I’m impressed. ‘Good knowledge.’
He shrugs. ‘I’ve been here a lot of times outside of the festival. It’s a fucking circus at the moment, the whole area, but it’s more fun when all the douchebag movie stars go home. I fell for this place at amfAR one year and did some research. Got talking to a local server, who told me there are steps from the street outside all the way down to a hidden cove. Not really a cove, because there’s no sand. But there’s a little concrete platform you can jump off of, and it’s super quiet. I’ve never seen anyone else down there.’
I have an image of Josh in a T-shirt and shorts, exploring the hidden corners of Antibes alone with a backpack, and feel a sudden pang. This guy gets a bad rap.
‘It sounds absolutely gorgeous.’
‘It really is. Especially first thing in the morning. And you can walk all the way around the cape to La Garoupe beach on the east side.’ He points. ‘It’s a really fun hike. It’s pretty brutal in high summer, but at this time of year it’s perfect.’
He turns to me, and smiles down at me, and tugs the lapels of his jacket more closely around me. ‘What do you say? We take it easy on the shots tonight, and then tomorrow morning we come back early. You, me and a picnic. Bring some sneakers and a bikini.’
CHAPTER 5
Elle
Josh was right. It’s spectacular down here.
He organised everything: he met me in the lobby of the Martinez at seven-thirty this morning with a brute of a security detail called Matthieu, a beach bag of towels and a rucksack apparently containing a non-inflammatory picnic. He’d raised his eyebrows last night when I shot down his suggestion of croissants and asked for my breakfast to be non-dairy, grain free and gluten free.
‘Are you sure you’re not from Santa Monica?’ he said, but he let it drop when I said I had a sensitive stomach (he doesn’t need to know the rest of it).
We’re both in hoodies, baseball caps and no-nonsense trainers. Josh has his swim trunks on, and looks like a walkingPeoplemagazine cover, and I’m wearing denim cutoffs over my bikini. This is by far the most dressed-down I’ve been since arriving on the Cote d’Azur. Matthieu got us here pretty speedily in a blacked-out Range Rover and is now following us at a discreet distance. I feel bad that he’s loaded up like a camel with our stuff, but we’ve decided to do thefull walk, the whole way around to the eastern side of the cape, so we’ll need rations.
As we descend, more of the sea comes into view. It’s one of those clear, South-of-France mornings that makes you wonder why you choose to live anywhere else. The Mediterranean is sparkling azure, and the air is fresh and clean. The sun hasn’t come around the cape yet, but its rays dance on the sea in the distance. Josh wasn’t lying about it being deserted down here: the only company we have is some seriously perky seagulls.
We reach the bottom. We haven’t spoken much—the steps are uneven and narrow, so most of our focus has gone on watching our footing and drinking in the scenery when we get a glimpse of the sea. It strikes me that Josh is enjoying the meditative quality of this morning as much as I am, which makes me relieved. But God, it’s glorious down here, and he shoots me a huge grin when he catches what must be sheer rapture on my face.
I swing my arms like a child. ‘This is heaven.’ The vast expanse of blue beyond us. The isolation. The calm. I’m almost high on the novelty of having Josh Lander to myself in this beautiful place during one of the biggest industry festivals on the calendar.
That grin again. ‘Isn’t it? It’s like therapy after the rest of Cannes.’ He puts his hands on his hips. ‘So what’s it gonna be,Madame? Swim or breakfast?’
He’s looking at me as if that’s not all he’s asking me, and I rise to the challenge. I keep my eyes on him and unzip my hoodie. ‘Swim.’
He laughs, delighted. ‘Badass.’
‘I’m assuming it makes sense to swim now, and then dry off while we walk?’
‘Exactly. And we can eat on the way, or at the other end.’
As we shrug off our clothes, we watch each other. He has a T-shirt under his hoodie and he strips it off in that sexymale way of grabbing the back of the collar and yanking it over his head.
Oh.
My.
God.
I feel like I’m getting a private, live viewing ofMagic Mike. He’s huge and golden and perfect. Broad shoulders tapering down to the narrowest hips and a hard stomach. A dusting of hair on his chest that I want to run my nose through. He’s close enough that I can see the goosebumps on his arms, and his nipples are tight buds. His swimming trunks lie low on his hips, and he has a magic V of muscle just above them that makes me lick my lips.
I’m clearly not being remotely discreet in my ogling, because he throws his T-shirt at me. ‘What you looking at?’
‘Nothing at all.’ I smirk. He knows I’m lying.
‘I’m not looking at anything, either.’ He stands and watches me shamelessly as I slide my hoodie off my shoulders, tug my vest over my head and shimmy out of my cutoffs to reveal a plain black string bikini.
‘Holy fuck.’ His voice is hoarse, and he takes a step towards me as I stare at him. ‘Come on.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Let’s get this over with—it’s gonna be cold.’
We jump off the low concrete platform into the shallow water, and he holds my hand as we run into the waves to find some depth. Oh my God. He was right. It’s bloody freezing. I gasp and he laughs at me.
