“The music. Street music.” He smiled at the memory. “I would sing along. Jean-Pierre would dance. Damn, he was good. He’s always been more nimble on his feet.”
“What about Gervais?”
“He just quietly tapped his foot.”
She snorted. “Figures. And Dempsey?”
“Those trips had stopped by the time he joined our family.” Those days had been tough, integrating their half brother into the family fold. They were tight now, and Jean-Pierre was the one who’d left. Henri shook his head and focused on the moment. “Let’s get something to eat. What are you in the mood for?”
“Someplace simple in keeping with our tourist day. Somewhere open air. And someplace where you will keep talking.”
“Can do.” He pointed to Le Chevalier. Ivy snaked around the outside of the trellis. It was casual and intimate—the perfect combination. “How about gumbo?”
Fiona clapped her hands together. “That sounds perfect.”
Her French-manicured nails looked ever so chipped. Unusual for her. As though she’d chewed the edges. He shook off the thought and focused on the moment. On her.
Henri led them to a table in the corner of the outside patio. He pushed in her chair for her and then sat beside her.
Menus in hand, the blonde waitress bustled over to them.
“Are you enjoying New Orleans?” The lilt in her accent was particularly musical.
“Oh, yes. This trip has really made us fall in love with the city.” Fiona played along, clearly enjoying the feeling of anonymity as much as he did. Since they were outside, he could keep on the baseball cap and sunglasses. His disguise was intact and his wife was engaged in actual conversation with him.
“Well, that’s wonderful, loves. Take your time and let me know when you need something. I’ll start you with some waters.”
“We’ll also go ahead and order gumbo.” Henri smiled, handing the menus back to the waitress.
“Excellent choice,” she said, writing the order onto the pad. And then the waitress turned on her heel and walked away.
“I love that we blend in here. That there aren’t hordes of people vying for our attention.” Fiona rummaged through the pile of bags from their purchases.
“See? What did I tell you? It’s a no-pressure date day. It does wonders for the soul.”
“Mmm.” Fiona nodded, piling the trinkets onto the table. A little purple jester doll stared back at him.
He surveyed the stack of souvenirs. A masquerade mask brilliantly decorated in feathers. A T-shirt for him. A bamboo cutting board in the shape of Louisiana. A cartoonish, floppy toy alligator. The necklace with bright blue beads that would look lovely against Fiona’s pale skin.
“Aha.” She held out the voodoo doll. “Here it is. Best purchase of the day.”
“You really are such a native,” Henri teased.
“Hey, now. Watch out, mister. Or you’ll be under my control.” She wriggled the doll at him. Then she took its right arm and made the doll tap its own head.
In a gesture of good faith, Henri tapped his own head, mirroring the doll. She gave him a wicked grin.
“Your spunk amazes me.” A rolling laugh escaped his lips.
Picking up the necklace, he watched how the sunlight caught in the blue beads. The glass was cut with the intention of splaying light.
“May I?”
“You may.” Lifting her hair up in one hand, she turned her back to him.
His fingers ached to touch her. Sliding the necklace over her head, he worked at fastening the tiny clasp. He rested his fingertips on her neck, enjoying the softness of her skin. Breathing in the scent of her perfume, he leaned in, pressing his lips to her neck.
But instead of leaning into him, she recoiled away. She wrapped her arms around her chest and folded into herself.
He sat back in his chair, watching her, trying to understand. “Why don’t you want me to touch you? It can’t be the scars, because I’ve seen them and you know it doesn’t matter to me.” Couldn’t she see that he wasn’t bothered by any of that superficial nonsense? It was her that he cared about.
“That time we tried to have sex, you were different. It still is between us.” Her voice was low, audibly conflicted.
“Of course it’s different. You had major surgery.”
“But you still touch me, treat me, talk to me like I’m going to break.” She picked at her manicured nails absently.
“You’re the strongest woman I know. You made an incredibly difficult decision and faced it with grace. I’m so damn proud of you it blows my mind.”
“Thank you.” She took a sip of her water, brushing off the compliment the way she always did.
He needed to make her see that it wasn’t just talk.
“I speak the truth.”
“I don’t feel strong. I grew up pampered and spoiled by my father, who was afraid I would die like my mother. I don’t mean to sound like a spoiled brat now—a kept woman who’s whining because her husband wants to baby her.” She chewed her thumbnail, then quickly twisted her hands in her lap.
“I fully understand you gave up a career so we could travel together, and you fill every other waking hour doing good for people when you could be like some sports wives and spend your days at a spa. Instead you’re putting together six-and seven-figure fund-raisers. You’re organizing family adventures and educational activities for the children who travel to see their dads play.”
“Why are you saying all of this?” Suspicion edged her voice.
A long sigh escaped from his lips. “To let you know I noticed all your hard work and your thoughtfulness. Your kindness. You’re an inspiration.”
“Then why can’t you treat me like I’m strong? Why can’t you trust me that I am strong?”
Trust?
He was caught up on that word, turning it over in his mind like a puzzle. Why was it that he could read the nuances of a complicated defense strategy, spotting the weaknesses and potential threats with uncanny accuracy, yet he couldn’t begin to interpret this simple word from his wife? He lacked the right awareness for people, the right emotional frequency. He was grasping at straws.
This stumped him. He’d felt that he’d been protecting her, not treating her as though she was delicate crystal.
Damned if he knew the answer to her question.
Six
Opening the car door, Fiona swung her legs out, her feet hitting the garage floor with a tap. Before she could thrust herself up and out of the Mustang, Henri was in front of her, offering support.
Clasping his hand, she rose, their bodies closer than she would have guessed as she straightened fully. After the distance of the last months, it was as if her measurements of personal space were all off. Their breath seemed to mingle in the space between them. A faint flush warmed her cheeks and her stomach tumbled in anticipation—and nerves.
“I just need to put the cover on the car.” Henri’s voice was a dull murmur as he dropped her hand.
He strode to the corner of the garage and picked up a fabric drape for the vehicle, the cover crinkling in his hand. He always had a knack for keeping things safe and secure. The need to protect was part of his nature, and one of the things that was undeniably sexy about him.
The garage windows let the last rays of the evening sun pour into the space, bathing the walls in a twinkling amber light. She’d always loved this time of year—the way the autumn colors of the trees seemed impossibly brighter and sharper as New Orleans went from summer muggy to beautifully temperate. Even from her perch leaning against a sleek tool bench, she couldn’t help but appreciate the way the wind whipped through the trees, gusting and causing them to rattle.
Fall was here. The time for dead weight to trickle from branches, even in the South, time for
things to change. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, goose bumps rippling down her body.
Her marriage was going to be one of those free-falling things. A beautiful leaf cascading from a tree. Perfect, vibrant—but not built to weather the harsh winter.
Holding herself together, she forced her eyes back inside the garage. Back to Henri as he tucked the car in for the night. His dark hair curled around his ears ever so slightly. He’d set aside the sunglasses and ball cap in the car on their drive home. Now, he stood before her in his plain, somewhat faded T-shirt. Perfectly casual. He wasn’t America’s poster boy or the team’s golden boy. He was any man. He was hers.
And he was completely sexy.
Hitching herself up onto the tool bench, her leg swaying, she took in the way his muscled arms filled the sleeves of the T-shirt to capacity. But she also noticed the faint bruises that seemed darker on his tanned skin. The result of hours on the field, training with a resolve that had always made her proud. Henri’s family had done well enough that he didn’t have to work. And yet he poured his soul into his team.
As he stretched the cover on the Mustang, the car let out a low hiss. A tick of the vintage automobile.
Their date had turned quiet after their deep discussion at dinner. Had it been a good idea or bad? It was certainly the kind of subject matter their former marriage counselor would have encouraged.
In the brief time they’d attended therapy, they’d both alternated between quiet and boiling angry. Then they’d ended the appointments. She drummed her fingers against the cement tool bench, wondering if they had taken more time—tried a bit harder in therapy—would they be here right now?
Meanwhile, her looming biopsy had her stomach in a turmoil. She’d thought she had until the end of football season to ease out of her marriage, but the latest health scare put a whole new timetable on their relationship. If she didn’t end things soon, Henri would absolutely dig his heels in for all the wrong reasons, staying by her side to help her battle for her health. Honorable, yes. But in no way related to love as a foundation for their relationship.
So this was possibly her last night to be on somewhat even footing with Henri. Their last night to be together.
Yes, she would have to get past the awkwardness of showing him her scars, but he’d helped her dress in the hospital more than once, seen the incisions. They’d even had that one failed attempt at lovemaking. He knew the extent, and certainly the scars had faded. The plastic surgeon had reconstructed her body, and while he’d been the best of the best, the surgery had left her feeling less than normal.
But after the day she and Henri had shared, she found none of that mattered to her tonight. She’d married a sexy, generous, caring man and she’d never stopped wanting him. Spending the day together only reminded her how much.
This would be their last night to indulge in the passion she’d been fighting for months on end. She ached to reach out and touch him, to press herself against his tanned, toned body once more. To be with him. And after tomorrow...well, things might never be the same. So she’d put this on her terms. She’d go for this now and damn the future.
Fluffing her hair over her shoulder, Fiona inhaled a sharp breath, tasting the air. The scents of falling leaves and gasoline filled her nostrils. It was now or never.
“Henri, let’s walk outside, savor the sunset.”
He cocked his head to the side, his forehead creased with confusion. “Sure, sounds like a nice idea.”
“We’re blessed to have flowers longer in the season because of the greenhouse.” And their garden was her own special haven, the place she felt most at peace. “Restoring that was the most thoughtful gift you ever gave me—other than those daisies.”
They began outside. She took unsure steps, wending toward the greenhouse. Brilliant oranges and yellows flamed out on the horizon. A few birds trilled in the distance, chattering over something that sounded urgent.
“I’m glad to know there are happy memories for you.” His eyes wandered over their yard. Their home. The place they’d restored with a kind of passion she wished they could have applied toward restoring them.
She slid her hand in his, testing the waters for seduction. “There are many happy memories. I want to treasure those.”
He squeezed her hand. “Me, too.”
Henri’s thumb ran gently across her knuckles. Slow and deliberate.
Opening the greenhouse door with one hand, Henri led them inside. The chill in the air was replaced by temperate warmth. The scents of rosemary and sweet flowers hung heavy in the air.
It was a stark contrast from outside. The plants in here hadn’t succumbed to the change of fall yet. No leaves were hanging by threads; the flowers still bloomed. All was alive with possibility in this sheltered environment.
“Mmm. Do you remember the time we went to New York City?” Her voice was open and lithe as she allowed herself to look back through their entwined history.
“I haven’t thought about that trip in forever. One of the best away games of my career.”
“And?” she pressed. They continued into the greenhouse, heading for the back wall where there was a small clearing and some patio furniture.
“And also one of the best art galleries I’ve ever stepped foot in. Then again, having a built-in guide helps that.”
He sat on the lounge chair, sinking into the plush cushion. Beckoning her, he patted the space next to him.
Folding herself onto the lounge beside him, she took a deep breath. “Well, my art degree is good for things like that.”
“It certainly helps. It’s probably why you are brilliant at assembling fund-raisers—you approach problems with such creativity.” His voice trailed off as he stroked the back of her hair.
The simple touch sent ripples of pleasure along her skin, all the more potent for how long she’d denied herself those feelings. Those touches. She wanted to tip her head back to lean more heavily against him, to demand more. But after all the times she’d pulled away from him these last months, she wanted to be clear about what she wanted.
Spinning around on the lounge, she faced him. Scooting close to him, she slung her arms around his neck, drawing closer.
“Henri, I can’t deny that I want you.” She saw the answering heat flash in his dark eyes, but she forced herself to continue. “Please don’t read anything more into this than there is, but right now, I just want us to finish this day together. To make another memory regardless of what tomorrow holds.” She hoped he understood. That he wouldn’t turn her away even though she wasn’t sure she deserved him on those terms. “Say something. Anything.”
“You’ve surprised the hell out of me. I’m not sure what to say other than yes.” He stroked his fingers along her cheek. “Of course, yes.”
Relief eased the tension inside her for all of a moment before another feeling took hold of her. His hands stroked up her arms. Over her shoulders. As the sun set, dim lights flickered on overhead via auto sensors. The warm glow added a romantic aura to the verdant space.
His fingers found the nape of her neck. Twisting her hair in his hands, he pulled her to him, their mouths barely touching. The feeling of warm shared breath caressed her lips.
Anticipation mounted in her chest. This moment was everything. She’d almost forgotten how fast he could turn her inside out with just a look. A touch.
And then his lips met hers, his mouth sure as he molded her to him. Tension and longing filled his kiss. It was in the way he held her. How he touched her. How he knew her. She melted into him, her body easing into his in a manner she hadn’t allowed herself in forever. His tongue explored her mouth, making her rediscover a rhythm—a way of breathing. She dragged in air scented by hothouse flowers and Henri—his skin, his sweat, his aftershave, all of it intensified in the muggy greenhouse air.
Her
hands sought his back, roving over the impossible cords of muscle as the passion between them picked up in intensity, as desire developed a course of its own. She wanted him more than ever. How could she not? This was a constant between them, burning hotter than ever.
Henri pulled back. The absence of his lips shocked her for a moment, and she blinked at him. Unsure.
A small, wicked smile played along his lips.
He held her hand, pulling her into him. His breath was hot against her ear. “Let’s go inside, to the bedroom.”
“Let’s not. Let’s stay here, together.” She bunched his shirt in her eager fingers, pulling it over his head as his grin widened.
“I always have appreciated your adventurous spirit.”
His hand went beneath her dress. Nimble fingers teased up her leg, setting her desire into overdrive. He caressed a spot behind one knee, lingered along the curve of her hip as he kissed her, driving her crazy for more of him and his touch. She scooted closer on the lounger until she was almost in his lap, and he finally fingered the edge of her panties and slid his hand beneath the lace. Hunger for him coiled in her belly and she pressed herself to him harder. He pulled her lace panties down, discarding them on the floor.
Her whole body hummed with anticipation.
Taking a moment to appreciate his honed body, she edged back to run light fingers over the bruises on his arms. They were purple and dark, the result of sacks he’d taken and defensive players continually trying to chop the ball out of his sure hands. She carefully avoided putting a lot of pressure on them.
She looked at his bruises, suddenly aware of her own scars again. What would he think of them? She looked up to find him staring at her. Waiting.
“No spun glass. I am strong. A survivor.” She needed to remind herself even as she wanted him to know it.
“I understand that. And before we go farther, I want you to know I do know what the scars look like now. More than just seeing you. After we talked to the doctor about surgery, I asked the plastic surgeon. I wanted to understand the during, the after, the years to come.”
Reunited with the Rebel Billionaire Page 7
