Carnal in Cannes by Jianne Carlo Page A

foolish.
    Still reeling from the way he"d treated her in the bathroom and during the exam, as if she mattered to him, Martine held her breath and froze in place, hoping he hadn"t noticed her presence. She studied the curve of his earlobe; the piratical earring winked in the light streaming through the open French doors. Her eyes traced a jawline as hard as the marble sculptures pictured on the Marseille Museum tourist brochures, and a scalding shiver warmed her skin from head to toe.
    Never had a man shattered her controlled reactions before. Why him?
    It’s all so confusing . Martine chewed the inside of one cheek. Do I feel I can trust you because we fornicated? Because you will pay me the money to save Grandmère? Or because you make me feel cherished?
    His head crooked her way, and he gifted her with the lopsided grin that set in flight all the butterflies no one could ever prove existed inside her belly. Heat swarmed in all directions, dissembling across her flushed cheeks and forehead, sprinting rib by rib, and splaying sideways, pearling her nipples taut.
    “A Texas silver dollar for your thoughts, sugar?” His smile evened, and a hint of stubble shadowed the folds curving his mouth.

    54
    Jianne Carlo

    Salvia dried in her throat, all the liquid in her body streamed to her sex, and she couldn"t voice a word. Her thoughts scattered and fused into one burning realization—this man could steal her secrets and own her heart. Martine stuck her tongue between her upper and lower teeth and bit down hard. As always, pain restarted her non-functioning brain. She searched for a question to put him on the defensive.
    “Do you think Delora Ford has more copies of the picture as she claimed?”
    Martine asked as she walked over to him, her movements slow and deliberate in direct opposition to the alarm bubbling and boiling in her veins.
    “I know she did,” Harry answered. “What she doesn"t know yet is that we relieved her of everything.”
    “Merde,” she gasped and pinched her lips together hastily in a futile effort to keep the bolt of panic sparking her nerves into a frenzy from showing on her face.
    She halted at his side, relaxed her mouth, and gathered her hands over her belly.
    A knowing devilish smirk captured Harry"s lips. “C"mere.” His hands firmed around her waist; he sat up and tugged her onto his lap. He kissed the tip of her nose. She inhaled softly, not wanting him to know how his tangy aftershave and his spicy male scent calmed the pulse hammering at the base of both wrists.
    “Don"t worry.” His thumb smoothed the frown she hadn"t realized she wore.
    “We destroyed every single picture. Casmir"s army managed to get rid of all he cell phones. That kid could teach a veteran spy a few tricks.”
    “I—” Merde, I almost said I know.
    Martine stared at his beautiful fingers, long and slender and the color of ripe walnuts, the nails short but shiny. Lifting her chin she continued, “I must say a prayer of thanks next mass.”
    “You"re Catholic?”
    “Yes.”
    I must speak only in English so I make no mistakes.
    “Aren"t you going to ask me what religion I am?” Harry raised his hand and tucked a curl behind her hair.
    “Are such questions in the contract?” Martine met his stare directly.
    His gaze narrowed, the white creases disappeared from the three lines bracketing his eyes, and those full, sinful lips flattened. “Ground rules. We"re married. Man and wife. For a minimum of ten months unless you got a bun in the oven last night—oh hell, I mean unless you conceived last night.”
    “I"m not an idiot.” She folded her arms. “I understood your bun reference.”
    “Don"t lie to me, Martine. I"ve learned in the last twenty-four or so hours that when you don"t understand a phrase, you make your face go blank.”
    Shock must have showed on her supposedly blank face, for he continued. “Not to worry, Martine. It"s a subtle thing, and I"m durned sure no one else