanding beauty like my sisters?” The words were defensive, and Mason sighed.
“No. Because it’s a lifestyle I figured you’d find frivolous and beneath you.”
What?
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You’re an educated woman, you have a proper career. I just thought you had weightier things to think about than models and stuff.” The last word trailed off self-consciously as Daisy gaped at him in absolute astonishment. “Daisy, you’re the smartest woman I’ve ever dated. You’re not like the others, who would get giddy over shallow shit like this.”
“We’re not dating,” she said, a little astounded that she had to actually remind him of that fact.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m not entirely sure I do.”
Mason wasn’t sure he knew what he meant either. He had just been weirdly disappointed when Daisy had not only immediately recognized Chris but had instantly started fangirling over him. It didn’t fit with his image of her. She was the brainy girl; she was supposed to be better than that. She shouldn’t care about superficial crap like this, and yet she’d been nearly speechless at the sight of Chris. He definitely didn’t like the way she had gone gaga over the other guy. Mason liked how slightly in awe of him Daisy always seemed. He thought back to the obvious little crush she seemed to have on him that first night before she had discovered the truth. He’d enjoyed her fascination, even though he had known it wasn’t something he could encourage. Still, to now see some of that infatuation transferred onto Chris stung . . . more than a little. He wanted her attention and focus on him alone.
“Never mind,” he dismissed, his voice rough, and he cleared his throat self-consciously. “It’s not important.”
“So you and Chris worked together?”
“Not at all. He did a lot of the catwalk stuff. Very much in demand because of that flawless bone structure and skin of his. He was in the big leagues, and I was small fry. I modeled mostly body shots for catalogs and magazines. I was shamelessly used for my hot bod. This mug of mine wasn’t special enough for anything else.”
He rubbed a rueful hand over his square, stubbled jaw as he spoke, and Daisy had a hard time believing there was anybody out there who didn’t think he was absolutely stunning. Sure, Christién was gorgeous, but Mason had a rugged masculine appeal that the other man, with his too-perfect features, was lacking. While she could stare at Christién all day, Mason was the one who made her feel weak-kneed and hot under the collar. Not that she would ever reveal that fact.
“Chris and I ran in the same circles, and at one point were rivals for the same woman.”
“Ah, the beautiful and talented Gigi,” Christién supplied as he placed a couple of steaming mugs of something delicious-smelling in front of them. Daisy wrapped her cold hands around the hot mug and inhaled deeply. She could smell both cinnamon and chocolate infused with something else.
“Drink up, ma petite fleur. It is my own recipe. You won’t be disappointed. So, Mason was telling you about the time we were both infatuated with Gigi?” He clutched a hand to his chest and sighed, the sound steeped with longing and tinged with more than a little melodrama. “Gigi. So beautiful and so treacherous. She loved having us compete for her affections, and in the end, after we were like snarling dogs after the same bitch, she threw us over for a woman.”
Mason chuckled, took a sip of his drink, and then shut his eyes as he savored the taste.
“Chris and I found ourselves in the same little osteria in Milan, nursing our wounded egos at the bar,” he said. “We started talking and discovered how much we actually had in common. We’ve been friends ever since.”
Daisy made a noncommittal sound, dying to ask for details. He’d revealed so much and yet so little. What exactly did the two men have in common? Other than similar tastes in women and a background in modeling? She was desperate to ask but not sure she had any right to the information. She took a sip of the hot drink and moaned involuntarily. Gosh, it was good.
“This is delicious.” Chris gave her a smug grin, and after thumping Mason on the back, he excused himself to prepare their meal.
“Why did you decide to stop modeling?” Daisy asked, deciding to leave the topic of women and vice behind.
“I think the more pertinent question is why did I start,” he corrected. When he didn’t elaborate, she felt compelled to prompt him for more.
“Well? Why did you start modeling, then?”
“It was just after I’d left the army. I was bumming around, feeling a little disconnected from civil society. Everybody else seemed so . . . normal. And I wasn’t. I was staying with a friend, sleeping on a mattress in his living room, doing the odd job here and there. The plan was to join the army, see the world, get a degree on their dime. The reality was, I saw the worst of the world, and I didn’t have time to get that degree because it turned out that I had other more valuable skills and the army wanted me to hone those particular talents before anything else. So I gained a skill set that was useless in normal life and that put me in pretty much the same boat I was in before I left Riversend. Waiting tables. Doing delivery work. Odd jobs. I was working at a trendy restaurant in Soho when an older guy slid his card across the table and told me to contact him if I ever got sick of waiting tables.”
He shook his head and laughed in a self-deprecating way before raising his eyes to meet hers. Daisy was completely riveted by his story and trapped beneath that piercing gaze.
“I thought he was hitting on me. I’d had a few guys offer me money to suck their co—” He coughed, catching himself before saying the word. “Sorry. Anyway, a few older guys offered me money to do stuff with them. Older women too. And I would have dismissed Bernie as just another one of those guys, if one of the waitresses hadn’t spotted him giving me the card. She told me that he was a big deal in the modeling industry and that I should follow up and see what he had to say. I called him the next day, and he asked me to come to his office and lined up a few jobs almost immediately.” He shifted his broad shoulders awkwardly. “Modeling never sat well with me. It’s not my kind of thing. But within three months the money made it worth my while. Like I said, I was never in Chris’s league. But I did all right.”
He had done more than “all right.” Daisy had seen him in so many magazines and advertisements during that year. Prominent brand names in some of the bigger fashion publications. He was being modest, and she knew it was because that chapter of his life embarrassed him. Which was ridiculous when he had been such a success at something he’d essentially been half-assing. In truth, Daisy didn’t think the man had ever experienced real failure. Everything he decided to do, he excelled at. Which was rather extraordinary for a guy who came from such humble beginnings.
“And how did you get into the bodyguarding business?” She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin in the palms of her hands, wriggling a little in her chair to get comfier.
“I went to an industry party. Lots of rich and famous around, and I spotted one of my buddies.” He grinned. “Army this time. He was shadowing this old lady. At first I thought he’d got himself a sugar mama, but there was something in his stance that made me pause. There’s a thing we do—soldiers, that is—when we first walk into a room. We assess. We look for potential threats, exits, barricades, anything that can help us if the shit hits the fan. It’s instinctive. But Sam was doing more than that; he looked like he was on active duty. He never once relaxed. He noticed me immediately, of course, acknowledged me with a nod, and then went back to h
ulking over his little, old—obviously stinking rich—lady.”
“Sam Brand, right? Your business partner?” Daisy breathed. He gave her a speculative look.
“You know a lot about me.” Daisy fought back her blush as she considered her response to that observation. She stuck with mostly the truth.
“Just what I’ve read in the tabloids. Besides, it’s Sam Brand.” She put enough awe into her voice to divert him from the truth, and he glared at her.
“I’m starting to think you’re just using me to get to my friends.”
“Well, can you blame me? Have you looked at them lately?”
“They’re just guys. Besides . . . Sam’s gay.”
“Really?” Surprise made her almost shout the word, and Mason sighed before moving his shoulders uncomfortably.
“No. Not really,” he admitted with a wry grin. “He’s as straight as an arrow. But you’d hate him. He’s a prick with women.”
“It’s not like I’m ever going to meet him. So I’m allowed to fantasize.”
“Here we go with the fantasies again. What’s he doing? Standing around, flexing his muscles?”
Affronted, Daisy said the first thing that popped into her head. “Nope, he’s doing that slow strip tease we talked about last night . . .”
“Unoriginal.” Mason scoffed. “The bastard’s stealing my sexy moves.”
“And,” Daisy inserted loudly, while holding up a finger to shut him up, “I’m mirroring his every move! His top comes off . . . my top comes off. His pants for my skirt. His socks, my bra!”
Mason knew she was being the Daisy equivalent of risqué, and he found her sweet for trying, but he was more than happy to seize control of the conversation again.
“Yeah? A pink bra? Lacy?” She knew exactly what he was referring to, he could see it in the embarrassed wash of color high on her cheekbones as well as the increased pace of her breathing.
“No. Not like that at all. Pink is much too girlish and innocent for the occasion. This one is black, with red lace, made not for support but for seduction.”
The Wingman Page 12
