Carnal in Cannes by Jianne Carlo

pronto. I"ll be kicked to death by a grasshopper if that ain"t the truth.” Harry"s lips crooked up as she pursed her lips and those three little worry lines that were cuter than a ladybug formed. “That means I promise I"ll make it happen. Let"s get this show on the road, Martine.”
    He took her hand from his neck, placed a hot, moist kiss in the center of her palm, twined their fingers together, and turned to the side. Waving one hand to the suite"s central area, he quipped, “Shall we?”

    52
    Jianne Carlo

    Martine murmured, “This grasshopper saying means I promise? Truly the English language is nonsensical.”
    As she took a step forward, Harry remembered her bare ass. “Wait.” He went into the bathroom, snagged a towel, and draped it around her neck.
    “I am wearing a T-shirt,” she protested. “The rest must be bare.”
    A quick check revealed the white cotton fell to her midthigh and he said, “No one but me sees your nekkid butt, sugar. Let"s move.”
    Five men and Suresh stood in the vicinity of a gurney. Harry recognized the examination table from the ugly stirrups attached to it. His stomach churned and burned like a dryer switched to the superheat cycle.
    Suresh must have heard Harry"s boots on the marble, because his head whipped to the side, and his chest heaved a great big sigh Harry heard from nine feet away.
    Before Harry could open his mouth to utter a greeting, Suresh stood in front of them. “Did you tell him about the theft?” He focused his gaze on Martine.
    “Oui. He knows.”
    “Where"s Delora, the devil"s mistress?” Harry asked, sending Martine a quick wink.
    “You fucking piece of shit!”
    The screeched words splintered the murmured conversation of the five men in front of them.
    Harry spun around, and only his fast reflexes saved him from a few stitches.
    The oriental vase speeding toward his face bounced off the side of his head as he hugged Martine and lunged right.
    Delora Ford flew across the room, fingers splayed, scarlet nails aimed at Harry"s eye sockets.
    He shoved Martine into a nearby chair and grabbed for Delora"s wrists.
    Delora spit at him, and spittle sprayed over his nose and mouth. Transferring both her wrists into one hand, Harry growled, “Do that again and I will have you arrested for assault.” He twisted Delora"s hands behind her back and whirled her around. “Suresh, grab me one of those cords around the drapes.”
    “Don"t you even think about it, you son of a bitch,” Delora barked. “And don"t for a second think that smashing my cell means you"ve destroyed the evidence. I can prove you wrong. I"ll prove you violated your daddy"s will. I have plenty of backups of that picture.”

    Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

    53

    Chapter Six

    Martine returned to the living area to find that the doctors, the lawyers, Suresh, and Delora Ford had departed. A grin lifted the corners of her mouth as the image of Delora"s expression when Harry offered each doctor a hundred thousand euros if they completed the exam within five minutes did a little carnival dance through her brain.
    Did he treat every woman like a precious gem? Martine hugged her arms and skipped the last couple of steps before halting to study the man who"d paid a million euros to take her virginity. The man who"d protected her the way a husband should.
    The man who"d donned a hero"s mantle with that one bribe—in her eyes, anyway.
    Harry lounged on the couch, his head resting on linked fingers jammed into the padded upholstery. Long legs crossed at booted ankles lay on top of a glass coffee table littered with magazines. Wearing the familiar weathered cowboy hat tilted at a jaunty angle, faded denim jeans, a charcoal T-shirt, and the brown boots with the tarnished silver buckle, he stared at the carved crown molding decorating the ceiling. Did he ride horses? Roam a range? Beat off enemies with one hand?
    Fight for the downtrodden?
    There are no heroes left, Martine Bellamy. Stop being