by Stacy Travis
“That’s amazing. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” he said quietly. He folded his arms. I could see him shutting down. I didn’t want to crush his buzz, as it were, and I had a feeling I had somehow already done that. Maybe my comments about the fancy hotels and my shock at the private jet had made him feel like he had to hide the trappings of his life.
“No, seriously. I’m excited to go. Yes, I’ll be your date. And please don’t feel like this is weird for me, because it definitely… is… but I’ll get used to it. I promise.”
“They’re actually kind of fun. The movie itself can be a little stressful because I’m wondering what the audience is thinking the whole time but not this one. The studio packs it with supporters and throws in a few film critics. So the group is basically pro-White Serpent, so it’s just a thing for the photos. You know—publicity—your area.”
He was assuming that some part of my everyday life was remotely similar to attending a premiere for my own movie. It was not. What I couldn’t decide was whether it mattered. A lot of people would give their right arm to be in my shoes—on vacation with Chris Conley, staying at his sprawling beach house, and going to his movie premiere as his date.
Then I realized why I couldn’t be his date. “Wait. I don’t have anything I could wear to a premiere.”
“I can help with that.” He pulled me down a small street, stopping when we’d gotten away from the people, and bent to kiss me. His lips covered mine and he looped a hand through my hair and curled it around his fingers, pulling gently on it while his tongue did magical things that made me dizzy. He pulled back and smiled at me. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”
“I feel fortunate you lack self-control,” I said on a breath, wondering how it was possible he had such a mind-scrambling effect on me.
“Come on, we’re almost there.”
I was too caught up in him to wonder where there was, so I went. He led me to a tiny store where designer beachwear was on sale, next to an ice cream shop. He opened a green door between them and showed me inside. The room had a box on the floor and a mirror on the wall—that was all.
If I’d had a really active imagination, this is where I’d freak out that I was being led to my death. Instead, I only freaked out a teeny tiny bit.
From behind a curtain, an older French woman came out, squinting in the sunlight that beamed through the window in the door. Then her eyes grew wide. “Ah, Christophe, mon cheri!” She hugged him like her own son. For all I knew, he actually was her son.
“Marguerite, this is Nikki.”
She hugged me. “Bonjour, Nikki. Bienvenue à Antibes.” She pronounced an extra syllable for the e at the end of the word so it sounded like, “An-teeb-uh,” something I’d heard other people do here.
Before I could even begin to depress the woman with my paltry French, Chris said, “Nikki needs a dress for next Saturday night. What do you think?”
She looked me up and down, turning me to examine my backside. Then she hugged me again and winked at Chris. “I think you are a very lucky man, as I have said to you before. I can make her une robe magnifique. I think… bleu, oui?”
Chris was smiling, nodding. “She’d look amazing in blue.”
I felt strange that they were discussing me like I wasn’t even there, and I wondered what Marguerite meant about Chris being lucky. Did he bring his last flavor of the week here too? When was that—a week ago? A month ago? I fought to silence cynic inside. Worrying about imaginary problems wasn’t going to get me anywhere.
“Hang on, do I get a say?” I asked.
“Sure. Do you think you’d look amazing in blue?” Chris asked.
“That’s not what I meant.”
He asked Marguerite something in French, and she reached behind the curtain and brought out a large black notebook. When she opened it and started turning the pages, I was expecting to see measurements or payment information, but what she showed me instead were colored-in line drawings of jaw-dropping couture-quality dresses and page after page of long, sweeping hemlines, empire waists, and strapless bustiers.
“Marguerite used to work for Halston. She’s designed dresses for anybody you’ve ever heard of in one royal family or another.”
“In the old days. Now I enjoy the beach and wait for my friends to come visit me at the shop, and if they don’t come, I paint.” She moved the curtain aside to give me a glimpse of her real purpose. Behind the nondescript empty room with a mirror, she’d hidden a three-hundred-square-foot art studio, where paintings—mostly portraits of women—sat on easels. “They are my loves,” she explained. “Past and present.”
“You finished the Julia portrait,” Chris said, walking to the far corner to inspect a painting of a blond woman twirling on the beach, carefree, in a sundress. She looked about Marguerite’s age.
I looked at the painting, which was, in fact, as beautiful as anything I’d seen at the Musée d’Orsay.
“It’s really something.” When I turned back toward Chris, I saw he had that same look on his face that I’d seen at the restaurant the previous night when he talked about his parents—sadness and regret. Maybe he missed his parents. Maybe Marguerite was about their age, and she made him wish he could see them. I had no idea what to say to him. Fortunately, Marguerite filled the void, and her talking seemed to distract him from whatever was bothering him.
“Merci, cheri. For her birthday, though really it’s been a gift for me to paint it.”
He nodded at her, admiring the painting again. “When’s her birthday?”
“Septembre. Soon.”
“And she has no idea you did this?” he asked.
“Not so far. But she’s so nosy. It’s been almost impossible to keep her away from here. I’ve had to come up with every excuse."
I didn’t dare speak. I was fascinated by the relationship between them. Marguerite looked to be in her sixties, with a grey pile of hair on her head, bright lipstick, and reading glasses around her neck. She clearly loved Chris but not because of his movies. She seemed to understand him on a deeper level, and she clearly had his back.
Chris came to stand next to me and look through the designs in the book. He put an arm across my shoulders and rubbed the back of my neck lightly with his fingers while he paged through the book with the other hand. I caught Marguerite noticing. She made no comment.
“Is there one that calls out to you?” he asked me.
“Each one is more beautiful than the one before it. Though… I do like this drawing,” I said, pointing to the barest of sketches, the least finished one, which showed a straight strapless neckline and a sweep of fabric that started at the bodice and flowed over the page. It was marine blue, slightly darker than the water we’d seen when the plane flew low over the coastline.
Chris smiled and handed the book to Marguerite, who said, “She has an exquisite eye.”
“No, it’s you who have an eye. Every one of your designs is a work of art,” I said.
But she had to know that. She’d designed for Halston. She didn’t need me to wander in from Los Angeles to compliment her.
Marguerite hugged me gratefully. “I will get to work.”
I turned to Chris, about to ask if he wanted to walk around the town a little more. From his expression, I could tell he was already picturing me in that dress. And out of it.
“Feel like hitting the bikes?” he asked, the uneven tone of his voice betraying sudden desire. I nodded.
We rode back to his house. Fast. Tour de France fast.
Chapter Twenty
The Villa
We ditched our bikes on the driveway and walked hand in hand toward the backyard like we weren’t in any hurry, as if we hadn’t both been pedaling with a little extra effort, picturing the lounge chairs in the shade and the privacy of the space. Neither one of us spoke, but as though reading my mind, Chris stopped and looked at me. He pulled me toward him on the curving cobbled driveway before we’d even made it to the yard.
> He ran a finger under my chin and tilted my face up toward his. “I hate your ex-boyfriend for cheating you.”
“He’s… not worth hating.” I was surprised he was still thinking about that.
“He didn’t deserve you. So maybe there’s justice in the world because you’re here with me,” he said. I was bowled over and touched at his words.
“Maybe there is.”
I wrapped my hands around him and ran my nails over the skin under his shirt, which made his muscles jump at my touch. Kissing him made me want to do things to his body that weren’t so soft and gentle. If we only had two weeks together, I wanted it to be everything.
We stayed on the driveway for a while, too lazy to move, losing part of the day in a kiss that went on and on. Then our hands were everywhere, pulling off clothing and lavishing skin and tangling in hair.
“Earlier, how you wanted to take it slow…?” I said, breathless.
“Yes…?” he said, looking like that might be a struggle.
“Not happening now.”
“Good.” He pulled me hard against him as his tongue swept my mouth like I was the dessert after his chocolate tart. Not breaking the kiss, we stumbled to the yard, where the chaise lounges were a huge improvement for my wobbly limbs. My legs were tired from the biking and weak from the effects of him. I was grateful when Chris laid us down on one of the fluffy terrycloth towels covering the double-wide lounge chair. He brushed the hair away from my face and kissed my neck, my jaw, the tender spot near my ear.
I was breathless, aroused. I was also intrigued by the pristine, luxury towels.
“Who does all this? Who fluffs the cushions and opens the umbrellas? Who put bottled water into an ice bucket while we were gone? Do you employ a team of minions?” I asked on an exhale.
“I can’t talk to you about umbrellas when I want to hear that gorgeous moaning sound you make when you come.”
It didn’t even embarrass me that I’d let him know how good he felt. And was glad he had no problem telling my over-active brain to shut up. He was right. Sultry moaning on tap. He made me desperate for him and I knew he felt how wet and ready I was when his fingers slipped under the band of my thong and slowly stroked back and forth. I gave him the moaning he was looking for.
I reached down and raked my nails over the sensitive skin below his abs, wanting to drive him just as mad with desire. He grabbed my hands and pinned them with one hand above my head. “Don’t move,” he said.
Chris made quick work of ridding me of my bra and lavishing my breasts with the tongue action that made me go crazy earlier. I sucked in a rough breath while he kissed and licked the sweet spots on my skin that he seemed to know instinctively.
“That’s so good,” I said, as he sent me off into newer, better places. But I wanted my hands back. I needed to touch him. I tugged against his grip and he let go, so I started a slow descent along his chest, savoring every contour of his muscles and appreciating every inch of his hot skin.
His kisses were long and deep, claiming my mouth and my body and grinding his erection against my hot skin. I brushed my hand lower, dipping my fingers into his boxer-briefs, feeling him tremble when I touched his sensitive skin. But I wanted to feel his hard erection in my hand. I wanted to make him go crazy. So I pushed the fabric down until he helped kick it off his legs.
Then I took hold of his length, wrapping my hand around it and running my hand lightly up and down until I felt him tremble.
“You’re gonna make me come like that,” he warned, gritting his teeth.
“Good,” I said, stroking him. I could take him all the way like this, let him come on my breasts or in my mouth. It was too good. I wanted him to lose control if he wanted to.
He shook his head. “Later. Right now I need to be inside you.”
He pulled a condom from his shorts that were on the ground and tore open the foil. He didn’t let me roll it on. He was going for efficiency. It was all need and desire and forward momentum.
I dug my nails into his back and sunk my teeth into his shoulder as he eased inside me. He started moving slowly, rhythmically. A tiny groan escaped from the back of my throat. “Oh God… yes… there.” And he did. He hit the spot I needed over and over again until my body was begging for mercy.
I couldn’t believe we’d only known each other a day. A very good, very long day. But still, one day. He’d invited me on a vacation after barely considering if for a second. And it felt right. Sex with Chris wasn’t just sex. It was oxygen, necessary and basic. It was sweaty and all-hell sexy.
I wrapped my legs around him and grabbed his hair as I came, falling hard, cascading into him. Moments later, I felt him there too, whispering and swearing in my ear. Our bodies wore themselves out until we could barely hold onto each other in our blissed-out exhaustion.
We didn’t move for a while. I kept my legs wrapped around his hips and he kissed my cheek and twirled a strand of my hair. Neither one of us had the wherewithal to stand.
I felt like I’d walked into a Hollywood film and seduced the leading man. Every moment since our dinner the night before had the glow of movie romance that turned my questionable travel choice into a vacation dream I never could have pictured. It scared me. I wondered whether any of it was real or if I was just going along with a fantasy, one that would end in a matter of days when I flew home and Chris went back to New York or wherever he had to go next. Of course, it would end. It had to, because part of the wild attraction was knowing our time together was fleeting.
I had to remind myself to keep my emotions in check. This is just a fling, I almost said out loud. I’d known him for one day, and we’d already proven that we couldn’t go two hours without our hands all over each other. As good as it felt, it was almost too much. I hadn’t planned for any of this, and I couldn’t see where we were headed. Chris seemed lost in his own thoughts, but I couldn’t worry about that.
Breathe, I told myself. I had a habit of getting overwhelmed when I didn’t have a plan, and nothing about being in a new city, secreted away behind the walls of a villa with a man I barely knew, spelled plan. With my mind spinning off in directions that were only going to take me to a meltdown, I knew I had to get a grip.
Just as quickly, my mind slowed down because a wave of exhaustion descended and threatened to knock me out. I was so, so tired.
“I think I need sleep,” I said, knowing my voice sounded soft and sleepy.
“Yeah. I’m running on fumes. Lemme show you a room upstairs where you can crash uninterrupted.”
He led me into the house, up two flights of stairs, and out to a sunroom with open windows that let in a blissful breeze. In the middle of the room, a king-sized bed with crisp white sheets beckoned. He didn’t suggest we sleep in it together, just kissed me on the forehead and closed the door quietly behind him when he left. I saw that my suitcases had been brought up to this room, not the master bedroom where we’d been earlier, and for a moment, I felt let down that I was being treated as just a houseguest.
Those thoughts were quickly replaced by the bliss of cool sheets, and I reasoned that Chris was just giving me some space in his house, maybe understanding that I’d strayed far and away from my comfort zone. At least, I hoped he was that intuitive. It didn’t matter. All I wanted was to close my eyes, sink into the fat, downy mattress, and let my worries drift away.
He kissed me on the forehead and closed the door quietly.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Côte d’Azur
I slept for three glorious hours. I felt much better after the power nap, though by the time I woke up, I’d quashed any hope of getting over my jet lag and adjusting to European time. I’d be up in the middle of the night for sure. Oh, well. I’d take that over abject exhaustion. I felt so much better for having slept three hours straight.
Chris was in the kitchen on a phone call when I ventured downstairs, and he held up a finger in apology, so I went back outside to see if it was warm in Antibes in the even
ing. The air was dewy, the sun was gone, but it was still light out and I couldn’t orient myself to figure out which way the house faced. I wandered out the back gate and found a dirt path that wound past some rocks, which gave way to a perfect beach, unmarred by footprints since the tide had last washed the sand. It really was spectacular—quiet and relaxing and perfect.
A few minutes later, Chris came out and found me sitting on a flat rock with my feet dangling in the surf below. There weren’t any waves, but if I looked far enough out, I could see the lights on anchored sailboats and a few yachts on the water, though I couldn’t tell whether they were moving. Chris looked relaxed, so I figured he must have slept too.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“So much,” I said. It was amazing what a little sleep could do to restore a person’s sanity. I no longer felt plagued by concerns about a plan or lack thereof, I wasn’t worried about getting too attached, and I wasn’t thinking about how I’d feel when I said goodbye.
Actually, that’s not true. I was petrified about all of those things. A person couldn’t change overnight. I couldn’t instantly go from being a planner who liked to have a schedule to a carefree traveler who hopped on private jets with strangers and didn’t worry about anything. But I was getting better.
Chris sat down on the rock and wrapped his arms around me. The universal thermal properties of being touched by Chris were at play once more against my skin. He leaned forward and lifted my hair to kiss the back of my neck. “Mmm, you taste sweet,” he said, and I exhaled my calm contentment.
I relaxed into him, liking how easy it was between us.
“I’ve been trying to orient myself. Are we facing west?” I asked, turning to look at him.
He pointed at a sweep of coastline. “South, actually. Where it curves around there, it’s west-facing.” I followed his gaze to where the land curved, forming almost a protected bay. It explained why there weren’t really any waves.
