5. Chapter Four Savannah
Chapter Four: Savannah
He called me a good girl. And the way he said it, so deep and a little husky, has a certain part of my body reacting in ways it hasn’t in a very long time.
Which is so unusual for me. It’s not like men don’t flirt with me, but I’ve been far too independent and jaded to care.
But something about the way Laurent says those words, the way he looks at me with those smoldering green eyes, hits very different.
I drive up to the gated community and swipe Laurent’s card to grant us access to Beach Village.
Sure, I’ve walked through the Hotel del Coronado and visited the shops and eateries that run along its beach, but I’ve never been in this part of the hotel’s property.
It’s super swanky and oh-so-private. Well out of my price range and definitely not a part of the grounds I ever expected to see.
Laurent directs me past picture-perfect beachfront cottages and villas so exclusive, the general public isn’t allowed to see them, much less hang out in and around them. No, this section is a special place reserved for the very wealthy.
“That one,” he says, and I pull up in front of a gorgeous villa.
Turning the car off, I try not to gawk. A few luxury vehicles are parked in front of the other villas, and my little Civic hardly fits in.
Compared to the other cars, she’s just a bit, ah, vintage.
But she belonged to my mom, so I refuse to be embarrassed.
“What do you do?” I ask under my breath.
“It’s probably better if you don’t know,” he murmurs, getting out.
What does that mean? I wonder if he’s a former assassin like Ryland.
But that doesn’t seem right. He doesn’t look or act like Ryland and his friends.
They’re always wearing cargo pants with a million pockets and carrying a gun or some other weapon.
Plus, they have muscles for days, and they’re always so intense.
None of them would ever trade their boots for leather loafers with no socks. Laurent is…
I let my gaze roam over his body. Laurent is different.
He has a richness to him—his personality, his presence, his clothing.
Even the way he speaks. His accent reeks of someone who belongs in the upper echelon of society.
Refined and blue-blooded. I adjust the Dooney he possesses old money vibes. And that accent? It’s sexy as hell.
As we walk into the elegant villa, I don’t think I’ve ever been more curious about a man before.
There are so many questions I want to ask him.
Like where he’s from, how long he’s been in California, does he have a girlfriend?
But, instead, I look around at the beautifully-decorated space and tell myself it’s none of my concern if he has a significant other.
Even so, I check out his left ring finger. No wedding band. Although from previous experience, I’ve learned just because a man doesn’t wear a ring, doesn’t mean he isn’t married. Giving my head a shake, I return my attention to the lavish surroundings.
“Wow,” I murmur, taking it all in. Total understatement.
It’s an open concept design. One side is floor-to-ceiling windows with a sliding door that opens to a back patio, and then a few steps that end in the sand.
I look over the rich cream furniture with navy accents, loving the coastal decor.
There’s a bowl of seashells on a side table, potted succulents and a fireplace with coral on the mantel.
I walk over to the kitchen island and lean down to smell a vase of fresh white roses. “Do you have your own pool?”
I wander over to peer out the back sliding glass door.
“No, just my own beach.”
I chuckle. “Oh, and I thought this place was nice,” I tease, and he throws his head back and laughs. Almost immediately, I see the pain flash on his face as he reaches for his side. “You need to rest.”
“I’ll be alright.”
“You were stabbed tonight,” I remind him. Which shouldn’t be necessary. Men are such stubborn creatures. Always acting like they’re so tough.
“It’s just a scratch.”
“Even so, let’s get you situated.”
“Well, if a beautiful woman insists on helping me, I won’t say no.”
“You’re an outrageous flirt,” I chastise, trying not to blush and failing miserably.
“I’m French.” He gives me an innocent shrug, as if that explains it. “Love and romance run through my veins.”
All I can do is roll my eyes and follow him into the primary bedroom. Actually, it’s the only bedroom. Which is fine, because I absolutely plan on leaving. Until he puts the fear of God in me with his next remark.
“Whoever came after me might connect the restaurant to you and find out where you live. I don’t mean to scare you, but it’s probably best if you stay here tonight. It’s safer.”
Well, that’s just fantastic. “What about tomorrow night?” I can’t help but ask. “And the night after that?”
“You’re welcome to stay with me for as long as you like, chérie.” His smile is blinding, and I make a face at the impractical invitation which causes his smile’s wattage to dim.
“Thanks for the invite, but I have to go home at some point. I have a restaurant to run, which reminds me I also need to get that front door boarded up.” I make a mental note to send Harper a text and ask if one of Ryland’s team members might be able to run over and do it.
“Besides,” I finish, looking around, “this place is a little out of my price range.”
He’s working open the buttons on his shirt, and I can’t help but stare at the tanned skin slowly being revealed. It’s firm, deliciously toned, and when his ridged abs join the party, I bite down on my lower lip and try not to moan. It’s all just so good.
Unlike all the beach bodybuilders and military guys I see on a daily basis, Laurent isn’t a pristine gym bro or rugged warrior type.
He’s completely different. More…refined.
No tattoos or scars. Well, except for the wound on his side which will surely leave a mark.
But other than that, he’s all smooth golden skin with muscles in all the right places.
He’s more svelte than an Olympic swimmer.
And damn, his picture-perfect body is making me overheat a little.
Okay, a lot.
But can you blame me? He has the air of an old film star like Cary Grant, but he reminds me most of a young Pierce Brosnan when he played Remington Steele back in the day. My mom loved that show, and Harper and I used to watch reruns with her.
Laurent winces as he tries to pull the ruined shirt off, and I quickly step in to help. Because why wouldn’t I?
“Careful,” I murmur. My fingers brush along his warm, muscled arm as I help him drag the shirt off, and a tingle sweeps through me, ending in a wicked pulsing in my nether regions.
Holy. Cow.
Am I drooling? I think I might be drooling.
Probably not a good look, so I force my attention away from his naked torso and lay the shirt over the back of a chair.
The man is making my motor rev, and it’s been a very long time since that’s happened.
After my experience with Chad, I lost some—okay, a lot of—respect for the male species as a whole, and I shut it all down.
Shut down dating, sex, desire. All of it. It just wasn’t worth it.
But now I’m starting to re-think that drastic decision. After all, I’m not a nun. Maybe it’s time to reward myself for all the hard work I’ve put in over the last few years. Laurent hardly strikes me as a relationship sort of man, and I’m not looking for anything serious.
Hmmm. I turn back around, attention going straight to his firm pecs covered in a light dusting of dark hair, then sliding down to admire his tantalizing abs.
My fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and touch him.
Suppressing that urge for now, I allow my gaze to continue down to his belt buckle…
and then a little lower. I’m not sure what’s going on behind that zipper, but something is definitely making a bulge in the material, and I think I’d like to know more.
Laurent clears his throat and my head snaps back up.
He’s smirking, and I feel my face—and body—heat up about a million degrees.
I’m quickly learning the man is way too smooth, and that’s dangerous.
It’s how I got into trouble with Chad. Falling for a man’s bullshit is the last thing on my to-do list. Nope, not going there again.
I learned my lesson the hard way, and I refuse to make the same mistake twice.
“There’s no need for you to worry about how much anything costs. In fact, I’m the one who should compensate you for helping me.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be silly. You don’t have to pay me.” I can’t help but wonder if he’s used to paying everyone in his life for things? Surely, a man this worldly and attractive must have a ton of friends who’d help him out.
Yet, if that’s true, why did he call on me, a complete stranger?
“At least stay a while. Have a glass of champagne and enjoy the ocean view.” He stiffens, gingerly touching the bandage covering his side. Then his nose wrinkles. “I need to change and wash up.”
“You can’t get your stitches wet,” I remind him.
“I’ll manage.” He reaches for a fresh pair of pajama pants, and there’s no missing his grimace of pain.
Before I can think too hard, I blurt, “C’mon. Let me help you.”