Caught in the Act (Independence Falls 2)

Independence Day, 5:32 AM

“Of course I realize he’s your brother-in-law,” Dani said, grinning most maliciously as she dragged the chains across the deck to the mainmast. “In fact I’m counting on it as my express delivery system.” She wrapped a double length of chain around her waist. “My apologies for shamelessly exploiting you.”

“Seriously?” Julie laughed. “Trust me, I’ll try not to feel compromised.”

“Like me,” Dani said, her hair as red as the bloody blister of a sun rising over the Delaware. She yanked another length of chain around the mast. “But what can I do. I’m just a woman.”

“And I’m just a media whore,” Julie said. “And a bastard is a bastard is a bastard.” She nodded to her cameraman, flexing her shoulders as she leveled her gaze into the lens. “How far would you go to save your job?”

Two days later

L’hôtel Croisette Beach

Cannes

Pineapple, Marcel Mercier deduced, drifting awake under the noonday sun. A woman’s scent was always the first thing he noticed, as in the subtle fragrance of her soap, her perfumed pulse points, the lingering vestiges of her shampoo.

Mon Dieu. How he loved women.

“Marcel,” he heard, feeling a silky leg slide against his own.

He opened his eyes to his objet d’affection for the past three days. “Bébé . . .” he growled, brushing his lips across hers as she curled into him.

“Marcel, mon amour,” she cooed, fairly beaming with joy. “Tu m’as fait tellement heureuse.”

“What?” he said, nuzzling her neck. Her pineapple scent was driving him insane.

She slid her hand between his legs. “I said you’ve made me very happy.” Then she smiled. No—beamed.

He froze, mid-nibble. Oh no. Oh no.

She kissed him, her eyes bright. “I don’t care what Paris says—I’m wearing my grand-mère’s Brussels lace to our wedding. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

He stared at her. Had he really gone and done what he swore he’d never do again? He really needed to lay off the absinthe cocktails. “Mirabel, I didn’t mean to—”

“Why did you leave me last night?” she said, falling back against the chaise, her bare breasts heaving above the tiny triangle of her string bikini bottom. “Y

ou left so fast the maids are still scrubbing scorch marks from the carpet.”

Merde. He really ought to get his dard registered as a lethal weapon. He affected an immediate blitheness. “I had to take a call,” he said—his standard alibi—raking his gaze over her. She really was quite the babe. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

All at once she went to full-blown en garde, shoving her face into his. “Really. More like you couldn’t wait to get away from me. And after last night? After what you asked me?” Her enormous breasts rose, fell, her gaze slicing into his. “You said . . . You. Loved. Me.”

Had he? Christ. He needed to diffuse this. So he switched gears, summoning all his powers of seduction. “Mirabel. Chère.” He smiled—lethally, he knew—cradling her chin as he nipped the corner of her mouth. “But that call turned into another, then three, and before you knew it . . .” He traced his finger over the bloom of her breasts and down into the sweet, sweet cavern between them, his tongue edging her lip until she shivered like an ingénue. “You know damn well there’s only one way to wake a gorgeous girl like you.”

“You should’ve come back,” she said softly, a bit disarmed, though the edge still lingered in her voice. “You just should have.” She barely breathed it.

“How, bébé?” He licked the hollow behind her ear, and when she jolted, Marcel nearly snickered in triumph. Watching women falling for him nearly outranked falling into them. “Should I have slipped under the door?” he said, feathering kisses across her jawline. “Or maybe climbed up the balcony, calling ‘Juliet? Juliet?’ ”

She arched her neck and sighed, a deep blush staining her overripe breasts. Marcel fought a rush of disappointment. Truly, they were all so predictable. A bit of adulatory stroking and it was like they performed on cue. She pressed against his chest as he tugged the bikini string at her hip, her mouth opening in a tiny gasp.

“Mar-cel . . .” she purred.

He sighed inwardly. It was almost too easy. And that was the scary part.