Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2) (20 page)

With a flush of goosebumps, I smile and thank him for the compliment. I’m wearing one of Chaz’s sexy creations—a slenderizing strapless black high-low number. The flowy skirt with its asymmetrical layers of chiffon made it easy for me to straddle my legs on the Ducati. Thank goodness, it was such a short ride because the rest of my outfit was far from ideal—you try sitting on your ass on the back of a motorcycle with strappy stilettos and scanty lace panties. There are wedgies and there
are
wedgies. But I survived. And I’m grateful my hair survived the helmet. Loose, it falls over my shoulders in soft waves and complements the extra make-up I’m wearing.

I have to admit I look and feel like a million bucks. Glamorous enough to be seen with the likes of Brandon Taylor. I soak him in. Holy hotness! He looks devastating, dressed in a free-fitting collarless lavender linen shirt that he’s left partly unbuttoned…relaxed faded jeans…and a pair of expensive Italian black loafers. Of course, no socks. The epitome of pure movie star effortless sexiness. Despite the light breeze, heat spirals from my knees to my core.

“Ah! Great! Here comes Antoine,” my gorgeous companion says brightly, sparing me from saying something stupid or trite.

A wide grin stretches across the maître-d’s face upon setting his eyes on Brandon. A robust man with a jet-black handlebar mustache, he gives him a kiss on each cheek.

“Monsieur Taylor, it
eez
so good to see you again!
Comment ça-va?”

“Très bien,
Antoine.” He must also be the owner as the restaurant is called Antoine’s.

“
Fantastique.
You gave my wife
et moi
a great scare with
zee
accident.”

“I’m fine now,” Brandon assures him. “Perfectly fine.”

Smiling, the relieved Frenchman shifts his attention to me. “And who
eez
this beau-tee-ful woman? A girlfriend,
peut-être?”

Brandon laces his fingers with mine. “She’s more than a girlfriend.”

A shiver skitters down my spine at both his unexpected gesture and words. What does he mean by that? Before I can manage a word, Antoine asks us where we prefer to sit. While it’s only mid-April, the balmy weather is summer-like, easily in the seventies. Brandon chooses a corner table for two outside overlooking the port. We pass a table occupied by a teenage couple goo-goo eyed in love and then several older locals engaged in lively conversation until catching sight of Brandon. Everywhere he goes, he turns heads, whether they recognize him or not. Unleashing my hand, my breathtaking companion helps me into a wicker bistro chair before lowering himself onto one facing me. The table is covered with a red-checkered tablecloth and is candlelit. The flickering candle bathes Brandon’s face in a warm glow, making him appear ethereal. Like a god. With his smoldering violet eyes and lashes so thick they should be illegal, that spiky muss of onyx hair, a parted mouth made for kissing…and let’s not forget that sculpted body…can anyone be more ridiculously beautiful? I’m glad I’m sitting because every bone in my body is liquid.

“Can I get you some apéritifs?” asks Antoine.

Brandon answers. “
Oui
. Two Americanos.”

“Parfait
. I shall be right back.” Antoine scurries off.

I crinkle my nose. “Brandon, you’ve ordered Starbucks coffees?” An iced Americano is his morning brew of choice and a hot version mine.

Brandon laughs. “No, Zoey. It’s the original James Bond cocktail. It’s made with Campari, vermouth, and soda water. Antoine makes them with Perrier just the way 007 prefers them.”

“Oh.” A small voice inside my head tells me I shouldn’t be drinking. It
is
a business dinner,
right?

“Trust me, you’ll like it.”

“I think I’m going to pass.”

“Stop it. I want you to try it.”

The drinks come in no time. “Let’s toast,” says Brandon, his eyes twinkling.

“Sure.” Falling under his spell, it takes all my effort to utter one little word. My vocabulary has grown limited.

“To us,” Brandon says demonstratively and then we clink our tumblers. The sparkling glasses ping like a bell. I follow Brandon and take a sip of the vibrant red cocktail.

“What do you think?” he asks.

I digest the flavor and swallow hard. The aftertaste is so bitter it makes my toes curl.

“I like it,” I say, screwing up my face.

Brandon leans into me and dusts my contorted lips with his forefinger. “You’re so adorable when you lie.”

Uh oh! He’s caught me in the act. That fateful spanking flashes into my head. He told me never to lie to him again. I could be in big trouble. Yet, I’m strangely excited in a good way.

His fingertip trails down the side of my face. He traces my jaw until he lands on the tip of my chin. Making little circles, he lets out a sexy laugh. “Don’t worry about it. Campari is an acquired taste.”

“I’ll get used to it,” I say and bravely take another sip. The liquor courses down my throat and into my bloodstream, warming me. You know what? It’s not so bad after all.

Antoine brings us two menus. Brandon orders for the both of us, choosing the house special—fresh mussels meuniere and a side of frites (which I learn are French Fries) plus a bottle of wine—a local Rosé from Provence. I take a few more sips of the Campari cocktail, the potent alcohol loosening me up.

“The view is spectacular,” I quip.

“It is,” agrees Brandon, eyeing my cleavage, which is prominently displayed by the body-hugging bodice of my dress. I cross my legs under the table and pretend I don’t notice.

“Who do all those boats belong to?” While we passed monstrous yachts docked outside the majestic Palais des Festivals where MIP is taking place, the vessels here are much smaller and hardly pretentious.

Brandon finishes his Americano and sets the apéritif glass down. “Those are fisherman boats. Before Cannes became a center for Hollywood glitz and glamour, it used to be a small fishing village. Fishermen still make a living here. Many sell to local restaurateurs, including Antoine, who I’m sure got the mussels we ordered straight off a boat today.”

I take another hit of the Campari cocktail. “Have you ever gone swimming in the Mediterranean?”

He smiles. “Dozens of times. The water is incredible. If we have time, I want to take you swimming.”

A frisson of anxiety curls in my gut. Not only am I afraid of swimming in the sea, but I also sure as hell don’t want Brandon to see me in a bathing suit again.

“I don’t think so. You know, I’m still afraid of the ocean.”

He laughs. “The Mediterranean isn’t an ocean. It’s a sea. And technically, the part here in Cannes is a bay. So, the water is very calm. Barely a wave.”

“B-but I didn’t bring a bathing suit.” The truth. I never even thought of bringing one since I packed so hastily.

He laughs again and unnerves me. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll buy you a bikini.”

I gulp. A bikini—the last thing I want to be caught dead in! Especially with Brandon. As I envision the worst, he continues.

“There’s probably a boutique right in the hotel.” He regards me coyly. “You may only need a bottom. Most women here sun and swim topless.”

I gulp again. The ring of Brandon’s phone saves me from responding. Thank God, because I’m at a loss for words.

My eyes stay on him as he pulls out his cell from his jeans pocket and glances down at the caller ID. His lips twist and his brows furrow. Katrina? The phone continues to ring while I anxiously circle the rim of my glass with my fingertip. To my relief, he doesn’t answer it, and, in fact, turns it off. “Fuck it,” he mumbles under his breath. His frown morphs into a smile when Antoine personally brings us our meal along with the bottle of wine.

“Bon appetit,” says the jovial man, setting our order down.

The tantalizing, garlicky aroma of the mussels wafts up my nose. My appetite is aroused.

“Antoine makes the best mussels meuniere in all of the Riviera,” Brandon tells me.

Antoine smiles proudly. He uncorks the wine and pours Brandon a bit. Brandon takes a sip and nods approvingly.
“C’est parfait.”

It’s perfect. He’s perfect. We share the big bowl of mussels and the crispy fries, sensuously feeding helpings to one another and imbibing the refreshing pink wine between bites. Moans escape my mouth. Not only are the mussels divine, but their tender meat is also charging me with sexual energy. Mussels must be some kind of aphrodisiac. But actually, everything is turning me on. The food, the wine, the setting. And most of all, the mouth-watering man sitting across from me. My eyes don’t waver from him as I feed him the last mussel. His luscious lips clamp down on the edible part and then he sucks on it.

“Mmm,” he moans, closing his eyes as he does. Every ounce of me is buzzing and there’s a wet fire inside my panties. He swallows and licks his upper lip. Another gush of wetness and a rush of hot tingles besiege me. He re-opens his eyes and meets my gaze, holding it fiercely. Before either of us can say word, a staunch, swarthy woman appears on the terrace. Holding an accordion, she heads our way. Once at our table, she stretches out the instrument and starts to serenade us.

“
Inoubliable…”

Oh my God! In one word, the song is instantly recognizable. “Unforgettable.” Mama’s favorite song…sung in French. With the husky voice of a fallen angel, the songstress’s moving rendition pulls at my heartstrings. Tears flood my eyes.

“Why are you crying?” Brandon asks, tenderly brushing my unstoppable tears away.

“This was Mama’s favorite song. She sang it all the time. It reminded her of Papa.” Sniffling, I pause while the dark memory fills my head. “It was playing on the Pier when she was shot.”

“I’m sorry. It’s a beautiful song,” he says softly, cutting into the painful, unforgettable memory. His violet eyes burn right through me and his voice grows softer. “Almost as beautiful as you.”

My watering eyes blink several times while my breath hitches in my throat and my heart hammers against my chest. His words swirl around in my head like confetti. They shower my flesh with flecks of heightened sensation and my soul with explosive emotion. I begin to unravel.

And then he does something that totally turns me into vapor. Tracing my tear-soaked jaw, Brandon sings along in English, his voice pure velvet, as devastating as the man he is.

“Oh, Brandon!” I weep out his name. The impact of this magical moment has reduced me to mush.

Still singing and melting my heart, my gorgeous god of a man stands up, and rounding the table, pulls out my chair. “Dance with me, Zoey.” A soft but strong command.

On my next sniffle, I’m in his strong arms, my head resting on his beating heart, my arms draped around his shoulders, as he moves me slowly to the melody and words. Swaying me side to side, he sings into my ear while tears stream down my face and dampen his linen shirt. I lose myself in him with each slow measured step. It’s as if there is no one else in the world but the two of us.
Unforgettable
…as the word drifts into a hypnotic hum, he draws me closer to him, pressing his lips on my scalp. I feel the warmth of them and his taut body flush against mine. I melt into his ripples and his arousal. He owns me and I don’t have the strength or desire to break away. Physically or mentally.

I’m drunk with emotion. And one forbidden four-letter word. So intoxicated, I can’t think straight or question what I’m doing. I just cling to him. Like a song of love. Finally, I lift my head, and look up at him, my misty eyes searching for answers. His impassioned gaze holds me captive. My already racing pulse accelerates.

“Brandon—” I don’t know what words will spill out of my mouth next, if any at all. It doesn’t matter. Because on my next heartbeat, he fists my hair and tugs back my head. Before I can take another breath, his lips come crashing down on mine like a meteor. Still humming, he sucks and gnaws my hungry mouth. White-hot balls of passion explode inside me, showering me with fireworks from my head to my toes. I moan into his mouth and then I part my lips, allowing his tongue to find mine. Entwined, our tongues dance sensuously, swirling and twirling to the music and lyrics. Oh my God. This kiss! This incredible kiss! I cup his strong, stubbled jaw, deepening, and extending it, as he draws me closer, one hand gripping my ass. The song drifts into my ears like a magic carpet. The sparks now blind me. I squeeze my eyes shut. Yet, he’s all I see. Never before has anyone been so unforgettable in every way. After what seems like an eternity, the timeless song ends, and he gently breaks his lips away. My heavy eyelids rise like theater curtains, and our glazed eyes lock in a passionate exchange. Shouts of “bravo” from patrons and bystanders reverberate in my ears. I feel myself flush with embarrassment, but Brandon’s dimpled smile fills me with a rush of lust and desire as he holds me tight in his arms.

Tears flow from my eyes. Everything’s been so perfect. The setting. The meal. Our dance. Our kiss. But something is so wrong with this picture. A blaring ambulance races by. The sound of the siren startles me back to my senses, out of my drunken stupor. Brandon’s name burns on my heart. Remorse singes my brain. I want to rip that dazzling smile off his face. What the hell is he doing? What the hell am I doing? As reality sets in, so does a bitter mix of panic and regret.

Oblivious, Brandon kisses my tears away and then breathes against my neck. “Baby, let’s make this night
unforgettable.”