The Laws of Seduction: A French Kiss Novel

by Jones, Gwen

  “Shut off the light,” she said, finger pointing to the lamp at his side. She did the same to hers. “Keep down and come here,” she said, scrambling to the French doors that led to a small second-floor porch. She edged the curtain aside. “Look. There—just down the street.”

  He came up beside her, opening the curtain a bit more. “Do you mean that car?”

  “That’s right. And there’s someone in it.”

  He looked closer. “The cops?”

  “Driving that? Take a better look at that car. I sincerely doubt it.”

  He leaned in. “There’s someone in the backseat, too.” He made a decidedly derisive sound in his throat. “What the hell—”

  Just then the car surged forward and made a U-turn, taking off up the street, not turning on its headlights until it was nearly a block away.

  Charlotte clutched Rex’s arm. “What the hell was that?”

  He was still staring into the street. “You’re not staying here by yourself tomorrow,” he said quietly.

  “So I’m going with you to D.C.,” she said, not as question.

  He turned to her, looking very grave. “Apparently someone is watching us, and it’s fairly obvious it’s not les flics. Not unless they pay the police really, really good in this town.”

  “In that car? I really don’t think so. What was that anyway?”

  “A Rolls.”

  “A Rolls-Royce?” She almost laughed. “Does anyone really drive them these days? I thought they were something you just saw in old James Bond movies.”

  “No, believe me, people still do drive them.” He slid a hand down her arm. “Though not in your tax bracket, I’m afraid. So,” he said, looking past her. “Where’s the éclairs?”

  “How can you think about éclairs when there’s someone outside stalking us. For all I know it could be one of those crazy lunatics that wanted to bomb me in Philly.”

  “Wrong side, chérie. The only ones who could afford to stalk you in that car would be sending you flowers instead.”

  She huffed. “Then it must be one of your mobster friends.”

  Rex grasped her by the shoulders. “The only mobsters I consort with are the Washington kind, so I sincerely doubt we’ll be gunned down by anyone from the backseat of their Rolls. Especially with the chauffeur watching.”

  “Then who was that?”

  “I’m not sure, though I have my suspicions.”

  “Yeah? Who?” she asked.

  “Chérie, rest assured, I’m going to find out.” His eyes narrowed. “For now know that whoever is out there, they’re not looking for you. They’re looking for me.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” she said.

  “Perhaps not. But you’ll be happy to know it’s enough to convince me you’re not staying here by yourself. You’re coming with me.” He kissed her forehead. “And that makes me happy, too.”

  She laid her head against his chest. Although she couldn’t help feeling antsy about being watched, it did give her a measure of comfort that Rex was concerned enough to take her with him. “Let me go get the éclairs then.”

  “Non,” he said, walking her back to the bed, slipping the robe from her shoulder as they went. “Just let me take care of a few things, then we’ll have something altogether different for dessert.” He kissed her forehead, leaving for the bathroom.

  She tossed her robe to the chair and climbed in, noticing he had taken his phone with him. Apparently, that car was concerning him much more than he was letting on. In a way, it gave her a charge that it worried him enough not to want to leave her alone. Not that his concern completely overrode the fact he was giving her something to worry about in the first place. Who the hell was tracking him down—and to her house? Obviously there were many things in his life she wasn’t privy to, but Christ almighty! She hunkered down in the bed. How weird was it that although he’d no doubt be inside her very shortly, for Rex Renaud, that was by far the very least of his intimate connections.

  VIVIANE MERCIER WAS at it again. He raked back his hair with an exhausted sigh. When the hell would she finally give up?

  It had to be her. Who else did he know that rode around in a chauffeured Rolls-Royce? Still, it made no sense to worry Charlotte until he was sure what she was up to. Which could be almost anything.

  Rex knew she wouldn’t answer his call, not with this cheap pay-go phone number, so he’d send her a text instead:

  I don’t know what your game is, but I’m on to you. See you soon, chérie.

  He kind of liked the look of that. Seemed much more sinister. Which was how she liked to operate. He also knew she wouldn’t answer his text either, but he hit send anyway, then went to take a piss. If the Mercier matriarch was part of this fiasco, then maybe things were finally starting to make sense. But she was only point A to a very distant point B. The real trick would be in figuring out what—or who—was the connector. And that would prove very complicated indeed.

  He flushed the toilet, bracing his hand against the wall. Jesus Christ, when would she ever give up? A lesser mortal would’ve been crushed by the weight of that vendetta a long time ago, but there she was, still carrying it around. When would she ever find peace? When would she ever leave him alone to find his?

  He was a businessman, for Christ’s sake. He was supposed to sit behind a desk, consult with his board members. Take conference calls. Drink martinis at lunch. Give speeches at consortiums and conventions in Paris and New York. Pore over reports. Vacation on the Riviera. He loved what he did, right down to the very last spreadsheet. And he’d been told he was very, very good at it. Which was only logical. It was what he was raised to be. It’s what Marcel was born to do. Why didn’t she just leave them be and let them do it?

  Though when had anything gone according to plan?

  He turned to the sink, washing his hands and splashing his face with cold water. If it had, he’d be married by now to a beautiful but empty-headed woman, who’d run his home and bear him a boy and a girl, a woman he’d shower with diamonds and Prada so she’d look good on his arm at corporate galas. Be an asset to his image, an icon to all the other corporate wives, and the object of envy to his friends. No independent thinking wanted or required. Well, as long as her independent thoughts aligned with his.

  He leaned into the sink, brushing his teeth before he dried his face and shut off the light. When he went back to the bedroom she was waiting for him in the dark, the pale light from the street gilding her. She didn’t look or act or think like anyone he’d long been told to look for and, he suspected, she never would. Perhaps like music and art and poetry, the beauty was in the perception. And for now, his was making him smile.

  “So I’m going with you to D.C.,” she said, her hair a fluffy blonde cloud around her head and shoulders. The sheet was tucked up to her armpits as she sat against the headboard. He could see the outline of her breasts beneath it.

  “Oui,” he said, waiting for the other shoe to drop as he slid in next to her. “Your point being . . . ?”

  “Well, since you were going without me, you must have had an alternate plan for transportation. I’m sure you weren’t thinking of driving my car.”

  “Non. We’ll have a car waiting for us in Atlantic City. A very special one.”

  “Well, speaking of special things, I have a special friend in Washington who may be able to help us,” Charlotte said.

  “Oh?” he said, sliding next to her against the headboard. He wasn’t sure he liked the special friend designation. “Who’s that?”

  “Trent Webster. He’s a congressman from New Jersey. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve heard of Secretary of State Webster. Are they related?”

  “Trent’s his son.”

  Rex thought a moment. “I met another of the secretary’s sons once. Alex Webster. At a party or reception some
place—Princeton, I think.”

  “That’s his oldest brother. He runs the family’s banking empire. And you’re right. The family’s from Princeton, though Trent’s in South Jersey. That’s how I got to know him, from the charity work he does in Camden, a poor city across the river from Philadelphia. I’m sure Trent can shed the light on something. The whole family’s really well connected. Plus he owes me.”

  “For what?” he said, a shard of jealously ripping through him. He well recalled hearing what a rake Alex was. He was sure Trent wasn’t far behind.

  Charlotte laughed. “Oh, just more of that pro bono work you’re so fond of. I also hold the bar in New Jersey.”

  “Is there no end to your talents?” Rex said. If there was, then that would surprise him.

  “Well, I don’t know,” she said, moving toward him. Rex brought his legs up and she straddled him, her arms around his neck. “Shall we find out?”

  “Surprise me,” he said, kissing her.

  In no time he was more than ready for her, as a few more of his kisses, a few deft strokes, as well as her fingers torturously sheathing him with a condom, made her ready for him.

  “Mon Dieu . . .” he groaned, Charlotte impaling herself atop him. She leaned back against his legs, allowing Rex to bury himself to the hilt. “Merde, you feel fantastique,” he whispered, sliding his hands up her sides, his thumbs just under her breasts. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Give me a moment,” she said, her eyes fluttering as she positioned herself. She groaned, swiveling her hips slightly, sending little electric shocks through his groin. She ran her hand through her hair, biting her lip. “Mmmm . . . you’re one big boy, T-Rex.”

  “And you’re one luscious girl,” he said, slowly lifting her up and setting her down, leaning in to lick the tip of her breast. But mostly he just sat back and let her fuck him, Charlotte’s swiveling and writhing atop his cock sending glorious sensations through his body.

  “Oh God, Rex, you feel so good,” she whispered, grinding, lifting herself up and down. “But then you always feel good.”

  “Is that so,” he said, sliding his finger to her slickened clit, massaging her until it was rock-hard and throbbing. “Does this feel good too?”

  Her answer was a groan long and low, her climax building until all at once her body went rigid with pleasure. As she tightened around him Rex found his own bliss, streams and streams of it as he emptied himself deep inside her. Before long she slumped against him, sated, kissing his cheek.

  When they were through, she turned on her side. “Good night,” she whispered, her hair spreading threaded gold across his pillow.

  “Bon nuit, ma belle,” he whispered back, spooning against her. It’d been a long time since he’d spent the whole night with a woman, curling his arm around her.

  And knowing what was out there waiting for him, he hoped it wouldn’t end too soon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Diplomatic Pouch

  “WAKE UP, CHARLOTTE,” Rex whispered in her ear. “It’s time to get up.”

  She snuffled and rolled to her stomach, pulling the covers up to her chin. The house was quiet except for the sound of the furnace igniting downstairs, and the soft crash of the surf beyond the street. And, it shocked her to realize, the soft breathing of the man sharing her bed. Rex, she thought. Rex Renaud. I thought I couldn’t stand him.

  That was yesterday and a lifetime ago.

  She turned to him. He lay on his back with his eyes closed, dark lashes fanning his cheeks, his beard rising. She felt a tingling deep down inside her, especially when she looked to the long, hard expanse of his chest, trailing lower and lower to where the covers stopped just below his navel and tangled around his legs. His eyes opened as he raised his arms over his head.

  “Bonjour,” he said, flexing, his tendons cording.

  “Bonjour,” she whispered back. The tingling returned.

  He rolled to his side and she burrowed into his warmth, his arm wrapping around her belly. She could feel him hardening against her, and she wanted him to take her right now, no foreplay, just to sink himself inside her. But she knew he wouldn’t, the gentleman that he was, unless she gave him some kind of indication. So she decided to aim for discretion, reaching around to grab his cock.

  She sucked in a breath. Oh my. There was just something about the first thing in the morning.

  She rolled to her stomach again. He rolled to his bedside table. She heard a packet tear and before she knew it, he was atop her from behind and spreading her legs, slipping himself in.

  “You have such a beautiful ass,” he said en français, murmuring French endearments as he slowly filled her.

  Charlotte clutched her pillow, biting her lip as he moved inside her, the feeling so exquisite she couldn’t help moving with him. He grabbed his pillow and slid it under her belly, angling her higher as he fell in deeper. It was all she needed and she came swiftly and with long, rolling undulations, like the ocean outside the windows. Feeling her climax, he followed, his breath coming in soft, quick, gasps before it leveled out into a slow exhale, his hips resting against her.

  He rolled to his side, taking her with him. Still joined, he kissed her between her shoulder blades, holding her close. “Mon Dieu,” he whispered, yawning, “that was nice.”

  She rubbed his thigh. “That’s because I love to fuck you.”

  Charlotte started, her heart leaping in her chest. Did she really just say that? She must have been half asleep. Why oh why would she use that word in a sentence?

  “What?” he said, yawning again. “Did you say something?”

  He didn’t even hear her? Well, she wasn’t about to say it again. “No.”

  Then he yawned one more time and pulling himself from her, left for the bathroom.

  She grabbed her robe and went to the downstairs bathroom, leaning against the kitchen sink when she was done. “Huh,” was all she could say, staring into incredulity. She didn’t know whether to go sit in the garage, make coffee, or hit him over the head with a frying pan.

  Then she heard the bathroom door open. “Charlotte. Are you down there?”

  “Yes,” she said, huffing.

  “Come here, s’il vous plaît.”

  She didn’t know why, but she did, going to where he stood at the bathroom door. When she got there he pulled her in.

  “What?” she said.

  He held her head between his hands and kissed her. “I love to fuck you, too, you know.”

  After a moment, she said, “Well, that’s good.”

  He kissed her again. “Do you have any idea how adorable you are?” he said, untying her robe.

  “No. Why don’t you tell me?”

  He reached into the shower, turning it on. “I’ll tell you later. Do you know what time it is?” he said, sliding her robe to the floor.

  Actually, she didn’t. “I give up. What time?”

  He stepped into the shower, Charlotte following. “Well, you should feel rested and relaxed.”

  It surprised her to notice she did. As she should. They went to bed at what—eight-thirty? He stepped aside so she could move into the shower, the spray flattening her curls. “I guess I do.”

  He squeezed a dollop of shampoo in his hand and scrubbed it into her hair. “Then it shouldn’t upset you too much to know it’s three.”

  “Oh my God—that’s absolutely obscene,” she said, grabbing the soap to rub it across his chest. “You know what?” she said, trailing the soap lower. “So is this.”

  “Isn’t it though,” he said, angling her back under the water. “Then it’s a good thing we already got that out of the way.”

  “You’re so efficient,” she said, trailing even lower, and he growled, taking the soap from her.

  “But I hear women are very different from men—in that respect.” He slid the bar down
her torso. “That their opportunities are limitless.”

  “Oh!” she squeaked, her eyes widening.

  A little while later they had temporarily retreated to their separate corners to dress, Charlotte picking out what she thought was a classically feminine dress with a flared skirt, coupled with silk sweater and three-inch pumps. Rex wore one of the two suits he had brought with him, this one a gray pinstripe with a midnight-blue tie.

  “Dashing,” Charlotte said as she stood behind him at the dresser mirror, smoothing his shoulders as he tied his tie. “You’ve quite a flair for these things.”

  He harrumphed, closing his jacket. “I have a man in London and another in Paris I pay ridiculously well to make me look however I do.”

  “Tell them I admire their work.” She swiveled around to him and half sat on the dresser, reaching up to straighten his tie. “You’re quite the fashion icon.”

  His gaze fell to her. “You don’t look so bad yourself. As a matter of fact . . .” He pulled her to him, turning her around so they both faced the mirror. “We both cut quite the figure, don’t we?”

  “We do,” she said, to her instant regret. She wished he wouldn’t say things like that. They reeked of permanence, and she didn’t want to end up wistfully recalling scenes like this long after they had ended.

  Apparently, Rex felt the same way as he flashed her a textbook smile, patting her shoulders before he stepped away. “Well, then. We should get on our way. I’m going to rely on your local knowledge to get us to Atlantic City without a car.”

  “Which is easy, but we’ll have to walk a bit,” she said, slipping into a tan trench coat. “And because of that mysterious Rolls last night, I suggest we start off on the beach.”

  “That’s all right, I don’t mind the sand at all. Then he stood back, assessing her. “The trench coat adds a definite touch of intrigue.”

  “Well, this is a covert operation,” she said. “Don’t you have one?”