Our flight was at ten the next morning, so I spent the rest of the day packing and making sure I was leaving everything settled at home. I was a bit worried about leaving, but Bubbe assured me Dad was attending his therapy like clockwork and that Katie Corleone was still nowhere to be seen. He'd even continued his tinkering on the piano, and the doctors thought he would be able to go back to work in another month. Brandon had requested additional security to watch the house while we were gone; there wasn't much more we could do.
"He can barely play 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star'," Bubbe recounted Dad's progress. "But his fingers are on the keys, and that's the important thing."
I wholeheartedly agreed.
Brandon had told me to pack for a variety of activities, so when David pulled the car up in front of my building at eight a.m., I was standing next to my biggest suitcase that carried supplies for every possibility I could think of in South France, from lounging on the beach to hiking through the Pyrenees.
Brandon stepped out of the car to help me and looked at the suitcase with an amused expression.
"You know," he said as he kissed me on the cheek, "I didn't peg you for the kind of girl who would pack her entire wardrobe for a short trip."
"It's two whole weeks," I countered as David hefted the suitcase into the trunk. "And you wouldn't tell me our plans."
Brandon grinned. "That's because we have no plans, Red. It's part of the charm."
"Exactly," I said. "I need to be prepared for anything."
"You do realize that if we didn't have something, we could just buy it?"
I scowled. "No, you could just buy it. I come prepared."
Brandon just rolled his eyes, and with a hand on my back, escorted me into the car. "I forgot. I'm traveling with Ebenezer Scrooge."
I smacked him on the shoulder, and he laughed.
"I resent that," I said. "Just because I don't like to spend unnecessary money on myself doesn't mean I'm not generous with others."
"I know, I know. Take it easy." Brandon gathered me in and pressed a kiss on my lips before I could continue my protestations. "Now let's get going. Plane's waiting."
I was in for another surprise when the car pulled up at the small private airfield next to Logan International––the same airfield where I had left Brandon on our first official date, where he had tried to fly me to France once before. The memory of that night was seared into my memory. Dinner in Paris had been a lovely idea, but it was also misplaced, far too ostentatious for a first date, and had only pushed me away.
I found him watching me, looking slightly nervous.
"I thought we had tickets," I said. "Why are we here?"
Brandon grinned sheepishly. "Did you really think I want to fly commercial? This is so much easier. We'll be there in six hours instead of ten. Plus, I can try my luck with the mile-high club."
He waggled his eyebrows in a way that made him look like a horny puppy. I burst out laughing in spite of myself, and Brandon joined me. His excitement was contagious.
"Come on, Red," he said as David opened his door. "Let's see if I can get you on a plane this time without slapping me."
"Ha fucking ha," I retorted, but allowed him to help me out of the car.
A flash from outside the gates of the small airport pulled my attention to the road. A cluster of photographers was there, all of their lenses pointed directly at us.
"Mr. Sterling! Brandon!" They called. "Where are you going? Who is your friend?"
I glanced up at Brandon and found him looking at the photographers with a hard scowl.
"Who are they?" I asked as he guided me into the airport, which thankfully had tinted windows.
I wondered if they were installed partly because of the wealthy, sometimes famous people who used private airfields like this. In the plush lobby, the agents took our bags and passports.
Brandon grimaced and his broad shoulders tensed. "Paparazzi. They've been starting to follow me a bit the last few weeks, since there has been more speculation in the papers about whether or not I'm going to run. Apparently, my whereabouts are more important than things like, you know, the economy or public healthcare."
His voice dripped with sarcasm. It was clear he wasn't happy with being surveilled this way, and I couldn't blame him. I hated it when we suspected that a PI was following us around. Now we had to deal with the press too?
"Have you decided?" I asked, unable to help myself.
I hadn't pressured him much about the decision––in the last few weeks of studying for the bar exam, I honestly hadn't had time to think about it, and he hadn't mentioned it at all. But obviously, it was an issue that needed to be discussed, and soon.
Brandon shook his head, the small lines at his eyes crinkling as he frowned. "Not yet." He turned an awkward smile at me. "Although Cory has been riding my ass about it."
I masked a scowl at the mention of Cory, Brandon's would-be campaign manager. I hadn't spoken to him for long at the benefit last month, but I hadn't liked him very much. He was snippy and superior––basically the complete stereotype of someone who worked in politics. The idea that he would be a consistent presence in Brandon's life wasn't very appealing.
The agents announced that our plane was ready to board. Brandon took my hand with a squeeze that melted away all my reservations.
"It's time," he said. "Campaign stuff can wait. You ready for some downtime together?"
Was I ever.
I grinned. "Let's go."
~
Seven hours later, we arrived in Marseille. Five hours ahead of Boston, it was nine o'clock in the evening by the time the plane pulled to a stop on a private runway at the Marseille airport.
Brandon, as it happened, was incredibly well traveled. This shouldn't have surprised me, considering how extensive his business interests were, but it did. He always seemed like such a local boy dressed up in nice suits. So it was somewhat of a shock when he spoke to the customs officers in surprisingly decent French.
"And here I thought I was going to have to translate," I said as we were waved easily through the gate.
He looked down at me and flashed his thousand-watt grin. "I'm not fluent or anything, but I've at least learned to say thank you when I travel," he said.
He leaned in and kissed me, a long, lingering kiss that sent sparks down to the bottom of my toes.
"Welcome to France," he murmured against my lips.
I smiled into his embrace. "Bienvenue a France," I whispered. "Merci, monsieur."
Brandon leaned back with a sly grin. "Yeah, I'm gonna need you to do that some more, baby. Preferably naked."
My heart thrilled, and I practically skipped out toward the street where another car was waiting for us, swishing my hips a bit more than I normally would. "Avec ton plaisir, mon cher."
Brandon slammed a palm to his heart, watching me in faux pain. "You're killing me, Red. Let's get you inside before I molest you in front of customs agents."
"They won't care," I said. "They're French."
~
We pulled up in front of a house that belonged to Mark Grove, the other name partner at Brandon's law firm. I didn't know Grove well, having only seen his brusque face occasionally while I had served as an intern at the firm last year, but for some reason, the fact that he was a Francophile surprised me.
"Big time," Brandon said when I said as much. "He comes here every chance he gets. All of his wives have been French too."
"Wives?" I asked. "Just how many has he had?"
Brandon chuckled. "Oh, I don't know. Four or five, I think." He gave a sheepish shrug, like he was embarrassed on his partner's behalf. "What can I say? He's a better attorney than a husband, I guess."
"I guess," I echoed.
Brandon unlocked the door to the villa and walked inside, hefting our bags up a short flight of stairs that led us directly into the living room. Huge by European standards, the house was fairly small in contrast to Brandon's properties, with most of the first floor taken up by the living area and adjacent kitchen.
But the house made up for its lack of space with opulence; it was absolutely stunning. Done in the typical Mediterranean style of stucco exteriors and pink clay roof tiles outside, the interior was light and airy, floored with pinkish Spanish tile in an open design that made the most of the limited space by allowing the kitchen, living room, and dining area to flow together in one high-ceilinged room, punctuated by carefully chosen modern furniture. Gauzy drapes floated over picture windows at the far end of the living room, which looked out onto a wood-framed pool and a view of Chateau d'If, the sixteenth-century island fortress that was the setting for the Count of Monte Cristo.
Brandon came to stand behind me as I gazed out at the view, entranced by the moonlight flickering across the Mediterranean, glittering on the white hulls of the boats bobbing in the harbor. A gull sounded somewhere in the distance, and I sighed as Brandon slipped his hands around my waist and pulled me against his tall, strong form.
"All human wisdom is contained in these two words, 'Wait and Hope'," he quoted softly as we looked out to the harbor.
I turned in his arms, surprised. "I didn't take you for a Dumas fan."
Brandon shrugged. "I always liked the Count of Monte Cristo," he said. "It's a pretty kick-ass story. Guy gets mistakenly locked in a prison for twenty years, comes back, makes his fortune, and sticks it to his enemies before he takes off with the girl." He grinned at me. "Doesn't sound too bad."
The obvious parallels between his life and the count's sent ripples down my spine.
"Is that what you're doing?" I asked as I placed my palms flat over his broad chest. "Are you the Count?"
Brandon snorted. "Hardly. I'm not much for vengeance, Red. You know that."
I traced the line of his jaw. "I'm glad."
It wasn't a characteristic I liked. Vengeance had nearly cost my dad his life. I was more interested in peace.
"How about this one?" Brandon asked quietly as his hand came up to thread through my hair. "'Woman is sacred; the woman one loves is holy'."
"That's very parochial of you," I joked, although the words and his tone made my entire body hum.
"Lapsed Catholic," he rejoined with a shy smile.
Brandon's thumbs stroke the edges of my cheekbones as he looked down at me, dark blue eyes shining with love. I couldn't have looked away even if I wanted to.
"I've never been a religious man, Red," he said, his voice suddenly hoarse and low. "When I'm with you...I find myself praying a whole lot more than I ever did."
"Oh? Not for help, I hope."
Brandon shook his head shyly. "No. I'm too busy thanking Him for making me the luckiest bastard in the world."
His words took mine away. I wanted to tell him that his touch seared my skin and made my cells tingle, that his face was at the center of my heart. That being with him made the world make sense and turn upside down all at once.
But instead I pulled him down to me for a kiss that would say what I couldn't quite put into words. That I felt that same magical connection, one that was so much more than love. One small word couldn't begin to cover it.
Brandon's hands drifted down my waist and pulled me tight to him, the romance of the moment quickly morphing into something much more animal. I pressed back, eager for the feel of his growing arousal. He leaned in for another kiss, but we were interrupted by a loud growl of his stomach.
I broke away, laughing, and he gave a sheepish smile.
"I really want to have you for dinner, Red," he said with a chuckle. "But I think I might fall over first."
My own stomach grumbled back, and we both laughed again. It had been a long time since breakfast. Brandon took my hand and kissed my palm, eyes shining with the heat of a promise for more, later.
"Come on, gorgeous," he said. "Let's find some real food first. Then we can take care of that other craving."
~
"I suppose I should tell you about our plans for the trip," he said after we sat down at a busy restaurant just a few blocks away.
Mark Grove had happily provided a list of recommendations for Marseille, and this bistro, with its casual al fresco patio that looked out over the Old Harbor and the pink lights of the city, topped it. While in Boston most of the restaurants would be clearing out their tables by now, ten o'clock in France was right in the middle of prime dining time.
I perused the menu and took a sip of my water. "I thought you said that the plan was that we had no plan."
Brandon tossed his head from side to side. "Well, sort of. We have options. Marseille is really central. I was thinking about going down the Italian coast or spending a few days in Spain, if you want. Or we could just stay in the bedroom too."
He leered across the table, and I took another, longer sip of water, ignoring the blush that mottled my skin. Brandon just laughed.
The waiter arrived with our bottle of wine and took our orders. I had let Brandon choose for me again, not because I couldn't read the menu, but because it was becoming a regular game between us to see if we could guess the other's preferences.
Brandon was easy: although he was usually game to try anything, he tended to prefer simpler foods. Tonight, for instance, he went with the catch of the day and a side of stewed beans and vegetables. I, on the other hand, almost invariably wanted seafood when it was available, and usually went with either the chef's special or whatever was a bit strange on the menu.
"I'm going to guess the supions avec artichauts," Brandon said in his slightly clunky French. He glanced at me. "Did I get it right? I figured you'd go for anything with tentacles in it."
I grinned. "On the nose."
The waiter took our orders with a curt nod, then left us with our drinks.
"Is it wrong that I want to just play it by ear?" I asked. "I've already done the backpacking thing around Europe. I was really looking forward to just relaxing. Maybe just take some day trips around the area. What about you?"
Brandon nodded. "Yeah, that sounds good. Mark told me we should definitely drive down to the Pyrenees if you're up for some hiking."
We continued to muse about various local places we could go while our food came and went, deciding in the end it would be best to rent a car for the next two weeks to do what we wanted. By the end of the meal, I had a list of possibilities sketched out on a napkin, and Brandon's face was alight with excitement. We were both giddy with wine and the thrill of being alone together––and more than ready to get back to the house.
"Two weeks," he said again as we walked up one of the steep cobbled streets together toward Mark's villa. His arm was wrapped tightly around my shoulders. "I can't believe I get two whole weeks alone with my girl. Seriously, Red, I don't think I've taken a vacation in ten years."
My arm, wrapped around his trim waist, just grasped a little tighter at his shirt, a white button-down rolled up at the sleeves. He had looked almost as delicious as my food all night, and the wine had me ready to eat him for dessert.
Brandon inhaled at the sensitive spot just behind my ear. The tip of his tongue touched the delicate skin, and I shivered.
"Come here," he said, and pulled me into a dark corner of the street. His mouth found mine easily as he pressed me into the dark space, one hand cupping my jaw as the other drifted down to my ass under my short skirt.
"Fuck," he breathed between the torrent of kisses. His hips rocked into me, and I could feel his arousal clearly through his jeans. "I need you naked. Like, yesterday."
"More," I demanded, my hands threading through his hair and pulling his mouth back to mine.
He obliged, kissing me again until we were breathless. Both his hands found their way up my skirt, gripping the flesh while he grunted. I was about two seconds from letting him take me right there in the middle of the street. It was always like this, no matter where we were.
Then I heard a click. It was low, and it might have just been the buzz of a streetlamp going out, or maybe the sound of a door shutting, or one of the myriad sounds you hear on a city street. But for some reason, it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Stop," I said, although Brandon was oblivious as he worked his mouth up and down my neck.
"Hmm?" he asked. "Jesus. How do you smell so fucking good?"
"Brandon, stop," I said, as I tapped him on the shoulder. I couldn't have said why, exactly, but I wanted to get out of the street.
With a groan, he pushed himself off the wall, then reached down with one hand to adjust himself subtly. He stared, eyes clearly dilated with lust.
"You have no idea how alluring you look right now," he said. "With your hair all curly, and your shirt half off your shoulder." He grinned, shark-like. "And knowing I did that makes it even more of a turn on."
The look of naked desire on his face was almost enough to make me pull him back to continue his work. But.
"Let's get inside," I said, not wanting to ruin his mood with my suspicions.
Brandon grinned again. "You don't have to tell me twice," he said, and pulled me the rest of the way up the street, where he could continue his work in private.
~