Wanted: Wife (10 page)

I pulled the towel from my head and, shaking my wet hair, grabbed my lipstick.
No
, I thought dropping it back into my cosmetics case, ignoring my mascara and perfume as well. Andy Devine’s new wife was strictly utilitarian, no adornments necessary. So, as I left for the porch, sans make-up and expectations, I prepared myself for the passionless. But as soon as I stepped outside, something more feral took over.

Hunger
. My stomach growled. Audibly.

The little wooden table was now covered with white linen, and on it lay a couple kinds of cheeses, a baguette, sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, peaches, plums and two wine glasses. Everything looked beyond fresh and completely gorgeous. I tried to think of the last time I ate, which was likely around ten
AM,
when I had grabbed a latte and a banana before getting my hair done. Between my anxiety and the hours since, as it was now going on seven, I was beyond ravenous, so hungry I would’ve eaten the tablecloth if there hadn’t been food on it. I reached for a piece of cheese.

“Thought that’d get you out here.”

I jumped, dropping my hands to my sides. “What do you mean?”

Andy opened the screen door, letting it slap closed behind him. “Means I thought you’d fallen down the drain.” He held a red wine. “Cabernet?”

I loathed presumption. “No.”

“Something to eat?”

“No,” I repeated, piqued enough to be petulant.

“Hm,” he said, peering at me with curiosity. And I did the same. In fact, I had to try my damnedest to keep my eyes off of him. He was freshly showered, in jeans and a white shirt, his hair still damp. Where he had accomplished it all, I hadn’t a clue, but he looked delectable enough for a smorgasbord. I stepped away from the table, moving to look at the trees beyond.

“You’re not eating because you’re angry,” he said.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes. You are.” I could hear him sipping wine. “You’re angry at the rushed ceremony, the cow, Bucky chasing you into the lake, scraping your foot on the floorboard, getting the crap scared out of you, and the whole general state of this sorry excuse for a farm. But most of all . . .” I could hear him dropping things to a plate, and a moment later, he was behind me. “You’re angry with me.”

I inched away. “Really, I’m not.”

“Then you should be. A hell of a wedding day I’ve given you so far.”

The art museum, it wasn’t. But what had I expected? “You don’t owe me anything.”

He exhaled. Hard. “I owe you an apology. Will you forgive me?”

I turned, leaning back against the wall.
Good Lord, he was big
. And he was starting to unnerve me. “Andy, there’s nothing to forgive.”

“Then indulge me.” He lifted a peach slice. “Have something to eat.”

I could smell it: fragrant, luscious.
Like him
. Yet . . . “I told you—I’m not hungry.”

“Liar.” His eyes drooped to half-mast, and he leaned in, his breath on my cheek, scented cabernet. “They come from my own orchard.
Our
orchard. Taste one.”

The slice glistened in the shafted light, deep yellow and ruby-rimmed. He pinched it between his fingers, a tiny drip of juice hanging on. Suddenly my presumptions began to wither, not to mention my feigned disinterest. But I couldn’t let him unhinge me. “Believe me, I’m not hungry.”
But I was
.

“Just a taste.” He held it to my lips. “One taste . . .” My traitorous mouth cracked open, and that infinitesimal drop found its way inside. I swallowed.

“Tu sens si bon . . .”
he said softly, tracing the cool peach across my lips.

“O-Ohh . . .” I groaned, startled, as if caught on a live wire. I sucked it back.

“Ça y est, ma petite . . .”
he growled, grinning, feeding me another, and another.
“C’est bon, n’est-ce pas?”
He pinched another slice, a plum, leaning in to pin me against the wall. My heart thumped wildly, especially when he brushed his nose against my hair and whispered, “
Goûtes,
” before slipping the fruit between my trembling lips.

“
Goûtes,
” he breathed against my mouth, his thumb tracing my jaw line, my bones going to liquid. “
Goûtes-moi
.”

The dish crashed to the floor. My heart skipped a beat.

It was all I could do to think, breathe.
“Très belle . . . très belle . . .”
he murmured, his mouth falling over mine.

I don’t know if it was the French or the raw feel of his kiss, soft and cabernet-warmed, but when his tongue laced hungrily into mine it was like some crazy bomb went off in my head. For all of Andy’s previously stand-offish ways, he was suddenly all over me, covering me with kisses and enveloping me like a huge, hungry lion. The icon from afar evaporated before my eyes, and all at once he became real—a living, breathing testament of his desire for me.

I sank into him, no more capable of saving myself than if I were in the middle of the ocean without a ship. Not that I wasn’t willing—thrilled, in fact. I arched my neck and let him devour me, Andy kissing my eyes, my cheeks, his mouth sweet and searching and so wonderfully delicious I pressed into him, my hands riding up his chest.

“Tu es magnifique . . .”
he murmured, stroking my back as he trailed kisses down my neck, the slope of my shoulders, the growl of his lilting French an aphrodisiac like none other I’d ever imagined.
“Ma belle. Je veux être avec toi . . .”
he whispered, his breath hot against my skin as he kissed the swell of my breast.

“Andy . . . Andy . . .” I could barely choke his name out, his big hands encircling my waist as he trailed even lower, his tongue teasing my cotton-covered nipples into hardness.

“Je t’adore . . .”
He kissed each breast, sucking and nipping through the fabric as I writhed against him, clutching his hair.
“Je t’adore.”
He sank to his knees.

Andy lifted my dress, my panties coming down in one swift motion, pulling them over my bare feet before his hands cupped my bottom. My breath caught, my legs shaking as he trailed kisses from my belly to the soft inside of my thigh, where his first furtive tease nearly drove me into the wall. But he held on, pulling me closer, licking, sucking—I screamed, bucking violently, almost blind with pleasure.

He shot to his feet. “Julie . . . Julie . . .
ma femme
,” he murmured, his mouth covering mine, and I threw my arms around his neck, pressing hungrily to him. When he lifted me up, like instinct, I wrapped my legs around him. With his mouth still on mine he loosened himself, and drove himself inside me.

We both gasped: there were no words left,
en français
or otherwise.

Chapter Seven

Coming Up for Air

W
HEN WE FINISHED
we slumped to the floor, our bodies tangled together. He stared at me, breathless, perhaps equally amazed. “Jesus, Julie, I never thought I’d—”

I pressed a finger to his lips, understanding completely. “And I never thought I’d marry a man without sleeping with him first. What a nice surprise.”

He nipped my finger. “You’re saying you weren’t a virgin?”

“Ha!” I slid a bare leg across his exposed hip, reveling in the feel of him. “Does that shock or disappoint you?”

“Now, let me think . . .” He kissed the inside of my knee. “Disappoint, maybe.” He ran his hand up my thigh until I flinched, his eyes smoldering with wicked merriment. “There’s so many things I would have liked to teach you.”

“But I have a terrible memory,” I said, stretching back against the floor. “Perhaps you’ll need to refresh it?”

Andy smiled, arching over me. “Exactly the kind of refreshment I had in mind.”

When he bent to me, my reflection in his crystalline blue eyes, nothing could prepare me for his kiss—a sultry, portentous pass of his lips before he nudged mine open and claimed me. As gothic and beyond anachronistic as that sounded, how else could I explain it? When his muscular arms wrapped around me, I felt a raw, masculine prevalence I’d never felt in another man, refined yet distinctly feral. He was over me, around me, enveloping me, and suddenly out of reach of my own body.
Ma femme
took on an ominous new meaning. As his kisses plunged even deeper, his hands roaming the curves of my traitorously-aroused body, my mind spun to how vulnerable I really was. Even though we had just been intimate, I became acutely aware of the falling darkness, of how alone and deeply in the woods I was with this virtual stranger. For a moment, I even thought of Richard. Panic shot through me and I stiffened, moaning against his mouth as I palmed his chest, pushing him back.

He reacted immediately, breaking our kiss. “Julie . . .” he said, his eyes widened. “Did I . . .?” A look of horror spread over his face, his hands flying from me.

I pushed myself up, my heart pounding, twisting my dress back over me. “Andy—sorry, it’s just that you . . . you were kind of intense and I got a bit—” I pulled in my legs, waving him off. “Oh God. Nevermind.”

Even in the thin light I could see him pale. “Jesus. You’re scared to death.” He scrambled back and stood up. After a moment he offered his hand. I took it.

“Julie,” he said gravely, holding me out, “I came on too strong, too fast, and for that I’m deeply, deeply sorry. You’re very beautiful and I wanted you very badly, but on my life, I’d never do anything to hurt you. Do you believe me?”

Suddenly the idea of him having to ask sounded so ridiculous I was instantly ashamed. Practically speaking, if Andy were a latent Bluebeard he could’ve picked a more prosperous victim. And then there was the fact he’d called me
beautiful
. . .

I went to him, laying my head against his chest. “Oh, Andy, I’m just being stupid. I wanted you pretty badly myself. Matter of fact, I was more than a bit confused why it hadn’t happened sooner. Maybe that’s what weirded me out.”

He sighed, wrapping his arms around me. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. That is if you allow me to.”

What my mind had misconstrued my body remembered all too easily, from the lovely slickness between my legs to the way his scent fired every one of my receptors. “Oh, I will,” I said against the hollow of his throat. “I will.”

He laughed, a low, sexy growl, and kissed my forehead. “Then it’s a promise. But for now, why don’t we take care of something a little more immediate. Like the little matter of your very audible stomach.”

No fooling; I was ready to stuff my gullet like nobody’s business. “Then lead on, lord of the manor. Let’s sample the fruits of your efforts.”

“I hate to tell you,” he said as I took a seat at the little table, “but I haven’t yet reached that evolutionary plane. For now, I’m still stuck at hunter-gatherer. Aside from the obvious, everything on these platters was left by my father.”

Now was as good a time as any. “When did he die?” I asked, taking the wine he offered.

He smiled subtly, pouring his own. “First this,” he said, clinking my glass as he bent to kiss me. “Good luck, Mrs. Devine.”

His kiss was soft, lingering, sweet, so very different from our urgent clashing just minutes ago. I returned it with one of my own. “And to you, Mr. Devine. Or rather, as we’ve been so recently corrected to say, congratulations.”

Andy kissed each of my cheeks before ending with one more against my mouth, a meandering meeting of lips and tongue that drew a sigh right up from my toes. “It should have been champagne, but as you’ll find out soon enough, there’s a lot of things around here that should’ve been, but aren’t.”

My God, he’s such a good kisser
. . . “I’m up to the challenge,” I said, a bit dazed as I turned my attention to his little buffet. “You haven’t scared me off. Not yet.”

He raised his glass. “I’m glad to hear that,
ma petite
. I would very much like you to stick around awhile.”

I would have to make a note in my journal later concerning what a number Andy’s French asides did on me. But for now, I’d blame my current sensory spike on the gustatory delights he was offering—his tomatoes were astounding—and get to the business at hand. “About your dad . . .”

He took a bite of cheese and bread, washing it down with a swallow of wine. “My father spent his final years here as a fisherman, farmer, and ersatz taxidermist before he died two months ago from liver failure. You see, his real talent lay in how liberally he could tip a bottle.” His gaze shifted impassively to mine. “In other words,
mon père
was a drunk.”

And he said it as if being a drunk was just another paternal characteristic like having blue eyes or being left-handed. “So I guess your childhood was pretty awful.”

He shrugged. “Not exactly. I have memories of my father that are actually idyllic at times. You see, my parents’ brand of contention was a bit more cerebral. Most of the time they did a good job of keeping it out of my earshot.” He laughed, a short quick burst laced with irony. “It wasn’t until after my mother took me back to Le Havre for good that things really got interesting.”

This was potentially juicy stuff, but I had to appear curious, not eager. I turned the wine bottle, assessing the label, before I lifted it over my glass. “You said ‘back to Le Havre.’ I thought you were born right here?”

His thumb jutted toward the inside of the house. “I’m as American as you are. I was born right there in that bedroom. Though after I turned five my mother and I spent every summer in Le Havre until I was thirteen, and then we ended up staying.”

I stopped, mid-pour. “Did you know that was going to happen when you left?”

“No. A few years earlier my father had taken to commercial fishing off Barnegat Light while we were away. That year he decided I should come with him. But my mother wanted just one more summer with me abroad, so he relented. Then in August she informed him we were staying and soon after he came over to try to get her to come home.” He paused a minute, his face going hard. “It wasn’t pretty. Two weeks later, I was enrolled in boarding school in Geneva.”

“But did you want to stay there?” I finished my pour, then tilted the bottle toward him. “Didn’t anyone ask you?”