22. Primrose #3
“Burned yourself on the straightening iron this morning.” She pivots. “Bonjour, Monsieur du Beaumont!” she trills, turning just as quickly to the coffee machine. As it begins to noisily grind the beans, she bustles out of the kitchen yammering about needing something from the garden.
Bless her diversionary tactics. However, he’s not going to blow his top over something he’s responsible for. I might, though.
Later, obviously. Not in front of the children.
The children. Focus on them—they deserve better.
Better from me. Better from him. Servant, I silently add for good measure while, outwardly, I become fascinated by my glass of juice again.
Hands are useful, I think, lifting the glass to my mouth.
Hands don’t blush, meanwhile, my cheeks feel radioactive.
“Good morning, Primrose.” His salutation sounds like a satisfied hum as his thumb grazes the base of my spine as he passes behind me.
I sit straight, as though electrified, the base of the glass connecting loudly with the countertop. “M—” No further sound comes out. I clear my throat and thump my chest.
“Papa, quickly—Primrose is choking again!”
Sylvie’s panicked proclamation seems to give Luc permission to put his hands on me. Where everyone can see!
“Have I stolen your breath?” He pitches the question low enough only for my ears as he rubs a slow circle across my back.
“I fine!” I practically jump from my seat, apparently having turned into the Mrs. Doubtfire version of a nanny by my tone.
Maybe I’d be better served by channelling Nanny McPhee and cultivating a nice nose wart.
“Let me… let me get your coffee.” I scoot to the other side of the counter, adjusting the towel at my shoulder for maximum coverage.
Obviously, not for his benefit. “Café noir, right?”
He inclines his head, his smile a touch self-satisfied. Because I remember his coffee order or because of last night, it’s hard to tell.
“But what is that on your neck?” Sylvie persists.
“C’est pas tes oignons.” Her father murmurs the French equivalent of mind your business.
I remember how he takes his coffee, but I can’t remember how to regulate my own pulse, I think as I fumble with the demitasse cup, almost dropping it. “Bugg—butterfingers!” I say, turning to my audience.
“I hope everyone slept well.” Luc reaches for a strawberry from the fruit platter, the slow curve of his lips not quite a smile. Somehow it’s more telling. More dangerous. The man has ‘sexy secrets’ written all over his face.
Heat prickles beneath my skin as he pops the fruit into his mouth without breaking eye contact.
“Fine,” I murmur, though I’m sure my puffy eyes say otherwise.
I spin back to the machine as Luc enquires how his children slept. Felix makes his usual grudging responses, though Sylvie, chatty as always, tells him about her dream. Something about a clown with big yellow nose riding a flying bicycle.
As the machine works, I swear I can feel his eyes on me. I busy myself with a cloth. The room is suddenly too warm and too small, and my thoughts are dedicated too much to him.
When I finally turn, he says nothing. He just looks at me, looks at me like he can see right through my skin, through flesh and bone, to the very core of me.
It’s unnerving. So penetrating.
I set the cup down in front of him.
“Merci, Primrose.”
His hand wraps the tiny vessel, and he stares up at me. I know what you look like with no clothes on, his gaze seems to say. I know the sounds you make when you’re at your most vulnerable.
And I realize I know neither of those things about him.
“De rien,” I answer brightly.
Luc’s eyes narrow almost infinitesimally. But any fool can say “you’re welcome” in French. Can’t they?
“Bravo!” Sylvie claps her hands together like a delighted kindergarten teacher. “Vous parlez Francais, Primrose!”
“I can speak a little French,” I mumble, turning back to the machine.
“How much French do you have?” Luc asks in French.
My back to him, I give a shrug. “You speak too fast.”
“How much French do you know?” he asks in English this time.
“Just what I learned in school.” Over seven years and multiple holidays here. I’m not fluent, but I do okay. Not that I’ll ever tell.
“I will teach you!” Sylvie insists. “I am a very good French speaker, right, Papa.”
“You never shut up,” Felix grouses.
“Perhaps we can all help Primrose learn how things are done in France.”
There’s a particular note in his tone, one I’m not touching—not with a ten-foot pole. Zoe appears back in the kitchen at that moment, sliding a fair-sized square bandage into my hand.
“That’s to protect the burn, and this,” she says, pressing a spiky bit of aloe vera plant into my hand, “is to cool it.”
I frown. “What?”
“Primrose burned her neck on her straightening irons this morning.” She gives a playful roll of her eyes and a tsk.
Bless her for trying to protect my job. She might not have been fooled by such tosh, but she obviously thinks a man would be. Just not the man responsible for administering it.
“How unfortunate.” His eyes darken as they drop to my neck.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” I quirk a brow. Your fault.
“May I get you some breakfast, sir?” Zoe asks as she shoos me to the other side of the island. I take a seat at the far edge this time.
“Non, merci. Actually,” he adds, “I think I will have eggs.”
Zoe cocks her head to one side. The bloke doesn’t usually eat around this time.
“I appear to have quite an appetite this morning.”
No. Nope. Not touching that and not lifting my head.
“Bien s?r. Baked or…”
“An omelette, I think.”
Zoe nods and makes for the cold store.
“With chives,” he adds, causing her to halt.
“I’ll get some from the garden.” She swings around.
The door closes, and Luc turn my way, reaching to pull the towel slowly from my neck. I have the good sense to fight the resultant shiver.
“Eggs? That’s very a very English breakfast.”
“Is it? You’re not eating?” His eyes drop to my mouth, lingering there for a beat.
“Err, no. I mean, not yet.”
“I do not like porridge,” Sylvie announces. “Or kippers.” Along with the long, rolling r, she gives a shiver of distaste.
“Then you should not have ordered them at the hotel,” Felix answers.
“I had to find out how bad they tasted. And they taste very bad!”
“Let Primrose eat her breakfast,” he says, loading a small plate with pastries and fruit from the platter. I can’t hide my surprise as he places it in front of me. Or my mistrust. “Eat.” His expression softens.
“I…” I nod and do as he says. Mainly because it’ll give me something to do.
“You should take better care.” His voice is as dark and rich as the coffee he’s ignoring as he watches me chew.
I press my hand to my pastry-filled mouth “Obf?” Hmm.
“Perhaps you might invest in better straighteners.”
“You think?”
“Hmm. The current pair seem to be unusually possessive. Leaving their mark on you.” His eyes dip and darken.
“Thank you for your concern. I’ll be sure to pay attention before further endangering myself.” My words sound as thick as the jam I spread on the remains of my croissant.
“I’m going to put on my swimsuit.” Sylvie scrambles down from her stool. “Primrose is taking me swimming!”
He smiles his daughter’s way. “Lucky you.”
“It’s just the pool,” Felix mutters, helping himself to another glass of juice.
“Don’t you want to swim?” I ask him.
“I don’t need to be supervised,” he mutters.
“But thank you,” he adds as an afterthought.
No doubt, he wants to keep me on side so I won’t divulge our little tête-à-tête last night.
“I’m going to my room.” He throws back his juice, the stool legs protesting against the terracotta as he pushes it back.
And then we’re alone.
Gulp.
With the grace of a panther, Luc slinks from his seat and carries his coffee to the top of the island where I’m seated.
He leans on his forearm, filling my peripheral view with arm porn.
If you’re not in shirt sleeves, you’re not doing it right.
I ignore the show, of course. I also ignore how close we are now.
Close enough I feel the static in the air, the warning hum of two objects fighting a collision course.
“I didn’t realize.” He slides my hair from my shoulder, then brushes the back of his knuckle over my hickey.
His mark. I begin to chew my croissant like it’s steak, forcing myself not to react.
“I was too caught up in the moment,” he murmurs without a hint of an apology.
His knuckle slides lower, ghosting the opening of my shirt.
“I had.” I swallow. “I had an incident with Felix last night,” I say, desperate to change the subject. To ignore the way he’s looking at me. And what he’s doing to me.
“My son has a crush on you, I think.” He gives an indulgent smile.
“No, he hasn’t.”
“He can barely look at you. And I can sympathize.”
“He can’t look at me because I caught him watching adult content last night,” I say primly. I figure ‘adult content’ sounds more professional than porn, and professional is what I’m aiming for. The antidote to the woman he was tongue deep in last night.
“But he’s twelve.” Confusion mars his face.
“Nearly thirteen, Sylvie says. Which is the age where boobs and gaming rules, according to my mother. And where personal hygiene and grooming becomes optional. She should know given she’s raised four of you lot. Males of the species,” I add for clarity.
“So it was just…”
“Boobs?” I offer as he flounders. I give a shrug, though I want to laugh.
Something tells me there aren’t many times I’ll catch M.
LDH discombobulated. “Well, there were boobs. A lot of boobs as it happens. Only one pair, but—” I shake my head and start again.
“It was a little more than that, I’m afraid. A little, er, harder core.”
“Porn.” The word jumps from his mouth like he’s just been punched in the gut. “But he’s just a boy.”
I shrug. I got nothin’.