Chapter 19
SCARLETT
The Mediterranean sparkles like a cache of jewels.
The sea shows off its opulent brightness, the water shimmering like a sapphire one sun-soaked minute, then a turquoise stone the next.
With the backseat window open and the breeze blowing in, I inhale the salty sea air. “Yes, this hotel chain is looking like a gem indeed,” I declare as a driver whisks us along the coast of Nice, heading to our next destination, after our morning flight to the South of France.
“It’s hard to resist so far,” Daniel agrees.
It’s our third day of diligently assessing this chain’s potential for acquisition.
I have to see the timing that way rather than as our third day of make-believe.
I will focus on the work purpose of this trip. I won’t lose sight of what’s been my salvation since my marriage ended.
Business. Deals. Strategy.
I’ll have to remember that this game of make-believe has a purpose. It’s giving us the cover we need to determine whether we want to spend millions of dollars to make a can’t-resist offer to the owners.
That’s all.
If pleasure serves business, so be it. This thing with Daniel is a moment in time that won’t last.
But what will last is the deal.
We have four more days to make our decision.
Four days is plenty of time, too, to savor this tryst for all that it is—a delicious slice of seduction—and all that it’s not—a future.
Daniel stares out the open window of the town car. “Lots more to check out, but I like the way everything is shaping up so far.”
“Same here.”
“My only hope is that it’s not simply the endorphins talking,” he says with a grin, reaching for my hand as the driver maneuvers the car onto a side street, winding toward the inn that’s next on our list.
Le Pavillon de Nice.
I roll my eyes. “My, my, you think highly of yourself.”
He deals me a you’ve got it all wrong look. “Love, I was speaking specifically of the endorphin rush I have being this near to you.”
And my traitorous heart goes full fangirl in my chest, screaming and shrieking for him, wanting to throw its arms around this man.
I press the brakes a little, try to locate a modicum of restraint.
Perhaps I’ll find it by focusing only on the sex.
I squeeze his hand harder. “I’ve never had sex like that,” I whisper, though I already told him that last night when we fell into bed, exhausted.
I told him that in the shower, and on the flight too, but I suppose it bears repeating.
“You might’ve mentioned that. And I like hearing it.”
“Good. It’s all true.”
“And I like giving it to you. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
He leans in close to me, brushes the strands of my jet-black wig from my shoulder, and whispers in my ear, “Because I’ve wanted you since the day I met you.”
I straighten, licking my lips as I process this new information. “For three years?”
“The day I met you for lunch, I was wildly aroused by you. I’ve dealt with it. I’ve existed with it. But I’ve felt this attraction pulsing through my veins for three long years. It’s only grown more intense as I’ve gotten to know you,” he says, low and smoky, another seduction.
There goes the organ in my chest again, working itself into a frenzy. I try to keep my cool, tossing out a husky, “Is that so?” when I truly want to say, This tryst feels like more than a week. It feels like it could turn into weeks, months, more.
“And do you know what it’s like to finally have you?” he asks.
A shudder runs through my body. The intensity of his words is almost too much for me to bear. “What’s it like?”
Leaning closer, he pulls my earlobe between his teeth, nips it, then jerks back, setting a hand on my cheek. His eyes laser in on mine. Those blue irises are so intense I can’t look away from him, nor do I want to.
“It’s like I’m finally having everything I want. And it feels like a frenzied, fevered dream. All this desire inside me is rising up, spilling over, and I just want to have you again and again.”
He’s talking about sex, he’s talking about sex, he’s talking about sex.
I have to remember that.
But then he presses his forehead to mine, tender and gentle. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Scarlett. But you make me want to . . . tell you things.”
Those last three words.
He says them slowly and carefully, like they taste new on his tongue, like they’re hard for him to say but necessary to voice.
They echo in the car, reverberate in the space between us.
Telling me things feels like a line he didn’t want to cross.
But now he does.
Only it’s a line neither one of us will have to deal with at this moment, because the driver is pulling up in front of the inn.
Work, once again, rescues me.
We get out of the car. The driver heads to the trunk, grabs our bags, then thanks us. “Hope you have a wonderful stay, Mr. and Mrs. Monet.”
Daniel raises a brow, adopts a delicious French accent, and replies, “We will indeed. Thank you so much.”
Once we go inside, I repeat my mantra over and over again.
Work, work, work.
I have all the accoutrements of my job, like weapons at the ready.
I’ve holstered my tablet, my phones, my spreadsheets.
My to-do list. My agenda. They are my barricade.
They are the moats that have surrounded my too-vulnerable, too-bruised heart for the last few years.
They will surely do their duty once more.
At the desk, the concierge is professional and friendly, asking how our flight was. I tell him it was fantastic, then I show him my passport, but we give him the names we’re checking in under—names Daniel gave the hotel in advance, citing privacy reasons.
The man checks us in, hands us a key card, and says he hopes we’ll enjoy our honeymoon here at Le Pavillon de Nice.
“I’m certain we’ll savor every second of it. I’ve been looking forward to it for three long years,” Daniel says to the man, but the words are for me.
They burn through me like a match to kindling, igniting a fresh, hot flame of desire.
Desire and something else.
Something more powerful than lust.
Daniel touches my hand again, and as he does, I catch a glimpse of our rings close together.
The ruby that Nadia gave me. The band that he purchased himself.
They remind me that this is only a ruse.
This whole thing is a fake, designed to be pain-free, to help us make a business decision.
But the problem is, I’m dying to know everything about Daniel Stewart.
Not Mr. Monet or Mr. Rousseau or Mr. Dickens.
But rather this man by my side.