Barefoot in Lace (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 2) Page 14

  And, no surprise, she had the perfect reply.

  “And wigs and hats and false eyelashes weigh too much?”

  “Essentially.”

  “I don’t wear makeup,” Alex announced. “My mom said it would make my skin break out more.”

  “She was right, especially the cheap stuff,” Gussie replied. “I can probably find something that wouldn’t hurt your skin.”

  “Then what should I be free of on the freecation?”

  Gussie shrugged. “Whatever feels like too much to carry around for a while.”

  She considered that, nodding, then her mouth turned down. “I guess, you know, thinking about my mom.”

  “You shouldn’t stop that,” Gussie said, leaning closer to take both of Alex’s hands. “But I’m certain she wouldn’t want you to be sad in France. Is there anything else you want to be free of? Bad habits or things that make you feel not so great?”

  How did she come up with these amazingly simple ways to talk to Alex? Who dreamed up a freecation and made it sound like so much fun that he wanted to take one?

  “No, there’s nothing else,” Alex said, but she didn’t sound too sure of that. Whatever she might want to unload, Tom was pretty sure Gussie would figure it out. “How about you, Uncle Tommy? What are you going to be free of on this trip?”

  “Your uncle lives his life on a freecation,” Gussie said when he didn’t answer immediately. “So he’s here to help keep us on track.”

  “But you have to give up something,” Alex insisted. “There has to be something you want to be free of while we’re here.”

  “I guess I’m giving up being alone all the time,” he admitted.

  Fact was, he’d have two people to worry about, a place he’d call “home” for a while, and the closest thing to a family he’d had since…a long time.

  “You sure you can handle that, big boy?” Gussie asked with a nudge to his elbow.

  No, he wasn’t sure at all. “Guess I’m about to find out.”

  * * *

  Jet lag wrecked Alex, but Gussie was too excited to sleep once they settled into the luxurious apartment in Nice. Although it wasn’t light yet when their driver had picked them up at the airport and chauffeured them through the streets of Nice, Gussie had inhaled the incredible city nestled into the Côte d’Azur. The sedan’s headlights flashed on glimpses of old European buildings with columns and arches mixed with wrought iron-laced balconies. The streets were wide, brick and, in spite of the predawn hour, already alive with vendors setting up food and flower stands.

  Their apartment was in the middle of town, up three flights of stairs to one of two units on the top floor. Inside, they found a spacious living area, modern kitchen, and three bedrooms, beautifully decorated. French doors in the living room opened onto a balcony that spanned the length of the apartment, offering an unobstructed view of the lights out to the blackness of the Mediterranean.

  Gussie nearly cried at the beauty and kicked herself for even thinking about turning down this experience.

  After a hot shower, she eyed the fluffy comforter and bed, but despite the fact that her body thought it was midnight, it was six a.m. in the south of France. She was restless and ready for the day.

  Assuming Tom and Alex were both in their rooms asleep, Gussie wandered into the living area of the darkened apartment, drawn by the tantalizing scent of…coffee?

  Yes. Coffee. Tom must have brewed it, she decided, as she poured a generous cupful, not caring that there’d be no sleep this morning. She’d nap later. This was all too irresistible.

  Taking the cup to the open balcony doors, she stood long enough to enjoy a warm breeze and the salty scent of the sea. And soap, drawing her gaze from the breathtaking vista outside to the one lounging on the sofa.

  His own mug in hand, Tom wore nothing but thin cotton sleep pants, his hair still wet from a shower and dribbling water over his bare shoulders and chest, his head back and eyes closed.

  “Long way from Barefoot Bay,” he said without opening his eyes.

  “It is a bay, though.” She gazed out to the first lavender rays of sunrise over the Mediterranean, taking in the wide curve of the shore.

  “You’re looking at Angels’ Bay or Bay of the Angels, depending on where you’re from.”

  “That has to be the prettiest piece of real estate on the planet.”

  “One of them,” he said with the confidence of a well-traveled man. And something else tinged his voice. Sadness? Maybe exhaustion.

  “I thought you’d be asleep, since our bodies think it’s midnight.”

  “My body knows what time it is,” he said. “And every artist who has ever been in this city knows about the light. I’m waiting for it.”

  “The light?”

  He turned to her, his eyes flickering as he noticed she wore nearly as little as he did. A cotton tank and wispy shorts, which had seemed perfect for the warm summer night a few minutes ago, felt woefully thin when he looked at her that way.

  “C’mere, Pink.” He gestured toward the space next to him. “I’ll tell you about the light in Nice. It’s special.”

  The nickname reminded her that she wasn’t pink…or black or purple or even blond anymore. Her natural hair was still damp and pulled back into the hasty braid that she always slept in, with no effort to hide her scar. But she could have been shaved bald and covered with charcoal, and that wouldn’t have stopped her from taking that spot next to him on the couch. There, she had to fight the urge to cuddle closer and trace her fingers over the swirls and curls of dark ink on his arm and bare chest.

  He tucked hair behind his ear and gave her a half smile, lifting his mug. “Glad you found the coffee.”

  “Called to me like a siren song.”

  “The coffee here is amazing. And the food. And the wine.” His eyes shuttered as he took a deep inhale. “And the lemon soap you used.”

  “I almost took a bite of the bar,” she admitted.

  “Get used to it,” he told her. “Everything in Nice is so achingly perfect that you want to eat it.”

  Like you, she thought as she devoured every inch of his face with her eyes. He looked serious this morning, his whiskers making his chiseled cheeks look dark, his wet hair screaming for her fingers to comb through it.

  “Tell me about the light,” she whispered.

  “You’re going to see it for yourself in a few minutes, and I suspect you have a good enough eye to know what you’re looking at.” He sighed, draping his arm behind her, looking out to the scenery beyond them. “It’s the light that called to Cézanne and Chagall. Light that inspired Henri Matisse to make this his home. There is something wistful and tender about the sunlight on the Mediterranean and something magical about the orange and coral buildings and the sky. The light in Nice is unlike anywhere else on earth.”

  He grew silent, but she felt he wanted to say more, so she waited, almost feeling him tense.

  “It’s the original portokali sky,” he finally said. “Do you know what that is?”

  She thought about the words, familiar enough, but her connection couldn’t be what he meant. “Portokali Sky’s the name of a line of bags and accessories I love. Very beachy and bright.”

  “Probably named for the Greek expression. The Greeks used to roam this city in ancient days, and they know a good sunrise and sunset. Portokali sky means ‘orange sky,’ but it’s a special kind of orange, heartbreaking and brief, that comes on with a sudden intensity and is gone before you’ve had time to…to truly appreciate what you had.” It sounded like his voice was about to crack, but he covered that with a sip of coffee.

  Light made him emotional, she thought, which was probably why he was a master at his art. Something had made him emotional.

  “Anyway,” he said, composure firmly back in place. “You’re about to see one.”

  She turned toward the sky, aware of the very first hint of color floating over the horizon, the shadows on the hillsides, and the steeples and tal
ler buildings stretched like fingers reaching up to God.

  “I’m happy to be here,” she whispered under her breath.

  He curled his fingers over her shoulder, tickling her skin. “Good.”

  The words floated over her like the light on the city of Nice, soft and sweet and a little unexpected. “Are you glad I’m here?”

  He cocked an eyebrow as if he had no time for that stupid question.

  “It’s a legit question,” she said. “Wouldn’t you rather be here alone, free, without the responsibility of Alex and me?”

  He didn’t answer, staring at the view, thinking. “I’m a little surprised by it, too,” he finally said, turning to melt her with his intense blue gaze. “But I wouldn’t want to be here alone. I can’t say that I understand why, but it’s true.”

  “Maybe you don’t like that loner life as much as you think you do.”

  “Or maybe I just like you.” He sounded wistful, and amazed.

  She leaned in to kiss him, tasting coffee and mint and sunrise and his sincerity. Unable to resist the temptation any longer, she splayed her hand over his chest, surprised to feel the accelerated rate of his heartbeat.

  He moaned into her mouth, pulling her closer. “Kissing you when the sun comes up is perfection.”

  In silent agreement, they paused in the kissing to put their coffee cups on the tables beside them, then settled deeper into the couch and each other.

  His tongue slipped over hers, so sweet and quick it sent a thousand lightning flashes through her body, a soft whimper escaping as he caressed her arm and shoulder and slid his hand down to her breasts.

  As she trailed kisses down his neck, he whispered, “Look, Gussie. Look.”

  She sighed into the next kiss, lifting her head to sneak a peek at the view, her body torn between the beauty and fire of the vision and the rising desire that made her want to close her eyes and let him touch her. Everything was bathed in a peachy tone right then. The world, this man, this incredible prelude to making love.

  She clung to his head, his neck, his shoulders, taking a breath to inhale it all. He eased one tank top strap over her shoulder, finding new spots to burn with his kisses.

  White heat arced through her, melting every cell, pooling need low in her belly. Without a word, he pushed her down to the soft cushions and got on top of her, his erection pressing against her stomach.

  “Tommy,” she whispered, grabbing two handfuls of hair and lifting his face so she could look at him.

  He moaned, and not with pleasure. “I hate that name.”

  “Why? I think it’s kind of hot.”

  He closed his eyes and went back to kissing her neck, rolling against her as if his hard-on could shut her up if his kisses couldn’t.

  “Why do you hate it?” she asked as he dragged her tank top up to gain another form of access to her bare breasts.

  “Why do you talk when we’re making out?”

  “Because I want to know you.”

  “Well, I want to know you, too. So hush.” He had her top all the way up, her breasts fully exposed. “Oh.” It was barely a breath, barely a whisper, but so full of awe and admiration that Gussie felt her throat close up with emotion.

  “You’ve seen me before.”

  “Not in this light. Light from heaven, light like nothing else on earth.”

  The sunrise was even more powerfully orange now, spilling tones of ginger and persimmon over the rooftops of Nice. “So, so pretty.”

  “Yes, it is.” He wasn’t looking at the sky. Instead, he flicked his tongue over her nipple, sucking and licking, pulling pleasure and sweet grunts of need from her throat. His hair brushed her skin, exactly the way she’d imagined it would.

  The feathery touch tickled and teased and made her crazier.

  Finally, he lifted his head and met her gaze, the shadows of his face stark and stunning in the light.

  The light! She could see it now—see what it did to everything it touched. Like a sprinkle of something divine, the light of Nice made everything more exquisite, including the man in her arms. Dear God, he was stunning.

  “I’ve never kissed a more beautiful man,” she confessed.

  “It’s the light,” he said.

  “No, it’s the man.”

  “It’s the light,” he repeated, dragging his hand lower, over her belly, down to the ribbon drawstring, the ends of that grosgrain as frayed as her nerve endings. “Let me touch you,” he whispered.

  She barely breathed, “Yes.”

  He snaked his hand between them, sliding hot fingers lower and letting out a satisfied sigh when he realized she wore nothing but the sleep shorts.

  With a kiss on her cheek and a groan of desire, he stroked her once, enough to make her hips rise in precious agony.

  “Tommy.”

  He laughed, dry and mirthless. “You know what I’m going to do if you keep calling me that?”

  “I hope so.” Bowing her back, she gave his fingers entrance to her body, gripping his biceps for some kind of stability.

  “You like that?”

  She couldn’t answer as the first torturous waves of an orgasm threatened.

  “Pink,” he repeated.

  She shuddered. “Yeah?”

  “No, not you.” His fingers stilled as he kissed her cheek again, using his mouth to make her face turn toward the view. “Now the light is pink.”

  She managed to open her eyes and inhale in pure wonder. That color. That color. She almost sat up, but he had her securely under him, his hands starting their assault again.

  Everything hurt in the best possible way. Her eyes ached from the beauty of the view. Her body twisted with the need to release itself against him. Her fingers throbbed from squeezing his muscles so hard. And her heart…oh, Lord, her heart was one big pain in her chest.

  He stroked her again, forcing her to divide her appreciation between her body and the outside world. Gussie blinked at the sight, her senses assailed by the splendor, her body under siege by his touch and a wholly different splendor.

  His hand worked its magic, like the sky, and Gussie watched the world explode in a rainbow of tropical pastels until she had to close her eyes and surrender to the colors in her head, and the pressure and pain and pleasure as her body rocked and came helplessly.

  “That was beautiful,” she managed to whisper.

  He pressed his lips to her cheek. “So are you.”

  God help her, she was starting to believe him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Citrus. Sweet lemon and tangy lime. The smell invaded Tom’s nose and danced through his senses, waking him slowly. Warm skin and an unforgiving morning erection fought for attention against soft hair on his arm and the sweet curves of a woman pressed against him.

  Tom blinked his eyes open, and even with his back to the railing and sky, he could tell that it was near-noonday sun that drenched the balcony, hot and relentless despite the breeze that floated from the Mediterranean.

  Well, there were shittier ways to wake up than outside on the Côte d’Azur with a sexy woman in his arms. Gussie was pinned between him and the back of the sofa, still on her back, her eyes firmly shut and each breath steady and slow, in the depths of jet-lagged sleep.

  They hadn’t taken things any further, too relaxed to move into his bedroom and too out in the open to continue what they’d started. Anyway, they’d both fallen sound asleep.

  He didn’t move for a moment, then gave in to the urge to stroke some strands of hair off her face in the hopes that she’d wake slowly like he had. But she sighed and turned her head, her honey-gold hair sliding over her arm. And her scar was suddenly right in front of his face.

  The scar from the night that had shaped her. He could see it, and it didn’t bother him a bit. What would she think of the scars he hid from her?

  He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable—the memory of another woman, with black eyes and ebony hair, with a hearty laugh and a throaty voice.

 
But that woman didn’t appear in his mind. When he inhaled the citrus scent, he wasn’t transported to the hills of Karpathos, to a kitchen full of raucous voices and a family that lived and loved and laughed with such passion.

  He smelled sweet Gussie, a woman who would appreciate all that, but didn’t have it.

  He studied the burn scar, the cause of her emptiness and insecurities. He wanted to touch it, but didn’t, instead studying the shape—roughly the outline of the continent of Australia—and the size, about four and a half inches in diameter.

  It had to have been a doozy of a burn. He’d done a little research after she told him about it, learning that the burn had to have been third or fourth degree if a hair transplant was impossible. It was high enough on the crown that it was difficult, even with the long, thick hair she had, to cover it completely. One good gust of wind, and it would be out there for the world to see.

  Which was no doubt why she wore those pain-in-the-ass wigs. Well, now she was on freecation. No wigs or makeup, just morning make-out sessions and lazy naps in the sunshine.

  He placed a light, gentle kiss on her shoulder, but that didn’t get so much as a change in her breathing. Getting up very slowly, he inched off the sofa without making a sound, reaching over the back for a cotton afghan. He covered her to protect her from the sun and because the gesture felt natural and right.

  After he did, he stroked her hair and carefully eased some locks over the back of her head, covering the scar to protect it from the direct sun. He took one more look at her and turned, smacking right into Alex.

  “Whoa,” he exclaimed quietly. How long had she been there? He didn’t ask, and she didn’t offer, staring up at him with a gaze that looked softer and more vulnerable than usual.

  For some reason, it felt like progress, and he wanted to grab that with both hands.

  “It’s not so bad, is it?” she asked.

  For a second, he couldn’t imagine what she was talking about, then her gaze shifted, and he followed, landing on the hair that covered the scar.

  “Not at all,” he agreed. “Come on, let’s let her sleep.”

  He ushered Alex back inside, closing the French doors behind him. “How are you feeling?” he asked.