“I’ll buy you ten new dresses,” he said. Deacon pushed himself up out of the water and helped her up, too. He slipped out of his suit coat, wringing out the water before placing it over her shoulders.
“I don’t want more dresses,” she said, pressing her body to his seductively with the little boy long gone. A wicked glint lit her eyes as her lips curled into a deceptively sweet smile. “I just want you. Right now.”
Deacon swallowed hard. “I think this walk along the beach is over, don’t you?”
Nine
“Where are we going?” Cecelia asked.
Deacon smiled from the driver’s seat of his silver Renault Laguna. In France he drove a French car. It seemed appropriate. They were only about ten minutes outside the city, and she was already keen to know everything. “It’s a surprise.”
Cecelia pouted. “Isn’t it enough of a surprise to bring me to France on a whim in the first place?”
Perhaps. But last night, he’d gotten a sneak peek at the Cecelia he’d fallen in love with. There, lying in the surf, covered in muddy paw prints and soaked to the bone with seawater, he’d seen a glimpse of her. The radiant smile, the flushed cheeks, the weight of the world lifted from her shoulders in that moment... He wanted to capture that feeling in a bottle for her so she could keep it forever and pull it out whenever she needed to.
It also helped him realize he was on the right track with her. Getting her away from Royal was the best thing he could’ve done. It wasn’t enough, though. Now Deacon wanted to get her even farther from the city, farther from people, to see what she could be like if she could truly let loose. There was nothing like the fields of Provence for that.
It was the perfect day for a picnic. The skies were clear and a brilliant shade of blue. It was a warm spring day, with a light breeze that would keep them from getting overheated in the sun. It was the kind of day that beckoned him outside, and the chance to make love to Cecelia in a field of wildflowers under this same sky was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.
The hotel’s kitchen had put together a picnic basket for them, and he’d hustled her into the car without a word. Cecelia hadn’t seen him put the basket and blanket in the trunk, so she was stewing in her seat, wondering what they were up to. He liked torturing her just a little bit. She was always in charge of everything at her company. Today, he wanted her to just let him take care of her and enjoy herself for once.
Of course, if he’d told her they were going to Grasse, she wouldn’t know what that was. It was a tiny, historic French town surrounded by lavender fields that fueled their local perfumeries. It was too early for the lavender to bloom—that wouldn’t happen until late summer—but there would still be fields of grasses and wildflowers for them to sit in and enjoy with a lovely bottle of Provençal rosé.
He found a tiny gravel road that turned off into a field about a mile before they reached Grasse. He followed it, finding the perfect picnic spot beneath an old, weathered tree. He turned off the car and smiled at Cecelia’s puzzled expression.
“Where are we?”
Deacon got out of the car and walked around to let her out. “Provence. It’s the perfect afternoon for a picnic in the French countryside with a lovely lady such as yourself.”
Cecelia smiled and took the hand he offered to climb out of the Renault. She was looking so beautiful today. Her long blond hair was loose in waves around her shoulders. It was never like that in Texas. She always kept it up in a bun or twist of some kind that was all business, no pleasure. He liked it down, where he could run his fingers through the golden silk of it.
She was also wearing a breezy sundress with a sweater that tugged just over her shoulders. The dress had a floral pattern of yellows and greens that pulled out the mossy tones in her eyes. It clung to her figure in a seductive but not overtly sexual way that made him want to slip the sweater off her shoulders and kiss the skin as he revealed it, inch by inch.
“It’s beautiful h
ere,” she said as she tilted her face to the sun and let the breeze flutter her hair.
Deacon shut the door and opened the trunk. He handed her a blanket and pulled out the picnic basket. “Let’s go over by the tree,” he suggested.
They spread the blanket out and settled down onto it together. “In the summertime,” he explained, “these fields will be overflowing with purple lavender. The scent is heavenly.”
She looked around them, presumably trying to picture what it would look like in only a few months. “I can see why you choose to live here, Deacon. I mean, who wouldn’t want to live in France if they had the chance? It’s beautiful.”
“The scenery is nice,” he admitted, “but it can’t hold a candle to your beauty. Texas seems to have the market on that, unfortunately.”
Cecelia blushed and wrinkled her nose. She shook her head, dismissing his compliment. “You’re sweet, but I don’t believe a word of it. Not compared to something like this.” She looked away from him to admire the landscape and avoid his gaze.
There were days when Deacon wished he could throttle her parents. She was one of the most perfect creatures he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting, and she didn’t believe him because the Morgans were always pushing her to be better. That was impossible in his eyes. “You don’t believe me? Why not? Am I prone to hollow compliments?”
“No, of course not. It’s just because,” she began, looking down at her hands instead of staring him in the eye, “this is one of the most beautiful places in the world. People dream their whole lives of visiting a place like this one day. I’m just a pretty girl.”
“You’re more than just a pretty girl, Cecelia.” Deacon leaned in and dipped a finger beneath her chin to tilt her face up to his. He wanted to tell her how smart and talented and amazing she was, but he could tell by the hard glint in her eye that she wouldn’t believe him. Could she not tell by the way he responded to her touch? How he looked at her like she was the most delectable pastry in the window of Ladurée?
“What do we have to eat?” she asked, pulling away from his touch and focusing on the picnic basket.
“I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted, letting the conversation drop for now. “The head chef put this together for me, so it’s a surprise for us both.”
Deacon opened the lid and reached inside, pulling out one container after the next. There was niçoise salad with hard-boiled eggs, olives, tuna, potatoes and green beans. Another contained carrot slaw with Dijon mustard and chives. Brown parchment paper was wrapped around a bundle of savory puff pastries stuffed with multicolored grape tomatoes, goat cheese and drizzled with a reduction of balsamic vinegar and honey. Another bundle of crostini was paired with a ramekin of chicken pâté.