“Enjoy, dear,” Jem says, but her tone isn’t warm at all.
Instead of going to the cottage, I make my way to the spa. It’s quiet in the late afternoon as I walk inside, but Deshni and Sarika are both there, prepping for the next day.
“Ladies,” I say in greeting. “Things have calmed down here too?”
“Yes,” Sarika says with a smile. “The run-up to a wedding is always insane, and afterwards we’re dead quiet until the next batch of guests arrives.”
“So you have zero bookings for tomorrow?”
Both women laugh. “Not a single one.”
“Well, that’s good news.” I cast a glance over the tranquil space. “I’ve sent your proposal off to France, but we’re not going to wait for them.”
“No?” Sarika frowns.
“We’re not making drastic changes. Tristan and Roger are available first thing tomorrow morning, so we can meet and take photos for a new brochure. We should also discuss price points and see how we can load the new treatments into the system.” Everything here works on paper—beautiful, elegant, Beaumont-embossed paper—but it gets captured on the system at the officefor invoicing. “Do you think you’ll have everything ready? We can do some photos with the sunrise in the sala and here later on.”
“Yes,” Deshni says, her eyes shining with excitement. “We’ve been practicing and have the basics ready. We can set everything up for tomorrow morning first thing.”
“Fantastic. Let’s say at six? That’s before the morning briefing, and Tristan will work his magic before anybody is even aware of what’s happening here.” I give them a wink, feeling totally in cahoots.
They nod, and the meeting is set. I wave goodbye and take the trail that eventually leads to our cottage. The sun is dipping, but Tristan might still be a while. At last I can enjoy the romantic bathtub in our cottage and pamper myself a bit, getting into a spa frame of mind.
Two hours later, Tristan is still not home. Funny that I’ve started thinking of it like that. Us. Here. Athomein the middle of nowhere.
I slip on a wrap dress and head down to the beach. In the dark, I walk along the water to the guest area, the waves licking at my feet. From afar, I can see torches flickering in a line on the sand, but there’s also a bigger fire, which is a first. As I come closer, I hear a guitar playing and then notice the half-circle of people sitting around the fire, drinks in hand, cigarette smoke afloat.Yikes… that’s notonlycigarette smoke. Someone brought thegood stuff,as Matthias de Foch asked for. Thank God he didn’t get it from someone on the island.
A man is playing the guitar, but it’s a woman’s soft, melancholy voice that fills the night air and gives me chills. Tristan looks up to me, his gaze like a moth to a flame. The firelight flickers on his face as I approach the group from the side. He holds his hand out, and the rest of the group looks up,their lazy smiles welcoming as I sink down onto the sand next to him.
“I would have been home already,” he whispers as he brushes his lips along my temple, “but I’ve been lured in, and it’s too early to pull out.”
I chuckle. “They’re good.”
“Apparently they’re famous on the French music scene.” Tristan wraps an arm around my shoulders and offers his drink to me. “You want to stay a bit?”
“Hell yes.” I take the glass of red from him. This is exactly what I need to relax the build-up of nerves I had while waiting. I’d entered my worrier state, questioningeverything. I take a drink of the wine. “Yum.”
Tristan chuckles. “It’s a Châteauneuf du Pape, and it’s going to change your life. Apparently.”
“I can totally see that happening.” I take another sip and lean back into the warmth of his body, resting my head on his shoulder.
Tristan presses his lips to my head as he plays with loose strands of my hair. I feel myself go loose, my body molding to his. We share the wine as we listen to the music, which only amplifies the undercurrent of longing and promises made in hushed whispers.
The woman’s voice is soft, but because we’re sitting so close, the haunting timbres of her song come across clearly, full of vulnerability. I can’t understand all the words, but the song is about love and hurt and loss, and the sincerity and simplicity of her delivery make me think this woman has seen and felt it all.
When Tristan runs his nose along my hairline and temple, I lift my head so he can work a lazy path to that spot below my ear. Nobody is paying attention to us, too high on whatever they’ve been smoking or sniffing. My breathing stalls as he nibbles and sucks at my earlobe, goosebumps popping up on my skin as ifI’m champagne finally escaping my confines. He doesn’t stop there. He buries his fingers in my hair and tilts my head until our lips meet in a slow, drugging French kiss.
It’s dreamy. The heat of the flames; the wine, sensual and intoxicating in my veins; and Tristan’s mouth, his tongue dancing languid and erotic around mine. His fingers trace along my upper arm, and his hand slips to my rib cage as his thumb runs along the underside of my breast… I feel weak with desire. We need to get a room.
I smooth my hand up his chest, somewhat out of breath as I pull away an inch. “We can go?”
“Weshouldgo,” he murmurs. “Staying any longer—” Hebreaks off, letting my mind run away with the visual of us having sex on the beach.
Tristan stands and holds out his hand to me. The woman keeps singing, and although I can feel eyes on us, nobody says anything. It’s as if we’re slipping off the stage as extras, but a few people raise their glasses in silent goodbyes.
We walk into the night, quietly back to our cottage, hand in hand.
Chapter Thirty-One
