Faking It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “Yes.” I’ve only known Luc for a week, but I do trust him. He exudes this strength and honesty.

  “Then trust me to know my own heart. I want to be with you, Vivia, even if that means holding your hand while the world crashes down around you.” He leans forward and presses his lips to mine. “I don’t know what the future holds for us, if it holds anything. I just want to be with you now.”

  If I wasn’t so worried about having monster morning breath, I would kiss him harder and deeper than he’s ever been kissed.

  “You sure know how to woo a girl with your words. Not bad for a bike guide.”

  I was aiming for light humor, but I think I missed the mark. Luc doesn’t laugh. He sits back, crosses his arms, and looks at me from beneath a raised eyebrow. I feel like he’s weighing and measuring me, like he wants to tell me something but isn’t sure he can trust me.

  “Read your e-mail from Edwards. Find out what the baudet wants.”

  “Baudet?”

  “Jackass.”

  “You don’t like him very much, do you?”

  Luc shrugs. “I don’t know him, but I think he has treated you dishonorably.”

  “You do?”

  “Oui.” Luc stretches one of his long, muscular legs in front of him. “When a man asks a woman to marry him, it means he’s pledged to love and honor her. It’s the beginning of their eternity. Edwards didn’t honor his pledge. I don’t respect that.”

  Wow. Just, wow. With his devastating good looks and vagabond lifestyle, I just assumed Luc was a player. I didn’t think he would have such deep convictions. And what he said is resonating, striking a chord in my heart. Nathan didn’t honor his pledge. He broke his promise to me as easily as one might cancel a lunch date.

  Luc nods his head at my phone. “Aren’t you curious?”

  Not so much. Wow. The realization that I’m not burning with curiosity over the content of Nathan’s e-mail comes as a shock. This day has been filled with shockers and it’s not even lunchtime.

  To: PerpetuallyVivia@yahoo.com

  From: Nathan.Edwards.III@yahoo.com

  Subj: Engagement Ring

  Pursuant to California Civil Code 1590, you are compelled to return the ring I gave you upon our engagement. “Where either party to a contemplated marriage in this State makes a gift of money or property to the other on the basis or assumption that the marriage will take place, in the event that the donee refuses to enter into the marriage as contemplated or that it is given up by mutual consent, the donor may recover such gift…”

  I think most would agree that your behavior has left me with no alternative but to dissolve our relationship. I was on the verge of forgiving you for lying about your sexual history when I saw the photographs of you whoring it up in France. It didn’t escape my notice that you are still wearing your engagement ring. My engagement ring. You have humiliated my entire family with your behavior. I am usually a good judge of character. I was wrong about you. Enjoy the honeymoon. Return the ring. ~N

  If Mike Tyson launched an uppercut to my solar plexus it wouldn’t be as painful as Nathan’s e-mail. I can’t speak, can’t breathe. His words have stunned me into immobility.

  “Vivia?”

  Luc leans forward, grasps my chin between his fingers, and tilts my head up so I am forced to look him in the eye.

  “He’s s-s-s-suing me, “ I sob, waving the iPhone at Luc. “Nathan says he’s suing me for the engagement ring because I am whoring through France.”

  “What?”

  Luc seizes my phone. When he finishes reading Nathan’s e-mail, he hands the phone back without saying a word. He’s the picture of calm, unemotional detachment. His lips, pressed together in a grim line, are the only clue to what he might be feeling.

  “He’s not suing you…yet. His e-mail is a thinly veiled threat.”

  “What should I do?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Well, I don’t want this stupid ring.” I pull the engagement ring off my finger and toss it on the table beside the sofa. It clatters on the glass surface. “He can have it back. I’ll FedEx it to him today. If he didn’t care about me enough to give me the benefit of the doubt, I don’t want his ring, not even as a sentimental token.”

  I stand up and pace the length of the suite. I can’t believe Nathan actually threatened me with a lawsuit. He could have just asked me. Does he really think I am a gold digger, that I don’t care about our breakup, that I am laughing through Europe on his dime? It just makes me so sad.

  Anger replaces my sadness. Scathing anger.

  “Whoring? He said I am whoring through France. He wouldn’t know a whore if it dropped out of the sky, landed on his face, and started twerking.” I pause long enough to punctuate my words with sharp stares at Luc, who’s sitting quietly, taking in my rant. “I am not a whore! Okay, I have slept with a few more men than he knew about, but that doesn’t mean I am a whore. I’ve never cheated on a boyfriend, never dabbled in bisexuality, never had a ménage a trois. I’ve never even watched a porno!”

  Luc growls vehemently in indiscernible French. I am not sure, but I think he called Nathan a profane word that means to copulate with one’s maternal parent. Even if he didn’t, motherfucker seems like an apt curse.

  He gets up, pulls me into his arms, and plants a kiss on me that drives the thought of Nathan’s nasty e-mail into a far corner of my mind. It’s one of those all over body kisses. The kind that makes you feel tingly all over. The kind you feel clear down to your toes. The kind that makes you go all weak in the knees. I don’t even care about my monster morning breath. It’s that good.

  Luc pulls back and draws a jagged breath.

  “Go.”

  “Where?”

  “Get dressed. I’m taking you somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere that will make you forget all about Jett Jericho and Nathan Edwards.”

  “Who?” I saunter to the bathroom, turn when I reach the door, and wink. “I already have.”

  Chapter 21

  Wham Bam Thank You, Ma’am

  When I come out of the bathroom, Luc has called room service, ordered a chicken sandwich, and a drink he calls the “hangover killer.” It’s thick and looks a little like pureed vegetables in orange juice.

  He hands me two aspirin.

  “Here, take these.”

  I take the aspirin, pop them into my mouth, and wash them down with a gulp of Luc’s hangover cure, gagging at the unusual concoction’s chunky texture.

  “Trust me, you want to finish it.”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, if you’d rather spend the day fighting a throbbing headache and nausea. That’s your choice.”

  “Fine.” I hold out my hand for the drink. “Give it to me.”

  An hour later, I’m sitting on the deck of a sleek sailboat, the wind in my pink hair, the sun on my face. Luc is at the helm. He’s removed his linen jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. He looks tanned, confident, as if he were born to pilot a ship. The wind ruffles his black hair and my heart skips a beat. He’s just so damned handsome.

  And kind.

  When I asked him how he was able to charter a sailboat on such short notice, he shrugged and said, “When it comes to making you happy, you’ll find I have many, many ways.”

  He notices me staring at him and smiles.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I smile and nod. I am more than okay, which is shocking considering that in last twenty-four hours I have gotten blind drunk, partied with a superstar, landed on the paparazzi’s most wanted list, and been threatened with a lawsuit. Luc’s hangover killer has indeed killed my hangover. My head has stopped pounding. My stomach is as calm as the Mediterranean.

  I still don’t have a job or a home. I don’t know what this thing is between me and Luc, but I’m not stressing. I am taking Jett’s advice and enjoying the moment.
>
  I shield my eyes with my hand and watch Cannes stretch out on the horizon, becoming narrower and narrower, until I can’t tell the Hotel Martinez from the other buildings. Luc unties a rope attached to the sails. The sails billow, flapping in the breeze, and the boat loses speed. He drops anchor just off the rocky shore of a small, uninhabited island.

  “Ready for a swim?” he asks, sliding onto the bench beside me. “Let’s swim to the island.”

  I nod. I suddenly feel shy. I’m hesitant to take off my sundress and reveal my bikini-clad body to Luc, which is silly since he’s already seen me in a bikini—and fondled my bum!

  “What’s wrong?”

  I shrug.

  “Vivia?”

  “I don’t know. It’s stupid. I just—” I look down at my bare feet. “I’m embarrassed for you to see me in a bikini.”

  Luc sighs heavily, and I fear I’ve annoyed him with my childishness.

  “Would you feel more comfortable swimming without your bikini? I would be fine with that, too.”

  He chuckles and pulls me to him. He’s warm and solid.

  “I am kidding. Sort of.”

  He leans back so he can look at my expression. A quick check to be sure his words have made me smile.

  They have.

  While Luc ducks below deck to change into his trunks, I shrug out of my sundress, rub sunblock on my petunia-pig pink skin, and push up the sistas, probably an unnecessary act since I am wearing an über-padded Victoria Secret Hello Bombshell bikini top. The salesgirl promised it would add two cup sizes. What she didn’t tell me is that the top doubles as a floatation device. That means if our sailboat goes down like the Titanic, we won’t have to endure a sad Rose-Jack moment with both of us desperately grappling to ride a tiny piece of flotsam. Luc can just grab a boob and float to safety.

  I am giggling at the image of Luc clutching my padded bra while doggy paddling us back to Cannes when he arrives back on deck. He’s wearing black swim trunks and a drop-dead gorgeous smile. Remember that scene in Casino Royale when Daniel Craig rises out of the ocean wearing a pair of hip-hugging trunks and a menacing expression? I literally gasped when I saw a larger than life Daniel own the beach, all tanned and pumped. Luc has elicited the same reaction out of me.

  He moves with the same restrained intensity as 007, stalking across the deck to where I am standing, dumbstruck. He takes the bottle of sun block from my hands, turns me around, lifts my hair off my neck, and begins rubbing lotion on my back.

  My body instantly reacts to his touch. A tingly heat travels down my spine and ignites a fire in my abdomen. The heat spreads like wildfire down my legs. I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning. I’ve been hot for someone, but never like this. Luc’s hand slides over my back in slow, deliberate circles, fanning the flames of lust. My nipples tighten. My most feminine muscles spasm. I close my eyes and imagine Luc making love to me on the deck of the boat. Here. Now. When his fingers briefly slip inside the back of my bikini, the heat building between my legs explodes in a white hot flash. I’ve never climaxed over something as simple as a backrub before. It’s a little embarrassing.

  “Ready?” Luc asks, his voice husky and low.

  To have sex? Absolutely!

  I turn around and stare at Luc behind the safety of my sunglasses, searching his face for signs that he knows my delicious little secret, but he’s as inscrutable as Bond.

  “Ready for what?”

  “To swim.” He reaches out and lifts a lock of hair off my breast, absently twisting the curl around his finger. “Would you rather do something else?”

  Uh, yeah. Hump like horny rabbits.

  “Swim.” My mouth is so dry I can barely speak. “A swim would be nice. I’m really hot.”

  He smiles slowly. “Yes, you are.”

  My stomach is flipping. My palms feel damp. It’s like I’m a virgin again, all nervous and gawky.

  “Thank you.”

  “De rien.” Luc stops playing with my hair, walks to the back of the boat, hops down onto the swim platform, and holds out his hand. “Let’s go.”

  Luc is the first one in, diving off the platform with the same effortless grace as when he’d plunged into the pool at Châteaudouble. My entry into the Mediterranean is effortless, but completely lacking grace. I try copying Luc, but my dive comes off more like a belly-flop, a loud, painful, stomach-smacking face-plant. Fortunately, Luc is still under water, which means he didn’t catch my grand aquatic performance.

  We swim toward the island, standing when we reach the sandy shallows. The turquoise water is so clear, I can see a school of tiny silvery-blue fish swimming nearby. I am wondering when I have felt more content, when Luc comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. His chest rises and falls against my back.

  “Are you happy?” he asks, his lips brushing my ear.

  “Crazy happy.” I turn around and press a quick kiss to his cheek. “This is just what I needed, Luc. My life in San Francisco, all the stress of the last few weeks, it seems so far away, like a long-ago nightmare.”

  Luc kisses me, long and deep. I am glad he has his arms around me because I don’t have the strength to stand alone. I could melt into the sea and be carried away on the waves.

  He pulls back and we stare into each other’s eyes.

  We’re going to make love. Today. Soon.

  Without saying a word, we swim back to the sailboat. By the time I reach the platform, Luc has already climbed aboard and is holding out his hand to help me up.

  He hoists me onto the platform, and then, before I’ve had time to wring the water out of my hair, we are lying on the deck, kissing and touching each other with heated urgency.

  I know this is crazy, that it’s happening too fast, but I don’t care. I don’t want to think about what’s right and what’s wrong. I just want to feel Luc between my legs. I want to lose myself in his kiss. I want him to lose himself in me.

  He drags his lips from mine, presses them against my ear, and says something in French.

  “I don’t know what you just said.”

  “I said”—Luc’s deep, accented voice teases my ear—“unless you tell me no right now, I am going to make love to you, chérie.”

  I slide my hand inside the waistband of his trunks and wrap my fingers around his long, hard shaft.

  Luc groans, low and deep in his throat. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  He reaches up, grabs a long bench cushion, and pulls it down beside us. I pull my hand out of his trunks and he lifts us onto the cushion.

  I should probably ask him to stop. I have pink hair, a ridiculous tattoo on my ass, and I smell like the sea. I’m not exactly bringing sexy back. Do I want Luc to remember me as I am at this moment?

  He slides his hand inside my bikini top, cups one of my breasts, and gently pinches my nipple. Who cares if I look the Little Mermaid and smell like her friend Flounder? Flipper? Whatever. I have never wanted anyone as much as I want Luc at this moment. What’s more, he wants me, too. His erection presses against me. His chest heaves with each labored breath.

  Luc unties my bikini top and tosses it aside. A stray breeze blows over my breasts, teasing my already hardened nipples. He stands and hurriedly pulls off his trunks, affording me a snapshot I will carry forever of his tanned naked body. Broad chest. Washboard abs. Big, hard cock.

  I close my eyes and wait for him to pull off my bottoms, but he doesn’t. Instead, he claims my breast with his mouth, sucking and licking until my bikini bottom is moist between my thighs.

  This isn’t going to be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Luc’s a lover. He’s going to take it nice and slow. Make me ache for it.

  And I am.

  I run my hands over his chest, his sides, his abs, feeling each muscular knot, memorizing them with my fingers. His body is amazing, hard and smooth, like a finely chiseled statue. He’s David in the flesh.

  He moves his mouth slowly down my body, kissing
and licking, tracing the outline of my bikini with his tongue. It’s crazy erotic. I want him. Now.

  He pulls off my bikini bottoms and positions himself over me. His cock presses against me, coaxing me to open for him.

  “Look at me, Vivia.”

  I obey his command, looking into his brown-green eyes, falling into him, and that’s when he pushes inside me, one swift, hard thrust that has me clutching at his broad shoulders. He waits, stiff and still inside me. The boat rocks, the sails flap in the breeze, but we just stare at each other. It’s erotic. He pulls out, slowly, and then starts a rhythm that mimics the waves lapping the sides of the boat.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  A fine bead of sweat appears on Luc’s forehead, breaks, and slides down his face, dropping on my breast. It’s sexy hot. An electrical charge forms deep in my abdomen. The current flows to my limbs and they begin to vibrate. I close my eyes and let the current build and flow until I orgasm again. I can’t stop myself from thrusting my hips up, urging him to grind faster. Luc lowers himself onto me, chest against chest, thighs against thighs, and we make love faster, harder until we’re both exhausted and panting.

  He rolls over and pulls me on top of him. I rest my head on his chest, feel the smooth skin against my cheek, and listen to his heartbeat. I wish I could bottle this moment. I want to remember the way it feels to be lying naked on top of Luc, the Mediterranean breeze kissing my back, the waves rocking us.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Just the sound of his low, lyrical voice makes me want to orgasm again. Is there anything sexier than a French accent?

  “I’m thinking this is a perfect moment and how I wish we could gather all of our perfect moments, so we could relive them, again and again, whenever we wanted.”

  Luc squeezes me tighter. “Me too.”

  Neither of us moves. Shaded by the sails, we hold each other, listening to the wind and the waves.

  This is the first time I’ve slept with someone honestly. No lying about my sexual history. No pretending to be the wide-eyed virgin. Maybe that’s why I climaxed so many times. Who knew honesty could be such an aphrodisiac?