Maybe it’s time I took a page from the divorcee’s playbook. Maybe I need to indulge in some fun squeezing. If they can survive the end of their marriages, I can survive the end of my engagement.
Following the signs marked with an arrow and the words la piscine, I step out of the château and into the garden. Squinting against the bright morning sunlight, I shove my hand into my bag and rifle around until I find my Ray-Bans. I am sliding them on my face when the French doors behind me open.
“Bonjour, Vivia.”
Luc’s deep voice rumbles behind me. I jump and then spin around like a teenager caught sneaking into the house after curfew.
“You scared me.”
“That’s not quite the reaction I was hoping for.” He looks down at his black swim trunks and back at me, a mischievous smile teasing the corners of his lips. “Is it my attire? It is, isn’t it? My suit is old, and I know what a stickler you are for fashion.”
“Ha, ha,” I say, punching his arm. “Very funny.”
“Are you going for a swim?”
I look down at the sheer cover-up that’s barely concealing my black bikini. “I don’t know where you got that idea. I thought I would go hang-gliding.”
“Really?” Luc chuckles.
Heat flushes through my body.
“You’re a bit overdressed. You might want to lose that sheer thing. Women in the south of France hang-glide in bikinis only.”
“Is that so?”
“Bien sûr! It’s the latest trend. Bikinis or tiny skirt things and tight T-shirts with cartoon sushi rolls.”
I want to come back with something snappy but I got nothing. It’s hard to be witty when you’re staring at 180 pounds of delicious French man meat.
“That was a joke, Vivia.”
“What?” I blink and try to focus on something other than the tanned expanse of Luc’s naked chest. “Oh, yeah. I know. It was funny.”
Luc frowns. “Do you want to go to the pool?”
No. I want to grab the ends of that towel you have tossed around your neck and pull your hot ass body against mine.
“Sure.”
We follow a gravel path through the gardens until we come to a set of wrought iron gates opening to a private, walled courtyard. Luc unlatches the gate and holds it open for me.
Good manners? Check.
Funny? Check.
Crazy hot body? Check. Check. And triple check.
Blue-cushioned double lounge chairs set beneath broad striped umbrellas surrounding the pool. Double lounge chairs. As in, two people. Side by side. Sweaty skin touching sweaty skin.
I reach into my bag, pull out my paperback, and fan my face. “Do you think it’s hot? It seems unusually hot this morning. I don’t remember it being this hot the last few mornings.” I wave the book frantically in front of my face. “It’s never this hot in San Francisco. We are lucky that way. Cool bay breezes and all…”
Great! I am babbling again. The other night I blathered on and on about the stars, and now the temperature. Luc is going to think this is my first time off the farm. I just want to curl up in a ball and roll into the pool.
Luc walks over to one of the loungers, whips the towel off his shoulders, and holds out his hand.
“Come on, Vivia.”
I gulp. A loud, audible cartoon-character-like swallow. I consider turning and running back to the château, but Luc is looking at me with those sexy, smoldering brown eyes, still holding out his hand.
Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I walk over to Luc, drop my bag to the ground, and sit on the edge of the lounger. Luc drops down beside me, stretching his long, muscular legs out and flexing his arms above his head.
“C’est beau, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes,” I say, keeping my back to Luc. “It’s a lovely pool.”
Why am I so nervous? My friend, Grace, gets so nervous around men she finds attractive she becomes physically ill. Why am I channeling Grace right now? Am I trying to induce my own episode of atomic hurling? Quick, Vivia! Think of women who are calm, cool, and collected around men. Hillary Clinton. Yikes! Cool, not frigid. Angelina Jolie. The divorcees. Yes! I got this.
“Relax, Vivia. I won’t bite you.”
“Darn,” I murmur, kicking off my sandals and stretching out beside Luc. “I wish you would.”
I’m totally bluffing. Okay, not totally. I would like Luc to take a bite out of me, but I’m projecting far more coolness than I actually possess.
“Pardon me?”
“Nothing,” I say, sliding my sunglasses up my nose.
Luc flexes his arm, and his bicep brushes against me.
“You’re shivering. Are you cold?”
Look ahead, Vivia. Do. Not. Look. At. Luc. Whatever you do, don’t look into those hypnotic brown eyes or he will have you stripping naked and doing naughty things.
“I’m fine. Just a little shiver.” I rest my head against the lounger and pretend to study the clouds. “Must have been the breeze.”
Luc’s arm brushes mine again. I think he’s doing it on purpose.
“Huh, I didn’t feel any wind.”
Luc’s arm presses against mine lightly. I continue to stare at the sky.
“Would you like to swim?”
Swim? Are you kidding? Who cares about swimming? All I can think about is getting naked and diving into your bed.
“No, you go ahead though.”
From behind the safety of my sunglasses, I watch Luc stand, walk to the edge of the pool, and dive into the water.
Watching Luc’s body in motion is exhilarating and terrifying, like witnessing a panther pursuing its prey. It reminds me of the nature videos on the Discovery Channel featuring cheetahs stalking poor dimwitted gazelle. Even though I always root for the hopeless gazelle, I can’t help but admire the beautiful, sleek beast chasing it.
With his black hair and lean, muscular body, Luc could be the personification of a sleek jungle beast. He moves through the water with awesome speed, precision, purpose, diving below the surface to complete a turn, and then popping back up for another lap.
This is the first time I have seen his naked back. He has broad shoulders, clearly defined back muscles, and a tapered waist. Each stroke causes his shoulders to tense and his muscles to ripple.
If I don’t look away, I might do a When Sally Met Harry diner scene right here by the pool, only I won’t be faking it.
I grab my book and read the back cover. “Redemption by Sophie St. Laurent. From the windswept moors of North Yorkshire, comes a haunting tale of romance, intrigue, and revenge…”
I peek over the top of the book and focus on Luc gliding through the water. What would it feel like to run my fingers down his spine, to feel the deep, vertical chasm between his shoulder muscles?
I force my gaze back to the book.
“After witnessing a violent crime, Arabella Saint Simon seeks sanctuary with the one person who…”
Blah, blah, blah…
No offense to Sophie St. Laurent, but I have a hunch reading her haunting tale of romance and revenge isn’t as thrilling as watching Luc swim. Nevertheless, I open the book to the first page and force myself to begin reading.
Sloan Blackmore lay on his back, wondering why he was in such a position, as the full-breasted, round-hipped Countess of Shrewsbury straddled him. He had tasted the Titian-haired countess’s drugging nectar, been a witless victim to her hypnotic seduction, six - no seven - years ago, and been more the fool…
Sophie did it. She captured my attention. I am three chapters into the book when Luc climbs out of the pool and collapses on the lounger beside me, smelling of chlorine and suntan lotion. He presses his warm leg against mine. I shiver.
“Good book?”
I nod.
“What is it?” He looks at the cover. “A romance novel? You read romance novels?”
I consider telling him it’s Fanny’s book, when I remember my resolut
ion. Be authentic.
“I do.” I look at him, raising an eyebrow in challenge. “Got a problem with that?”
“Nope.” Luc takes my book, flips it over, and reads the back cover. “Should I?”
I shrug. “Most men find romances silly and insipid.”
“I am not most men, Vivia.” He places the book on my lap and his fingers brush my thighs. “I’m French. Romance is as vital to our existence as air.”
The air is hot, heavy, charged with a palpable electrical current, a promise of something to come. My stomach knots in anticipation. Will Luc kiss me again? What if he doesn’t?
“Can I ask you a question?”
Yes. Yes, you can make love to me right here on this pool lounger. Take me, hard.
“Sure.”
“Did your ex-fiancé think romances were silly?”
The question hits me like a bolt of lightning in a clear blue summer sky, coming out of nowhere. It knocks me off balance.
“Yes,” I whisper, dropping my chin to my chest and staring at the ruined castle on the book cover. “He hated that I read romance novels.”
An embarrassing silence stretches between us. I don’t try to fill it with my usual nervous babble. I just let it stretch, taut.
Luc finally breaks it.
“I am sorry, Vivia. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.” He wraps his hand around mine, squeezing it gently. “I was curious. Chantal mentioned you were supposed to be on this tour with your husband, and all of the hotel reservations have been for Monsieur et Madame Edwards.”
Tears are pricking my eyelids. The shame I felt when Nathan left me sitting at Snob, when he dumped me via text, pale in comparison to this moment—this humiliating moment sitting in the garden of some fairy tale château about to confess my immorality to a gorgeous Frenchman.
“This trip was supposed to be my honeymoon, but Monsieur Edwards dumped me days before our wedding.”
I tell him the whole story. My one night stand with Travis Trunnell. The walk of shame from his place back to my dorm room. My engagement to Nathan. The lie. The look on Nathan’s face when he found out I hadn’t been a virgin. The break-up text. All of it.
The tears are falling now and I am straight-up ugly crying. Not quite wailing, but pretty close. My nose is probably as red as Rudolph’s, a shining beacon on my pale face. My cool Grace Kelly façade has fallen away, and I’m just plain old vulnerable Vivia.
Luc pulls me into his arms. I am half-sitting on his lap, my face pressed against his naked collarbone, but there’s nothing sexy about the moment. It’s raw, unvarnished. He keeps his arms around me, rests his chin on my head, and waits for me to stop crying.
Honestly? This outpouring of grief isn’t just for Nathan. I am embarrassed. What will Luc think of me now?
I stop crying, wipe my face, and scoot off Luc’s lap. “Sorry about that.”
He brushes a tear from my cheek. “Never apologize for being honest.”
He hands me his damp towel. I take off my sunglasses and wipe my eyes.
“Thanks,” I say, handing the mascara smudged towel back to him.
“So Edwards broke off your engagement because he found out you weren’t a virgin when he met you?”
I nod.
“How old are you? Twenty-four, twenty-five?
“Twenty-seven.”
“Twenty-seven? And your fiancé expected you to be a virgin? Did you meet when you were infants?”
I shake my head. “After college.”
“So you came to Edwards with a more checkered sexual past than he would have liked?”
“Yes,” I snap, irritated by his statement of the obvious. “But it wasn’t that checkered. It’s not like I’ve been with dozens of men. Travis was my first and Nathan my second. Two.” I hold up two fingers. “Two men in twenty-five years. Not a bad record.”
Holy shit. I mentally slap a hand over my mouth. I just lied again. Why did I do that? What is wrong with me? Maybe Fanny is right. Maybe I do have a pathological need to paint myself as the perpetual virgin.
“Easy, Vivia,” Luc says, holding up his hands. “I am not judging you. I think your Edwards sounds like a connard.”
I don’t know what connard means, but it doesn’t sound nice. My protective instincts kick in. “You shouldn’t insult someone you don’t know.”
Luc whistles, eyes wide.
“What?” I snap.
“Your fiancé rides off at the first bump in the road, and you defend him. I’m impressed with your loyalty, woefully misguided as it is.” Luc leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you ask me—”
“Which I haven’t!”
“—this Edwards is an uptight ass. You’re lucky to be rid of him. Riding solo is better than riding with a connard.”
“I don’t know what a connard is.”
“Ass.”
“Are you telling me you wouldn’t be upset if you found out your fiancé wasn’t a virgin, after she said she was?”
Why am I defending Nathan to Luc? This has veered from the ridiculous to the insane.
Luc pierces me with an intense stare. “One lover. One hundred lovers. It doesn’t matter. You Americans are too preoccupied with chastity and monogamy.”
“So monogamy isn’t important to you? Nice to know.”
Is it my imagination or did Luc just wince?
“I am not saying monogamy doesn’t matter.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Luc inhales deeply and his muscular chest expands. “Chastity is a lovely thing, Vivia, but if I found out you weren’t as innocent as you said you were, I would be more concerned with why you felt it necessary to lie to me. I would worry that you didn’t feel you could be genuine with me. Honesty is far more important to me than some antiquated ideal of chastity.”
Luc doesn’t know it, but his words impact me like daggers thrown at my conscience. Bull’s-eye! He’s neatly, swiftly gotten to the heart of the matter. I wasn’t my authentic self with Nathan, and I am not being my authentic self with Luc.
“Luc?”
He nods, still holding my gaze.
I draw a shaky breath and then let the words come out in a guilty rush. “I lied to you before. When I said I’ve only been with two men. That’s not true. I’ve been with a lot of men.”
Luc raises an eyebrow.
“Well, maybe not a lot. Just more than two. I’m not a nymphomaniac. I just like sex. I really like sex, but my mum named me after some saint and raised me with all of these dire warnings about sex. So I have learned to feel guilty and lie about it. I’m not blaming my mum.” I shrug. The babble train is steaming wildly and I can’t find the brakes. “It’s not her fault I keep making myself out to be perpetually virginal. I just want to be honest with you…with myself.”
Luc sits quietly. When I finally run out of steam he leans forward and kisses me. It’s not like our farmhouse kiss. This kiss is not urgent or salacious. It’s soft, tender, reassuring. He’s letting me know with his lips, not his words, he accepts me as I am.
Chapter 18
He Googled Me All Night Long
I want Luc to keep kissing me, never stop kissing me, but he pulls away at the sound of the gate opening. I quickly wipe my lips and arrange myself on the lounger, scooting away from Luc a little.
Chantal and Fanny stroll over to us. It’s clear from their expressions my feigned nonchalance isn’t fooling them. Fanny’s wearing a Cheshire Cat grin. Chantal’s eyebrows knit together, and she stares pointedly at Luc.
“Bonjour, Vivia,” Chantal says, smiling at me. She returns her sharp gaze to Luc. “Luc.”
I sense a weird tension between them. Chantal looks like she wants to wring Luc’s neck, but Luc is cool, impassive, smiling easily. I assume Chantal is upset with her employee for fraternizing with the customers, but my gut tells me it’s something more.
“Vivia and I were just getting to know ea
ch other better,” Luc says, directly meeting Chantal’s gaze. “Why don’t you join us?”
“We have to leave for Cannes soon,” Chantal snaps.
Luc looks at the sleek black Rolex on his wrist. “We have plenty of time. Sit down, Chantal.”
Hold on! How can a bike guide afford a Rolex? I think of my Cartier tank watch, a gift from Nathan. Does Luc have a rich lover. Maybe someone like Chantal. Chantal and Luc? I look at the pair, locked in some kind of silent battle, and my heart aches. They’re lovers. I know it.
Fanny stretches out on the lounger beside me and closes her eyes. Chantal pulls a chair over. She’s slipped her sunglasses on, but I can tell she’s staring at Luc.
“Vivia was about to tell me about her job.”
I was? Oh yeah.
“Like I said,” I bluff, “I lost my job when Nathan broke off our engagement. I’m unemployed.”
“That’s bad timing.”
“Not really,” I say, avoiding Chantal’s gaze. “Nathan’s family owned the magazine I wrote for. No engagement, no job.”
“Connard,” Luc mumbles.
Chantal sits up. “You’re a writer?”
“Vivia is a brilliant writer,” Fanny says, keeping her eyes closed. “You should read her articles. They were the best articles in San Francisco Magazine. She deserved a Pulitzer.”
“Pulitzers are awarded to journalists who write for newspapers, not magazines.”
“Whatever,” Fanny says. “You’re still brilliant.”
I grimace at Luc. “Fanny employs hyperbole when describing my journalistic capabilities.”
“I doubt that.”
Luc smiles and we sit staring at each other.
Chantal clears her throat. “What a coincidence. Did Luc tell you that he’s a—”
“An avid reader.” Luc says, interrupting Chantal. “It’s true. I love to read. I admire anyone who earns their living writing.”
Chantal’s brow knits together. She presses her lips together and sits back.
“I’m afraid I no longer fall in that category,” I say, frowning. “I’ve joined the legion of unemployed, struggling artists.”
Faking It Page 13
