Nobleman? Did she just say the Luc the tour guide, Luc the man who craves Taco Bell, Luc the man who quotes cheesy western movies, is an aristocrat?
I look at Luc again. How did I miss that one?
“So, Château de Caumont is…”
“The château belongs to Jean-Luc.”
“What is a castle-owning aristocrat doing leading a bike tour? Why isn’t he home counting his riches?”
“Jean-Luc is not rich. After his parents died, Jean-Luc and his siblings inherited Château de Caumont. The children voted to sell the château and split the proceeds, only Jean-Luc and Philippe abstained. They refused to part with their family’s legacy. So Luc signed a contract agreeing to buy his brothers and sisters shares in the estate. It has taken him ten years, but he has turned the château from a crumbling family home into a lucrative venture. He renovated the castle so that it could accommodate tourists, improved production in the vineyards, and helped us form this tour company.”
“So Jean-Luc isn’t just a tour guide?” It’s taking me a while to wrap my head around what she’s telling me.
“Is that what you thought?” Chantal releases my hand and sits back. “When Luc isn’t working to preserve the estate, he’s a professeur de littérature at Université Montpelier. He only agreed to lead this tour because Philippe was injured.”
“A professor?” I’m stunned. “Of literature?”
I look at Luc, sitting at the end of the table, casually talking to one of the divorcees. The man who gave me my most erotic sexual encounter is still a stranger.
“He let me believe he was just a tour guide. Why didn’t he tell me he was a literature professor, and a nobleman?”
“That’s not Luc’s style. Hard work has made him very humble. His title means nothing to him.” Chantal can’t keep the note of pride out of her voice. “Luc is more Republican than Aristocrat. He believes honor and high moral principal make a man noble, not luck of birth. Unfortunately, there are people who would use Luc and his connections.”
The silence between us is painful. She thinks I am a gold digger, a title hunter. That’s why she’s been so protective of Luc.
“I can tell you like Luc.” She looks down the table at her brother-in-law and smiles warmly. “He likes you, too, but…”
“But you think I am a gold digger?”
“Quoi?” She frowns. “I don’t know what this is. What is a gold digger?”
“You think I am after Luc because he is rich.”
“Non!” Chantal chuckles. “Mon Dieu, non! I don’t think that at all.”
“What is it then? I’m not imagining it, am I? You’re not happy that Luc and I are attracted to each other.”
Chantal draws a deep breath and sits back in her chair. She takes a minute, perhaps to compose her response, and then leans forward, lowering her voice so only I can hear what she has to say.
“It isn’t personal, Vivia. You seem very nice, but you did just end your engagement. You’re vulnerable. Luc’s vulnerable.”
“Luc? Why is Luc vulnerable?”
Chantal looks at Luc. She takes a deep breath, exhales, and looks back at me with a tremulous smile.
“Luc suffered a bad break-up last year. Celine—that was her name. She treated him horribly. She lied to him about many things. She was false and faithless. She ran on his heart.” She frowns. “That is the right saying, isn’t it?”
“Close enough.”
“She ran all over his heart.”
Mrs. Byron taps Chantal on the arm and asks if it would be possible to add a few miles to our next ride.
While Chantal discusses logistics with Mrs. Overachiever, I think about what she just told me. What am I doing? She’s right. I’m still picking my way around the wreckage of my last relationship. Getting involved with Luc, pinning even the slenderest of hopes to him, would be stupid.
Chantal turns back to me, a concerned expression on her face. “I am sorry if I have upset you, Vivia. I don’t want to hurt you, but this situation requires candor.”
“I’m not upset.” I am lying through my teeth. “I understand your desire to protect Luc, and I appreciate your honesty.”
“Bon,” she says, smiling. “So we are still friends, oui?”
“Oui.”
I smile back at her even though she has made me feel a little melancholy. The meal continues. The wine flows as freely as the conversation. The divorcees take turns telling humorous stories about their travels together. Everyone laughs.
Everyone, but me.
I sit, silently, brooding over what I know I must do. It’s time to put the brakes on Luc, before we both get hurt.
Chapter 24
Back in the Saddle
“I have a crushing headache,” I say to Chantal, rubbing my temple. “I am going to my room to get two aspirin.”
I don’t wait for her to respond, and I don’t have a headache. I need to be alone, to think. I don’t want to spend the night sitting in my room, feeling sorry for myself, so I pop back to our cottage to exchange my strappy sandals for a pair of suede Converse. Maybe a long walk in the moonlight will wear me out enough to sleep.
I grab my pashmina, wrap it around my bare shoulders, and close the cottage door behind me. I am following the flagstone path to the vineyards when an arm reaches out of the darkness, grabs me around the waist, and pulls me into the shadows.
I recognize Luc’s sultry cologne and my breath catches in my throat.
“There you are,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “Where are you going?”
I turn in his arms and look up at him. The moonlight is shining on his hair, making it shimmer blue-black, casting shadows across his angular face. He’s even more handsome in moonlight than he is in daylight.
“I’m taking a walk.”
“Where to?”
“The vineyards.” I try to pull away.
“By yourself?” He tightens his hold around my waist, leaving no space between our bodies. The bulge in his pants presses into me. “Wouldn’t you rather have company?”
When I don’t answer, a frown wrinkles his brow. “What is it, Vivia?”
“What is what?” Cool, Vivia. Play it cool.
“You’re acting strangely.”
“I’m just tired.”
His black eyebrow rises. “I saw you talking to Chantal. Did she say something to upset you?”
I shrug because hot, salty tears are clogging my throat.
He squeezes me. “What did she say?”
“Nothing really.” I’m sniffling like a big baby. “She just reminded me that I’m coming off a bad breakup and am too messed up to get involved with someone new. You deserve better than some girl with issues.”
He keeps his arms around my waist, but slides his hand up my spine. I couldn’t move away from him if I wanted to—and I don’t.
“Why don’t you let me decide what I deserve?” He presses his lips against the curve of my neck just below my ear. “Stop overthinking it, mon amour. Just let it happen.”
“What happen?”
He grabs my earlobe between his teeth and nibbles it. “Whatever is meant to happen.”
The bulge in his pants has grown larger, harder. My reserves are crumbling. I want to be with Luc even if it’s only for the duration of this trip. I want him to throw me down on the ground, hike up my dress, rip off my panties, and bury that bulge inside me. I want him to fuck me senseless, until I’m too exhausted to think, and think, and overthink.
“We live in different countries,” I gasp, pushing my hips against him, rubbing myself against his erection. “What can come of this?”
He moans. “Nothing if you end it before it’s had a chance to begin.”
A burst of laughter erupts from the terrace and floats to us on the breeze. Luc lets me go and steps back. We stand in the moonlight, staring at each other. I read the invitation in his gaze. Stark and seductive.
&n
bsp; Without speaking another word, Luc smiles, turns away, and follows the trail into the vineyards.
I catch up with Luc, and we walk hand in hand between rows of vines burgeoning with fat purplish-green grapes. Normally, I would be chattering nervously to ease the tension, but small talk has never seemed more banal than at this moment. “When did you learn to sail?” just won’t do when what I really want to say is, “When will you let me bite the buttons off that shirt and lick you from pecs to abs?”
There’s something totally hot about being with a man and knowing precisely how the evening is going to end. Sure, I still have the what-if, will-it, won’t-it butterflies, but deep down, on some primal level, I know what’s going to happen. Maybe we’ll spread my pashmina on the ground and slow grind under the vines. Or maybe we’ll go back to his room and spend the night getting to know every inch of each other’s bodies. But we’re going to do it.
We walk down the hill until the cluster of hotel buildings become a distant amber glow among the stars. My panties are growing moister, my thighs sliding together with each step. The anticipation is excruciating.
I am about to ask Luc if he plans on hiking me to Rome when we come to the end of a row of vines. He makes a sharp right, and we are standing in front of a tumbledown stone shack the harvesters probably use for their breaks. A long wooden table flanked by benches sits to the side of the shack. Luc leads me to the table, lifts me onto the surface, and hikes my dress up to my waist, leaving my legs and a hint of my lacy thong exposed.
He runs his hands up my calves, over my knees and thighs, until he reaches my hips. The throb of lust that’s been pulsing, pulsing, pulsing between my legs increases. He slides two fingers beneath my thong, gives it a quick, violent tug, and the slender triangle of lace falls off my body. I sit on the table, legs spread, waiting for him as he fumbles with the fly of his trousers. When I hear his zipper slide open, my body instinctually prepares for the moment when he will bury himself inside me. The pulsating increases, my thighs grow moist. I hold my breath and wait.
And then Luc is sliding his hands back up my thighs, grabbing my waist, pulling me forward, easing me onto his cock. I wrap my legs around his lean waist and let him take control. He cups my bum and moves me up and down in a frenetic, mind-blowing rhythm. His fingers dig into my ass cheeks, he sticks his tongue in my mouth, and I lose it. I lose my f-ing mind.
Coherent thought evaporates, leaving a residue of feverish lust. I’m delirious with desire. My nerves are crackling, itching. I can’t keep still. My body wants to gyrate, touch, kiss, bite.
I spread my legs, wiggle my hips, make more room for Luc to push deeper. He responds to my body language as if he has already memorized the script, turning us around, lowering me onto the table, and climbing on top of me to push harder, deeper. In. Out. In. Out.
I can feel his slight beard against my cheek, smell the mélange of cologne, perspiration, and desire emanating from his skin.
A low primal moan rolls around in the back of my throat. It’s deep and guttural. Uncontrollable and intuitive.
When Luc wraps an arm around my neck, thrusts a final time, and shudders with orgasmic pleasure, I can contain it no longer. My lips part, and I moan so loud it echoes through the vineyard.
Luc doesn’t move right away. His sweaty, heated body covers mine, pressing me against the rough hewn table. I listen to his ragged breathing, open my eyes, and stare at the vast Tuscan sky streaked with the remains of the day, glowing with starlight.
Hot, silent tears spill out of my eyes and slide into my hair.
“What’s wrong, mon amour?” Luc lifts up on his forearms. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
I shake my head.
“What is it?”
How do I even begin to explain what I am feeling?
“I’m just so happy.”
“Bon,” he laughs, collapsing on top of me again. “I’m not sure my ego would survive the shock of learning that our lovemaking left you grief-stricken.”
I want to tell him the thought of returning to San Francisco without him by my side is filling me with grief, but I don’t want to freak him out. Instead I curse Fate and her wicked ways. Why would the cruel bitch bring me a man as wonderful, as unattainable, as Luc?
And as long as I’m pondering the mysteries of the universe, why does my heart hope for a future with Luc when my head knows this is nothing more than a hot vacation hookup?
* * * *
The sun is peeking over the horizon, winking tangerine rays, when Luc and I begin the walk back to our rooms.
He escorts me to my cottage, lifts my hair off my shoulder, and drops a kiss on the curve of my neck. It’s a tender, intimate gesture that makes me happier than I’ve been in…ever.
As he walks away, I play a medley of sappy old-school power ballads in my head, like “I Remember You” by Skid Row and Journey’s “Faithfully,” and that’s when I realize I’m in deep.
* * * *
Fanny bolts upright in bed as soon as the door clicks shut.
“So?” She turns on the light. “How was it?”
“Bonjour to you, Fanny.” I kick off my Converses and flop on the bed beside her. “Aren’t you even going to ask where I’ve been all night?”
“I know where you’ve been, with Luc. I got worried when I came back to the room and you weren’t here, so I went straight to Luc’s room, but he wasn’t there either. It hardly takes Sherlock to deduce where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s elementary, my dear Dr. Watson. You’ve been embarking on A Scandal in Tuscany, conducting A Study in Sex, doing it doggy-style with your Hound of—”
“Enough, Fanny!” I toss a pillow on her face to stop her from perverting any more of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s titles. “I spent the night with Luc. Are you happy?”
She removes the pillow from her face, puts it behind her head, and looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Are you?”
“I think so.”
“You think so? What kind of answer is that? You just spent the night with a gorgeous Frenchman, and you only think you’re happy?” She narrows her gaze. “What is it, Vivian?”
“I don’t know.” I rub the grit and old mascara from my eyes. “I might have spent the night having crazy-hot monkey sex with a virtual stranger, but that doesn’t mean I’ve shrugged off the burden of expectation placed on my shoulders by my saintly namesake.”
“No,” Fanny groans. “Not the Saint Vivia crap again!”
“Being named after a martyr can really mess with your mind, you know?”
“I was named after a soap opera character, but you don’t see me killing my twin and taking over her life just so I can have sex with her husband, do you?”
“No.”
“Okay then, why do you think you need to be virginal, just because you were named after some random martyr?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I just do.”
“Before she was canonized, Saint Vivia Perpetua lived a normal mortal life. She probably broke a few commandments.”
“Sure.” I close my eyes and see Luc’s naked body bathed in moonlight. “Maybe she coveted her neighbor’s leather sandals or sassed her mother when asked to fetch water from the well, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t have crazy-hot monkey sex.”
Fanny laughs. “Seriously, Vivia. You haven’t been to church in years. So what’s this about?”
She’s right. I haven’t been to church since I left home for college, but when I imagine confessing my wild night to Father Escobar, I’m filled with shame.
“I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s not like achieving sainthood has ever been on any of my to-do lists.”
If I am perfectly honest, the prospect of facing Father Escobar in the confessional isn’t as upsetting as the thought of losing Luc’s esteem. I should feel liberated, but I don’t. I am terrified, like I am walking a tightrope without a s
afety net.
Luc knows the truth about my sexual history. Even if he didn’t, I’m thinking letting him take me from behind on a picnic table would have tipped him off that I’m not exactly a sexual novice.
“Remember what Oscar Wilde said, ‘No woman should ever be quite accurate about her sexual history.’”
I laugh.
“That’s not what he said, Fanny. He said, ‘No woman should ever be quite accurate about her age.’”
“Whatever,” she says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. “The point is, we all tell little white lies about ourselves. We fudge our ages, weight, number of sexual partners. Who cares, really? Just be yourself.”
She’s right. If I’ve learned anything on this trip, it’s that I need to stop pretending to be someone I’m not.
“What did you tell me Jett Jericho said to you?”
“That I should keep it real and do me.”
“Keep it real, Vivian.” Fanny giggles. “Do you, and I’ll bet Luc will keep doing you, too.”
“Ha ha!”
Fanny rolls out of bed. “Now come on, we’re supposed to meet the group in an hour and you look like you could do with a shower and a hot cup of coffee.”
I can’t stop myself from groaning. “Oh God, not another bike ride? I can’t.”
Fanny laughs. “No bike ride.”
“Thank God.”
“We’re riding horses instead.”
I sit up. “What?”
“Oh, that’s right.” Fanny grins. “You left before Chantal had a chance to go over our Tuscany itinerary. We’re spending our first day in Tuscany riding horses.”
I groan and drop my chin to my chest.
“How bad can it be? A day spent riding through the vineyards while watching Luc cowboy up. Sounds like a win-win to me.”
I lift my head and grin.
“Well, when you put it that way…”
Fanny grins, too. “Right?”
After I’ve taken a hot shower, dried off, and dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, tank top, and my Chuck Taylors, I attempt to conduct some serious damage control with my tinted moisturizer, illuminator, and blush. Engaging in an all-nighter of crazy-hot monkey sex wreaks havoc on your complexion. I’m able to conceal the dark circles under my eyes, but not the slight beard burns on my neck and chest from Luc’s vigorous kisses. I can only smile as I remember the delicious sensation of his stubble grazing my skin.
Faking It Page 19
