“I thought so,” she announced as if she knew what she was talking about. She couldn’t be any more than fifteen. She gave me one of those shrugs. “He is French,” she said as if that explained everything—which perhaps it did.
“You, behave,” I said to her with a grin. “And you,” I said to Christophe. “Now it’s your turn.”
He moved to his knees on the counter, peering into the depth of the bowl. “What is my father good at?”
“Everything. Ignore your cousin; she is being precocious.”
I corralled him with my body so he couldn’t fall. “Take this,” I handed him a long-handled wooden spoon, “and mush down the middle so we have a little hole.”
His face a mask of concentration, he did as I asked.
“Now pour in the milk.” I handed him the measuring cup.
He spilled a little bit, and looked at me with worried eyes.
“If you don’t make a mess, the pancakes won’t turn out right. Now the butter.”
He did as I instructed.
“Do you know how to crack an egg?” I asked.
He shook his head.
The egg was almost too large for his hand. Covering his in mine, I showed him how to rap the shell lightly on the edge of the bowl, until it cracked. Then I pressed his thumbs inside the crack and he opened the shell over the bowl. “Perfect! The first time I did that, the egg squirted all over me.”
Christophe beamed as I took the bowl and began mixing. Chantal moved the butter around the griddle, coating it as it heated.
“I like helping,” Christophe announced. “My father doesn’t let me help.”
“When he sees what a wonderful job you did this morning, I’m sure he will change his mind.” Pausing in my beating, I ruffled his hair.
Jean-Charles’s voice sounded from the doorway. “You can be assured of that,” he said, a grin lighting his eyes and splitting his face as he lounged in the doorway, arms crossed across his chest. Dressed only in a pair of gym shorts, with his hair disheveled, a day’s worth of stubble, his lips a little swollen, Jean-Charles looked good enough to eat…again.
“Papa!” Christophe shouted. Jumping to his feet, he bounded across the counter and launched himself into his father’s arms.
My heart caught in my throat, but Jean-Charles snagged his son midair with a practiced swoop. He gave him a squeeze, then a good tickle as he held him tight.
Yeah, another course of the incredibly delectable Frenchman would be perfect for my breakfast.
When his eyes caught mine, I could tell we were thinking along similar lines.
But we had entertaining to do, and hungry bellies to fill.
“How long have you been standing there?” I asked.
“A little while.”
Chantal ambled over to him, bussing him on both cheeks, she said, “Uncle,” her tone amusingly accusatory.
Jean-Charles set Christophe down, then much to the delight of all present, he took the bowl from me, setting it on the counter, then wrapped me in his arms and gave me the best wake-up kiss ever. “Good morning,” he said, when he had released my lips.
“Fabulous morning, actually,” I said. The look in his eyes told me he agreed.
The butter started to sizzle, so I grabbed Christophe, deposited him on the counter once again, handed him a spatula, and said, “Be careful, it’s hot. But I am going to teach you to toss pancakes.”
Taking a stool across from us, his chin in his hand, his elbow on the counter, Jean-Charles watched, a smile tickling his lips. Christophe’s first two attempts didn’t turn out so well—one pancake landed on a burner, oozing into the pan below, the other landed half on, half off the griddle.
I glanced at Jean-Charles, but he didn’t seem at all upset at the mess.
By the third, the boy had it figured out—gently moving the spatula under the cake, then flicking his wrist so it formed an arc, turning over before it again landed on the griddle. Kids…so precocious these days.
“You’re a natural,” I said, giving him free rein with the batter, but staying close to make sure he didn’t get too near the hot surfaces.
On the next batch, we added chocolate morsels in the shape of a smiley face. Jean-Charles grimaced.
“Mr. Fancy-Pants Chef, I’ll have you know, pancakes without chocolate are a crime against nature—like crepes without Nutella,” I lectured as I raised my spatula to him.
“I’m willing to accept that Americans have less-cultured palates.”
Chantal’s voice cut right through our witty little banter like a razor blade through flesh.
“Hello? Grandmama? Uncle has a girlfriend. She’s making us breakfast.”
Jean-Charles bolted off the stool but he was a few steps too slow. Cell phone pressed to her face, the young girl danced around the kitchen, keeping the center island between her uncle and herself, as she rattled on to her grandmother in French.
I tried to corral her, but with a hot griddle and a little boy who squirmed in delight, I had my hands full. Although not fluent in the language, I knew enough to get the drift. Something about me sleeping over. I was tall and pretty…nice even. And her uncle had a smile on his face she had never seen.
Conceding defeat, Jean-Charles, retreated to his stool, and shot me a grin and a shrug. He didn’t seem upset, merely amused. “My love life is a family concern,” he said. “Don’t worry, they will adore you and, in time, you will get used to the meddling—my family has elevated it to an art form.”
Chantal said her good-byes, then extended the phone to her uncle. “She wants to talk to you.”
His smile negated the dirty look he shot his niece as he took the phone. “Oui?” he said, pretending to be annoyed. Then, unable to continue the charade and with warmth in his voice, he regaled his mother with his version of the events.
I especially liked the part about me being special and him being happy.
***
Breakfast was a big hit. The kids launched off to play video games, leaving Jean-Charles and me with KP duty—I washed, he dried and put away.
“Your pancakes were actually very good—light, sweet, with a hint of butter.” He did a pretty good job at hiding his surprise.
“I keep my culinary aptitude a closely guarded secret.”
After stowing the last of the pans, he circled my waist as I rinsed my hands. “Any other hidden talents I should know about?”
“Well.” I turned in his arms. “I’m pretty good in the shower.”
A grin lifted the corner of his mouth.
I couldn’t resist nibbling on his lower lip. “Mmmm, light, sweet, with just a hint of…chocolate.”
He reached down and scooped me into his arms.
My arms around his neck, I let him carry me toward the bedroom. “What exactly are the rules concerning sex when young people are on the prowl?” I whispered.
“I’m making this up as I go,” he laughed. “But I think several locked doors would be wise.”
***
I had been exaggerating a bit about the shower part, but I needn’t have worried—my Frenchman was very inventive. Bedroom doors secured. Bathroom door bolted. Water running. Music playing. Passions flaring. Clothes pooled at our feet, we fell on each other, hungry, driven. Boosting me to sit on the counter, Jean-Charles feasted at will on my exposed flesh. Leaning back, I offered myself to him. His fingers, his tongue driving me to the edge of sanity. He lowered me onto him, filling me fully. My legs around his waist, my back against the wall, our eyes locked, he drove into me.
God, animal sex in the bathroom—I could so get used to this.
Then my body shattered.
***
Still on the floor of the bathroom where we had collapsed, Jean-Charles lay across my legs. With strength I didn’t know I possessed, I pushed myself to a seated position.
“I don’t think I can stand,” he said. Rolling over, he cast an eye at me, then threw his arms across his face. “Sweet Jesus, that was…unbelievable.�
�
“Life-altering,” I said, testing my legs. Shaky, but they held. “Heck of a way to burn off a high-carb breakfast.” Turning the tap on the shower, I tested the water until I found a suitable temperature. Then I closed the tap to the tub. I flipped off the CD player. “I can honestly say that was the first time I’ve made love to the theme from Thomas the Tank Engine.”
“That was all I had.”
“Well, I have no doubt my future Thomas the Tank viewing pleasure has been permanently altered.”
Joining me in an upright position, he pulled me to him, giving me a tender kiss where he had nipped my lip and drawn blood. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t look sorry. In fact I’d say you look pretty satisfied.”
“That, too.” His head on my shoulder, he held me tight for a moment. “Lucky, be mine.”
“I don’t know how I could be any more yours.”
“Live here with us. When you are here, whether in my bed or my kitchen, magic happens.”
“You know, if I didn’t have the context for that remark, I might accuse you of being chauvinistic.”
His eyes probed mine. “You joke. Is this what you meant by a defense mechanism?”
“Prime example.” Needing time to think, I kissed him. Stupid idea. Being naked, in his arms…rational thought wasn’t even close to a possibility. I stepped away. “Jean-Charles, let’s not screw this up. One step at a time, okay?” Of course we’d just taken about ten giant steps, but I chose to overlook that part. I needed some semblance of control—even if I had to pull it out of thin air.
He nodded, but I didn’t see agreement in his eyes.
***
“Do you have a busy day?” Jean-Charles asked as he drove me to work. Christophe belted in a child safety seat in the back, was mesmerized by a DVD.
My body still humming with sexual pleasure, I tried to focus. “One of the worst of the year.” I glanced at my phone: no messages… nine fifteen. “In my line of work, who knows? Every day is a whole new set of problems.” I secretly prayed that today would not serve up another dead girl on a Ferrari.
Holding my hand, he maneuvered through traffic…like an unseasoned rookie. I wasn’t too sure about only one hand on the wheel, but I decided to live dangerously—the reward of his hand holding mine was worth total terror. As it turned out, my worry was misplaced: He only scared me once.
After kissing him good-bye for longer than was wise, I climbed out of the car. “Will I see you later?” I asked, leaning back in for one more kiss, earning a honk from the valet waiting to park the car behind us.
“I am running the kitchen tonight. I’ll be in by three.” He glanced back at Christophe who still was transfixed. “I’ve got a few things to do at the restaurant right now, but they won’t take me long.”
As I closed the door, I glanced at my watch. Only a little over five hours until I could kiss him again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Life had returned to normal.
Well, let me rephrase. Still basking in a warm French glow, I was once again ensconced behind my desk, signing my way through a stack of papers—this time being a bit more mindful of exactly what I was signing.
Christophe perched happily on one of my knees as he drew a picture for his father. Apparently, the boy refused to stay in the restaurant, instead wanting to share my space. To be honest, I’d never considered myself a kid magnet before, so I was enjoying the ride while it lasted. And there was something so visceral about holding a child. Something so soothing about the softness of their skin, the smell of their hair. Something that greased the rusty cogs of my biological clock. I felt a subtle stirring, which surprised the heck out of me. Me? A mother? Heck, I wasn’t finished being a child yet. Besides, Mona was in the baby business, not this gal, thank you very much. That reminded me—Mona’s doctor’s appointment—I’d promised to go with her, I just couldn’t remember when it was scheduled. A small snag in the fabric of a perfect day, but I could deal with it. She’s been awfully coy about the purpose of the visit, a fact that worried me just a bit.
“Miss P, you out there?” I called through the open doorway.
I heard the squeak of her chair, then her head appeared in the doorway, followed by her body. She smiled at Christophe, then gave me an amused look.
“Mona’s appointment?”
“Today at four.”
“The poker tournament?”
“Under control. Moving at its normal glacial pace.” She shifted and leaned against the doorjamb. “Have you seen your mother today?”
My blood pooled in my feet leaving me momentarily light-headed. The Mona effect, I called it. “No. Why?”
“She hasn’t told you about her plans to let the girls from the whorehouse in Pahrump hold a bake sale to raise funding for her fledgling campaign?” Miss P kept her expression bland, but I could see the laughter in her eyes.
“Where does she want to hold this…affair?”
“In the parking lot at Smokin’ Joe’s XXX Video Emporium.”
“My father will blow a gasket.” I shook my head and sighed. “Oh well, his problem.” At Miss P’s surprised look I added, “Delegation, I’m getting the hang of it.”
She nodded and turned to go, but stopped when I said, “Today is Sunday, right?”
“All day.”
“Do you have a copy of the R-J?”
“Sure.” She disappeared then returned, handing me the paper.
“Thanks. Now go on home.”
She smiled, her cheeks coloring. “Jeremy’s waiting in Delilah’s.”
“Then get a move on.” I grinned as she disappeared.
I took another whiff of Christophe, then kissed him lightly on the head. He reached up and patted my cheek with his tiny hand. My heart flipped.
I was a goner.
Using my one free hand, it took me longer than it should have to find the legal announcements in the paper. I scanned them…twice.
Not one mention of Dane’s divorce proceedings.
I guess he’d loved her after all. The thought made me sad. He’d gotten so mad at her when she wouldn’t do as he asked, when she wouldn’t take herself out of harm’s way. He’d had no way of knowing she was doing it for him. If he had, maybe none of this would’ve happened. Maybe it still would’ve turned out the way it did. Sylvie Dane had a mind of her own—a tough thing for a control freak like Dane.
But, he’d have to find his own peace.
Life had sure taken an interesting turn. Thinking of my Frenchman…both of my Frenchmen, I smiled. My heart filled. Life was just about perfect
My phone sang out at my hip. It had a bad habit of doing that just when my happiness quotient was peaking. To make matters worse, it played a snippet of the song Teddie had written for me, “Lucky for Me.” I was certain I had changed that ringtone, but I guess not. The song broke my heart a little each time I heard it.
Before I could answer the call, a voice from the doorway stopped my heart.
“They’re playing our song.”
Teddie.
THE END
Thank you for coming along on Lucky’s wild ride through Vegas. Please drop me a line at [email protected] and let me know what you think. And, please leave a review at the outlet of your choice.
Next in the Lucky O’Toole Series
Read a short excerpt below
Love and lust—two four-letter words men often confuse.
More specifically, a certain man . . . the man standing in my doorway.
Teddie.
My heart tripped, then steadied.
Thinner than I remembered, he still had that tight ass, those broad shoulders, spiky blond hair, soulful baby-blues, and a sippin’-whiskey-smooth voice that could warm me to the core, despite my best efforts to douse the fire.
Teddie.
Despite serious reservations about turning a platonic friendship into something . . . not platonic . . . I had let him lead me into the deep, dark waters of love. And being
an all-or-nothing kind of gal, I’d done a half gainer off the high dive and things had not gone swimmingly.
He left.
And now he was back.
As I looked at him and tried to compose myself—it just wouldn’t do to let him see the splash his return made—I wondered how I’d ever get my heart back. The empty hole in my chest echoed with longing, leaving me winded.
My office phone jangled, giving me an excuse to avoid Teddie for a few moments longer. I grabbed the receiver. “Customer relations, Lucky O’Toole speaking. How may I help you?”
“We have a problem.” Detective Romeo with the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department started in without preliminaries—not a good sign.
“What’s this we shit, Kemosabe?” I tried to make light. Apparently I failed miserably.
Romeo’s tone hardened. “Dead body. Back lot. Somebody wrapped her head in plastic and killed her with a smoking gun. You’re going to want to see this one.”
“Dang.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “I never want to see that kind of thing. You know that.” I looked up and locked eyes with Teddie, who stared at me, his eyes dark and troubled.
“Trust me on this one.” He took an audible breath, then let it out slowly.
“Okay. Give me fifteen minutes. I’ve got to take Christophe Bouclet back to his father.”
“I’ll meet you there. This one’s bad.”
As if they all aren’t bad. “Meet me where?” My only answer was the hollow echo of a disconnected line. Romeo had hung up—he knew how much I hated that little bit of rudeness.
Men.
I narrowed my eyes at the prime example of the Y chromosome set standing in front of me.
Teddie knew me well enough to take a step back. “Romeo?” he asked with a forced lilt to his voice.
I set the receiver back in its cradle, but refused to let Romeo and Teddie get me all worked up. Problems, I could handle—as the vice president of Customer Relations at the Babylon, Las Vegas’s most over-the-top Strip property, problems were my job. And, if I can say anything about myself, I’m good at my job.
Lucky Bastard Page 35
