The girls toppled into the Jacuzzi with a splash. Squealing, they grabbed at Fletchers bronzed legs.
Horrified, Amy began to back toward the front of his house.
Baby! Fletcher yanked a wet towel off the floor of the deck. Whipping it around his waist, he stomped toward her, leaving big, drippy footprints on the deck.
She ran, leaping over unconscious surfer bodies, plates of half-eaten pie and overturned beer bottles, her feet flying down the steps into the chaos of cars in his front yard. But he was faster. Springing down the stairs with the agility of an orangutan, he grabbed her arm.
Baby, I know you think youve got a right to be mad, and you do, you do, but I can explain.
His voice was slurred, and he reeked of beer. A smear of lipstick marred one prominent cheekbone.
She jerked free and stomped past the cars to her Toyota.
Look, I know I should have invited you to the party! he yelled. But you hate my parties. You refused to move in with me. You never want to do anything fun anymore. Ever since you got the store, you act as old and boring as those old clothes you buy and sell. And when it comes to sex, forget it! You never want to try anything new.
Maybe because Im tired after working all day.
Which you throw at me constantly.
Maybe because I want you to grow up.
Maybe Im as grown-up as Ill ever be. I have money. I bought this house. I run it. So what if I dont have a real job?
She looked at him, at the plastic sacks fluttering like ghosts in the over-long grass, at his unpainted house and then down at the beautiful beach. Is this all youll ever want?
Whats wrong with this? My old man worked himself into an early grave. Luckily he left me enough so I can get by. I wake up to paradise every day.
The blondes, wrapped in towels now, were standing on the deck watching Fletcher.
Would Fletchers girlfriends get younger every year?
Amy fumbled in her purse for her keys. When had everything changed? Grabbing her keys, she punched a button and got her door unlocked. Then she climbed in and slammed it. As she started the engine, she rolled down her window. He ambled over and smiled at her.
Oh, God, his eyes were so startlingly blue, so warm and friendly and sexy even now, but dammit, her mother was right. She couldnt live with him.
But could she live without him?
You know what, Fletcher? Im tired of having to feel lucky to be dating the good-looking, popular guy that all the other girls want. I want to be wanted.
Baby
Youre not the only one who needs to grow up. She hit the accelerator so hard her tires slung bits of shell against his bare shins.
Sorry! she whispered when he let out a yelp. And she was. She was sorry for so many things. Sorry shed disappointed her mother. Sorry about her dad. Sorry about all sorts of dreams that hadnt panned out.
A mile down the road, she began to shake so hard she didnt feel she could drive without endangering innocent strangers, so she pulled over.
She had always loved Fletcher. To her, he was still as gorgeous as hed been in high school. But this wasnt high school.
She flipped her visor down and stared at herself in its mirror much too critically. Normally when she wasnt comparing herself to naked teenagers with Barbie Doll hair and pole-dancer bodies, she didnt feel that old.
Today shed been too busy because of her sale to bother with her makeup and hair. The wind and humidity hadnt helped. Her brown hair hung in strings. Grief hadnt helped, either. Her hazel eyes were red, and her mascara was running.
Images from the past swept her. Shed gotten a crush on Fletcher in kindergarten. By the sixth grade, maybe because hed failed a year, hed been almost as tall and cute and golden as he was now. Back then hed been reckless and daring and the most popular boy in school, while she, Nan and Liz had been bookworms. Only, one day hed run up to them at recess and painted a mock tattoo of a heart on Amys left arm. Then hed kissed her cheek and stolen her book.
Amy had felt like Cinderella at the ball with her prince. Her cheek was still burning when hed returned her book three hours later and kissed her again. Hed teased her like that for a few more years. Then theyd become serious in high school. Or, at least, she had. Shed told herself she could wait.
She was still waiting.
But not anymore!
London
Three days later
Promise me you wont sleep with her.
When a man is thirty-five and famousmake that infamous, especially with womenhe is likely to resent such a command, especially from his mother. Even if she is a countess.
Without warning the slim young woman his mother wanted him to keep in his sightsfor business reasons onlysprinted across the street.
Not wanting to alarm her, Remy waited a few seconds before loping after her.
He frowned. His mother had nothing to worry about. The wholesome Miss Weatherbee wasnt his type.
Brown hair, thickly braided. Hazel eyes. Not ugly. But not beautiful. Nondescript really, except forHis gaze drifted to her swaying hips again. Then he remembered all the sexy lingerie hed watched her buy and wished she werent forbidden because that made her infinitely more fascinating.
From birth, Remy de Fournier, or rather the Comte de Fournier, had had a taste for the forbidden. His mother and his older, brilliant sisters only had to tell him not to do a thing and hed do it. As an adult hed liked his cars fast and his women even fasteruntil the accident a year ago at the Circuit de Nevers at Magny-Cours had turned his life into a nightmare. Ever since, except for brief trips to Paris, hed been living in self-imposed exile in London.
Yesterday the highest courts in France had decided not to charge him with manslaughter. As soon as he could make the arrangements he would be going home, which was the reason his mother had given for calling him. She wanted to set up a celebratory lunch in Paris with him and his first serious girlfriend, Céline, whom he hadnt seen in years.
He should have felt relieved that hed been exonerated, that his mother would even speak to him. Instead, last night hed dreamed of the crash and of his steering wheel jamming. Again hed felt that horrible rush of adrenaline as hed fought the curve and the car and lost, hurtling into that wall at 160 mph before ricocheting into Andrés car and then into Pierre-Louiss.
With the memory of Andrés terrified black eyes burning a hole in his soul, Remy had dressed and bolted out of his flat at four in the morning to buy coffee, returning to work on the familys portfolio on his computer. Hours later hed still been in a cold mood when his mother had called to discuss Céline and her lunch plans and to put him on to Mademoiselle Weatherbee, who was even now sashaying, her cute butt wiggling, glossy red shopping bags swinging against her thighs, toward her sisters flat on Duke Street in St. James.
Why was it that the longer he trailed that ample bottom, the more appealing it became?
Usually he chose leggy blond models or busty socialites and princesses, sophisticated women, who knew how to dress. Céline was his type. Mademoiselle Weatherbee with her wide, trusting doe eyes and thick brown braid was not. Deliver him from naive Americans with no sense of style.
Still, it was growing easier and easier to look at her. The worn faded blue stripes of her vintage cotton sundress made her look innocent even as it showed off her slim shoulders, narrow waist and, okay, hell, emphasized that pert and rather large ass of hers and its moves.
Still, it was growing easier and easier to look at her. The worn faded blue stripes of her vintage cotton sundress made her look innocent even as it showed off her slim shoulders, narrow waist and, okay, hell, emphasized that pert and rather large ass of hers and its moves.
Nice moves. Very nice.
What would she feel like naked under him? Would she writhe? Or just lie there? Damn, if she were his, hed make her writhe.
His bossy mothers predawn call had annoyed the hell out of him, even more than usual.
Im too excited to sleep, she said. Its all over the Internet. Youre a free man. AndMademoiselle Weatherbee stayed at her sisters flat on Duke Street in St. James last night! And will stay there tonight, as well! Since you live so close, I thought maybe you couldcheck on her.
I have back-to-back commitments before I can leave London.
So far, shes refused all our offers to buy Château Serene, and she seems to want to follow her aunts wishes about donating the Matisse.
Isnt she on her way to France?
Tomorrow
Well, then, negotiate when she gets there.
Shes in London to do a little shopping for her store. I thought maybe you could meet her and work a little of your magic. But dont take it too far. She probably doesnt follow Grand Prix headlines, and with any luck, she wont check the Internet and the London papers will ignore you.
I met her once, you know.
Years ago. If she doesnt recognize you, dont tell her who you are. No telling what Tate told her about us. Or you.
This towns enormous. If I cant call her or knock on her door and introduce myself, how the hell can I meet her without scaring her away? What would be the point?
Improvise. Im going to fax you a recent photograph of her and her sisters address.
You want me to stalk her, hit on her and entice her into some pub?
But be careful. The last thing we need is more nasty headlines.
When she hung up, Remy crushed his paper coffee cup and pitched it into the trash. No sooner did it hit the can than he heard the fax in his bedroom. Amelia Weatherbee was not someone hed ever wanted to see again.
Even her photograph brought painful memories. Holding it to the light, he noted the same youthful wistfulness shining in her eyes. Only now, there was a bit of a lost look in them, too, a sadness, a resignation.
Hed met her only that once. What was itseventeen years ago? Hed been eighteen, she around thirteen. Shed eavesdropped on a private conversation, and hed vowed to hate her forever for it even though shed been kind. Especially because shed been kind. Dammit! Who was she to pity him?
Funny how that same vulnerability in her eyes and sweet smile seemed enchanting and made him feel protective now.
Hed forced himself to dress and walk over to her flat, where hed waited outside, reading the Times. When the varnished doors trimmed in polished brass had finally swung open and shed stepped out into the sunshine, hed shrunk behind his paper. Bravely armed against the gray sky with her yellow umbrella, shed looked bright and fresh in her faded cotton dress and scuffed sandals.
Hed been trotting all over the city after Mademoiselle Weatherbees yellow umbrella and cute butt ever since. Hed watched her shop at Camden Market and Covent Garden, then Harvey Nicks and last of all Harrods Food Hall. But had she eaten? Hell, no! So he hadnt eaten, either. Because of her, he was starving and grumpy as hell.
Americans. What sort of barbarian instinct made her skip lunch, a sacred institution to any man with even a drop of French blood?
During the lunch hour shed gone into a nail shop, where shed had a pedicure and had gotten tips put on her ragged nails. A decided improvement. Still, shed skipped lunch.
At the Camden Market, hed felt like a damn pervert when shed fingered dozens of bright, silky bras and panties, holding them up to herself as she tried to decide. In the end, shed surprised him by choosing his favoritesthe skimpiest and sheerest of the batch.
Why couldnt she be the practical-schoolteacher sort who wore sensible cotton panties and bras?
When shed paid the cashier, shed suddenly looked up, straight into his eyes. Hed been visualizing her in the red, see-through thong, and her embarrassed glance had set off a frisson of heat inside him. Not good. Fortunately shed scowled at him and had quickly thrown the tangle of lingerie into a sack and slapped her credit card on top of the mess. After that, hed kept out of sight.
But she was nearly back to her flat. He had to do something and fast. Hed wasted way too much time already.
She was on Jermyn Street, a mere half block from her building, and he was running out of options when a cab rounded the corner.
Yelling for the taxi, hed sprinted toward it, deliberately bumping Amelia so hard she stumbled. Her bags tumbled onto the sidewalk, spilling lacy bras and thongs.
All apologies, he dove for the woman, not the silky stuff. He caught her, his long limbs locking around hers at an impossibly intimate angle.
When body parts brushed, she fought a quivery smile and blushed. He felt a heady buzz of his own.
Im sorry, he said, letting go of her instantly.
Those soft hazel eyes with spiky black lashes stared straight into his, and she turned as red as she had when hed caught her buying the transparent underwear. All of a sudden she seemed almost beautiful.
You! I saw you before
A shock went through him.
Then she said, At Camden.
He acted surprised. Yes, how very strange. Do you live around here, too?
No. Im visiting my sister. She has a flat just As if remembering he was a stranger, she stopped and knelt to pick up her bags and the bright bits of sheer lace and silk.
Quickly he knelt and gathered up bras and panties, too, tossing them into her bags but holding on to their handles.
Eyeing his hands on her underwear, she backed away from him a little.
He kept his distance. If youd like to have a drink, theres a pub across the street, or theres a tea shop around the corner.
A passerby, a man, gave Remy and the black bra dripping from his right hand a sharp look.
Im really awfully tired, she said.
All right. He dropped the lacy underwear into the appropriate bag and then handed her her things.
Her face again burned an adorable shade of red when she looked up at him from beneath those inky lashes, which were as sexy as her butt.
In that case, I guess its goodbye, he said.
Youre French.
Yes, and alone. Big city. I prefer Paris. Deliberately he allowed his accent to thicken.
Of course. I love Paris, too. Ive been there many times. With my
She looked wistful. Was she thinking of Tate? Her quick, sad smile struck a chord inside him. Shed probably loved Tate very much, he thought. His father damn sure had. He himself knew what it was to chase ghosts.
Are you here on business?
Of a sort, he replied.
I like your accent. Its elegant, but not snotty. You know, sometimes French people are so
I like yours, too, he said before she could insult the French, who were his people, after all, which might cause him to defend them. Youre American?