He saw her glance down at the fingers interlacing hers. A small line creased her forehead, but she didn’t ease her hand away until they reached the convertible. Blake chalked the frown up to the unsettled nature of their marriage and started to open the passenger door for her. She planted her hip against the door, stopping him.
“I bought you something while I was in town this morning.” She fished a small velvet bag out of her purse. “It’s not much. But I saw it and thought of you and our time here in France and… Well, I just wanted you to have it.”
When he untied the strings, a heavy gold ring rolled into his palm. The fleur-de-lis embedded in its center flashed a rainbow of sparks.
“The dealer said it’s an antique. He thinks it once belonged to the Count of Provence, but there’s no documentation to support that claim.” She looked from the ring to him with a mix of uncertainty and shyness. “Do you like it?”
“Very much. Thank you.”
The heartfelt thanks dissolved both the shyness and uncertainty. “You’re welcome.”
The inquiries Blake had run into her finances told him she must have maxed out her credit card to buy the ring, but he knew better than to ruin the moment by asking if she needed a quick infusion of funds. He showed his appreciation instead by tilting the design up to the light.
“The stones are brilliantly cut.”
“That’s what the dealer said.”
“He said right. You rarely find sapphires with so many facets.”
“How’d you guess they’re sapphires?”
Grinning, he lowered the ring. “Mother has me take care of insurance appraisals and certificates of authenticity for all her jewelry. She’s got more rare stones in her collection than the Smithsonian.”
“I don’t doubt it. Here,” she said when he started to slide it on. “Let me.”
She eased the ring onto his finger, then hesitated with the band just above the knuckle.
“With this ring…”
The soft words hit with a jolt, ricocheting around in Blake’s chest as she worked the ring over his knuckle. It was a tight fit, but the gold band finally slid on.
“…I thee wed.”
Grace finished in a whisper and folded her hand over his. Blake didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His throat was as tight as a drum.
“I can recall every minute in Judge Honeywell’s office,” she confessed on a shaky laugh. “I can hear the words, replay the entire scene in vivid Technicolor. Yet…”
She glanced around the dusty parking lot, brought her gaze back to his.
“This is the first time I feel as though it’s all for real.”
“It is real. More than I imagined it could be back there in the judge’s office.”
His hand tightened, crushing hers against the heavy gold band. She glanced down, startled, then met his gaze again.
“Let me take you home and show you just how real it’s become for me.”
* * *
Blake had no doubts. None at all. He made the short drive to the villa on a surge of adrenaline and desire so thick and heavy it clamped his fists on the steering wheel.
Uncertainty didn’t hit until he followed Grace up the stairs and into the cool confines of the Green Suite. When she turned to face him, he half expected her to retreat again, insist they go back to cool and polite.
He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted this one. Never loved one the way he did his bright, engaging, sun-kissed bride. The fierce acknowledgment rattled him almost as much as the hunger gnawing at his insides. He could slam on the brakes if he had to, though. It would damned near kill him, but he could do it. All she had to do was…
“Lock the door.”
It took a second or two for his brain to process the soft command. Another couple for him to click the old-fashioned latch into place. When he turned back, she reached for the top button on her camisole.
His uncharacteristic doubts went up in a blaze of heat. With a low growl, he brushed her hands aside. “I’ve been fantasizing about popping these buttons since you came downstairs this morning.”
He forced himself to undo them slowly. He wanted the pleasure of baring the slopes of her breasts inch by tantalizing inch. But his greedy pleasure splintered into something close to pain when he peeled back the cottony fabric and revealed the half bra underneath. With a concentration that popped sweat on his brow, he slid the camisole off her shoulders.
Damn! He was as jerky and eager as any of the adolescents they’d encountered this afternoon. Grace was the steady one. She displayed no hint of embarrassment or shyness when the camisole slithered down her arms and dropped to the carpet.
She reached back and unhooked her bra. The movement was so essentially female, so erotic and arousing. Blake ached for the feel of her smooth, firm flesh against his. But when he dragged his shirt free of his slacks, she copied his earlier move and brushed his hands aside.
“My turn.”
Just as he had, she took her time. Her palms edged under the shirt, flattened on his stomach, glided upward. Blake bent so she could get it off over his head. His breath razored in, then out when her hands slid south again. A smile played in her eyes when she found his belt buckle.
“I’ve been fantasizing about this since I came downstairs this morning.”
“Okay, that’s it!”
He had her in his arms in one swoop and marched to the bed.
The session in the swimming pool had sprung the beast in Blake. This time, he was damned if he would let it slip its leash. He kept every move slow and deliberate as he dragged the brocade coverlet back and stretched Grace out on the soft, satiny sheets.
He took his time removing the rest of her clothes, and his. As he joined her on the cool, satiny sheets, his eyes feasted on her lithe curves. Tan lines made a noticeable demarcation at her shoulders and upper thighs. The skin between was soft and pale and his to explore.
“Too bad Van Gogh isn’t around to paint you.” He stroked the creamy slopes and valleys. “You would have inspired him to even greater genius.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Well, you certainly inspire me. Like here…”
He brushed a kiss across her mouth.
“And here…”
His lips traced her cheeks and feathered her lids.
“And here…”
Mounding her breast, he teased the nipple with his teeth and tongue until it puckered stiff and tight. Blake gave the other breast equal attention and got a hint of the anguish Van Gogh must have suffered over his masterpieces. He was feeling more than a little tormented himself as he explored the landscape of his wife’s body.
She didn’t lay passive during the investigation. She flung one arm above her head, brought it down again to plane her hand over his shoulder and down his back. Fingers eager, she kneaded his hip and butt.
Blake felt the muscles low in his belly jerk in response but refused to rush the pace. His palm slid over her rib cage, down her belly. Her stomach hollowed under his touch, and a knee came up as he threaded the dark gold hair of her mound. He slid one finger inside the hot, slick lips, then two, and pressed the tight bud between with his thumb.
Her