Authors: Erica Spindler
They didn't speak again until Veronique realized that they'd driven out of the downtown area and that Brandon was headed for Slidell. "I hate to burst your bubble, but you're going to find more photographers that way." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder.
"I thought we'd stop for lunch first," he said easily.
Veronique lifted her eyebrows in surprise. The man was crazier than she was. "Okay, I'll bite. Why are we going to lunch at ten in the morning?"
"We're not." His tone was amused. "By the time we reach the Gulf coast, it'll be noon."
"The Mississippi Gulf coast?"
"Yeah. Ever heard of Mary Mahoney's?"
"No." She cleared her throat to hide a laugh. "What about the photographer?"
"A ruse to get you to go to lunch with me."
For a moment she sat in surprised silence. But for a moment only. Then her lips began to twitch, her eyes crinkled at the corners, and she started to laugh. "Don't think you're going to get out of this so easily. You promised me a photographer, and I'm going to hold you to it."
For the rest of the trip they talked easily, discussing Louisiana politics, swapping names of favorite Cajun restaurants, exchanging stories about previous visits to the coast. And as they did, Veronique fell more under Brandon's spell. He was charming, intelligent and insightful. She found herself noticing and admiring things about him she hadn't before: the way his lips curved right before he laughed and how that laugher softened his chiseled features, the way his thick dark hair curled at his collar and ears and that his was the most perfect nose in profile that she'd ever seen.
In what felt like no time at all she caught her first sight of the Gulf of Mexico. As it had everytime since she was a child, the shimmering expanse of blue took her breath away. And like the child of so many years ago, she stuck her head out the window and breathed in the damp air.
"If you'd like," Brandon said softly, touched by her rapt expression, "we can stop and take a walk."
"Yes," she murmured, not looking at him, not being able to tear her eyes from the picture in front of her. "Yes, I'd like that."
A short time later they stepped onto the sand and walked toward the water. It wasn't a pretty beach—the sand wasn't white and it was littered with bits of driftwood, hunks of seaweed and trash—but she loved it anyway. The seashore had always been her haven, a place where she could go to feel absolutely contented and at peace. Veronique glanced up at Brandon, thinking that it seemed somehow right that she should be sharing this special place with him.
They walked in companionable silence for several seconds. Veronique broke it first. "Listen," she whispered. "It's beach music."
The pink tassels on her hat swayed as she moved. Brandon found himself watching the play of light and shadow on her delicately-boned face. At first he didn't realize she'd spoken. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Beach music," Veronique repeated. They passed two little boys who were noisily building a sand castle. She smiled and said hello then looked back up at Brandon. "The sound of the water, the cry of the birds, the squeals of those children." Her expression softened. "We used to come here every summer," she continued, not expecting or waiting for a comment. "Before all the casinos changed the coast. There's a picture of me playing tag with the waves." She laughed at the memory. "I was four and had on this bathing suit with ruffles across the seat."
"Sounds cute."
"Yeah, I was a cute kid."
They stopped at the point where dry sand became wet and stood looking out at the horizon. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and looked up at him. "I've always loved the water. Pools, lakes, the ocean—" laughter bubbled to her lips "—bath tubs. It makes no difference to me. Maman used to call me her little porpoise. I'd play for hours without tiring, then cry for hours after we went home. I used to wonder if..." Veronique's voice trailed off, and she looked back out at the Gulf. Several seconds passed before she said lamely, "Maman hates the water."
Brandon's breath caught. She looked so young and so vulnerable standing there facing that unforgiving expanse of blue and her own memories. He reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered there, tracing the ear's contour, finding the pulse that beat wildly behind the lobe. "What did you wonder?" he asked, although he already knew. For a second he thought she wouldn't answer, then her eyes met his almost defiantly.
"I wondered if my father also loved the water. I wondered if he was a strong swimmer, if he would have come to the beach with me and Maman and sat in the sun with us drinking lemonade and laughing." Her eyes filled, but she didn't look away.
"I'm sorry," Brandon whispered, touched by her strength. Cupping her face in his hands, he stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. He bent his head and tenderly brushed his lips over her eyelids, her forehead and, finally, her lips.
Veronique's chest tightened at the sheer sweetness of the gesture, and the tears that filled her eyes threatened to spill over. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and cling to him. She longed to cry out the fear and loneliness she'd felt so often when growing up. But to do so would be to fully expose herself, and she couldn't take that chance.
She willed away the tears and squared her shoulders. It took all her strength, but she stepped away from his comforting hands. "Why should you be sorry?" she asked, a catch in her voice. "You had no part in my past. This has nothing to do with you." The tears threatened to fall again, and she turned and started running back toward the car.
He felt like a heel; he felt like a fraud. He went after her anyway. He grabbed her arm and swung her back around. "Don't shut me out, Veronique." His voice lowered. "Trust me."
"I can't." Her voice was high and breathless.
"Trust me," he said again, drawing her toward him. Her hands splayed against his chest, her back arched, and her head fell back. The hat dropped to the sand.
This had nothing to do with gaining her trust, Brandon acknowledged, his eyes lowering to her mouth. This had to do with a hammering heart and swimming senses. It had to do with the scent of her hair and the taste of her lips. And it had to do with need, dark and desperate and insistent.
The need was mirrored in her eyes, just as urgent but with a trace of fear. Brandon knew it wasn't him she feared, but her own response to him. The pulse beat wildly in her throat. He pressed his lips there, lingering over the soft, fragrant flesh. His blood swam as she moaned and moved against him.
Veronique's eyes fluttered shut as his tongue made a damp path over her collarbone. The breath shuddered past her parted lips as he slipped his hands underneath her crop top to stroke her back. She knew this was madness, but she'd lived on madness before and thrived. It was insanity, but she'd been called crazy too many times to count. Despite their differences and her fears, she wanted him. She gripped his shoulders tightly, silently begging him to kiss her.
And he did. His mouth sought hers, racing over it hungrily. Veronique tangled her fingers in his hair, drawing him closer, deepening the kiss. Their tongues met, mated and retreated, then started the frenzied dance again.
She hadn't known passion could be like this. She'd thought it pleasant, nice. If passion was pleasant and love-making nice, then what was this absolute abandon, this maelstrom of sensation she was experiencing now? She felt as if she'd been shattered into a billion pieces, then put back together again—better, more whole, than before. A thread of panic wound through her as she realized she would never be the same.
Veronique stood on tiptoe and pressed her body to his. She felt his arousal in the heat of his body and the urgency of his hands, and her fingers tightened in his hair. His teeth scraped against her cheek as he dragged his mouth across to her ear. It was a moment before she realized he'd said something. Veronique made a sound of protest and tried to pull his mouth back to hers. When he resisted, her eyelids fluttered up. His gray eyes were stormy with need and checked desire, his breath short and ragged with passion. "Trust me," he murmured again, almost fiercely.
Veronique dropped her hands to his chest. His heart beat wildly under her palm, and she curled her fingers into the soft weave of his pullover. Comprehension was slow, insinuating itself into her drugged brain like smoke through the crack under a door. He wasn't asking for her body, she knew. He wanted something even more precious from her. She couldn't afford to give it to him, but was afraid she hadn't the strength to refuse. Her only defense was to move away from him now. She acknowledged the truth of that, drew a deep shuddering breath and stayed where she was.
Brandon held his body still as he gazed down at her face. Nothing about her had changed—her body was still nestled against his, warm, pliant and inviting; her lips, still damp from his tongue, were softly parted; her fingers still clung to him—but he'd lost part of her. He sensed her withdrawal as surely as if she'd shouted it, and he would settle for nothing less than everything.
Brandon wrapped a wisp of her hair around his index finger. It was soft and shiny, and he knew if he held it to his nose, he would catch the tang of lemon. He gave in to the urge, and the scent enveloped him. "Your hat fell off," he murmured finally.
"I know." Her eyes, glazed and hungry, never left his.
His fingers moved in lazy circles on her naked back; he wasn't aware of the movement. "We should go."
"Yes." Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. "We'd better."
Brandon groaned and said more sharply than he'd intended, "Stop looking at me like that, Veronique. I'm trying to be a gentleman."
The last of passion's lethargy lifted, and Veronique's eyes cleared. She had no idea why he stopped; she only knew he had. She also knew she'd made a total fool of herself.
Veronique stepped away from him and bent down to retrieve her hat. She slapped it against her thigh to knock the sand off, then looked back up at him. "Didn't anyone ever tell you, Brandon, that nice guys finish last?" She turned and walked back to the car, aware of Brandon's eyes on her and of the exact moment he began to follow.
He caught her just as her senses registered the heat of the door handle. He planted himself behind her, trapping her between him and the car. There was nowhere she could go, so she turned to face him. A tremor moved up her spine at his furious expression, then she tilted her chin and met his gaze evenly. She arched one delicate eyebrow and moved her eyes over him impudently. "You wanted something?"
He wanted something all right, wanted so badly he hurt. And she knew it. "Don't push me, Veronique."
She splayed her hands against his chest and leaned toward him. "And what are you going to do if I... push?"
His gaze lowered to her mouth, then lazily dropped to her breasts, lingering there until her nipples hardened and she shifted uncomfortably. When he'd made his point, his eyes returned to hers. "I wasn't being nice. I was being selfish. Because when I have you, Veronique... it'll be all of you."
"I wouldn't be so sure," she flung back.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Another challenge?" he asked quietly. "You
do
like to live dangerously." He dropped his arms and went around the car.
The blood drained from her face. He was right—she'd challenged him, his masculinity. Like a petulant teenager, she'd lashed out at him when he'd ended the embrace. Because she hadn't wanted it to end, because she'd been so carried away with sensations that she'd forgotten all about who he was and who she was and being careful.
Veronique stubbed her toe into the sand. She deserved his anger; he deserved her gratitude—he'd saved her from herself. She stared out at the Gulf for one brief moment, then got into the car. The silence crackled between them, "I was wrong," she finally said, looking straight ahead because she wasn't sure she could look him straight in the eye.
"Yeah," he muttered, then under his breath added, "but so was I."
* * *
The sun was dipping in the west as the New Orleans skyline came into view. Veronique sneaked a peek at Brandon. They hadn't spoken much since leaving the beach. They'd gone to Mary Mahoney's—a restaurant fashioned to look like an Irish pub—for lunch and feasted on huge, juicy hamburgers, onion rings and cold beer. Even then they'd merely exchanged pleasantries. Yet their silence hadn't been uncomfortable or angry, Veronique mused, but rather one of two people lost in their own thoughts.
After lunch they'd wandered around the beach community, stopping to browse through touristy shops. Veronique smiled to herself as she thought of the tacky painted starfish she'd bought to set on her kitchen window ledge and of Brandon's expression when she'd insisted on buying it. "It's been airbrushed, for God's sake," he'd said, laughter in his voice.
"And sprinkled with glitter." She handed the starfish to the shop's salesperson, then dug around in her tote for her wallet. "It makes a statement."
"An overpriced one," he whispered in her ear.
"Yeah? You could say the same thing about that car you drive."
"Okay, if you want to compare a Porsche and a trinket..."
The rest of the afternoon had slipped away, and now, as the city came into view, she realized she didn't want it to end. She released her breath in a small, unconscious sigh.