Carnal in Cannes Read Online Free Page B

complexion and wondered if he smelled that good everywhere.
    He walked like a matador, spine rigid, eyes sweeping his path, measuring each lazy stride. As the door clicked shut and his back disappeared, her knees, locked to keep her standing, buckled. She sank into the nearest chair and buried her face in her palms.
    “I can do this. I can,” she whispered aloud. The image of her grand-mère’s lined and weathered face, her chocolate skin taut over too thin bones, the gnarled fingers too stiff to do her beloved embroidery, calmed her galloping pulse. A hundred thousand euros would purchase Sylvie Bellamy"s passage to France and buy them a cottage in a remote French village where they could live out their days in peace.
    Shaking her head she bounded out of the plush upholstery and paced a furious circle around the furniture fronting a shale fireplace. No time to wallow in self-pity, no time to drown in what-ifs, no time left for dreams and fantasies. If only… She caught her reflection in the brass-framed mirror on the opposite wall; her lips twisted, and a lone tear streaked down one cheek.
    “ Merde , merde.” She fisted one hand over her mouth, applying pressure. The sting of lips crushed against teeth sharpened her focus. She took a slow gulp of oxygen, let the sweet air fill her lungs, and shook off the last lingering hope for a miracle. God had deserted her.
    She stood alone.
    Squaring her shoulders Martine turned to the comfort of everyday activities.
    As she made her way to the bathroom, Martine extracted her hairbrush from her purse, all the while thinking of the night to come, about getting undressed in front Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

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    of him. Avoiding her reflection in the mirror above the sink, she brushed out the knots created during the short but windy walk from the bus terminal, wincing as a particularly stubborn tangle made her scalp prickle.
    After setting the minibrush back in her purse, she studied the gold-plated geometric faucet and grinned when she realized the tap was one of those touchless types. Rich people and their toys . She shook her head, her smile widening when she remembered her first encounter with this kind of spigot and how long it had taken her to figure out how to work the damned thing.
    As she worked up a rich lather, the aroma of ginger soap wafted to her nose.
    She drew in a long breath and slowly exhaled, and some of the tension seeped from her knotted neck and shoulder muscles. When she finished washing and drying her hands, she pulled a tissue from the box built into the marble ledge that ran the length of the bathroom, dried the oval peach soap carefully, and used two other tissues to wrap the bar before tucking it into the side pocket of her large white Dior tote. She pulled the majority of the tissues from the box, folded them into a neat square, and placed them next to the soap.
    She changed into the hospital gown and bathrobe Austen Tanner had given her, after hanging her designer skirt and top, bought from a consignment store, in the closet. Martine sat on the bed, unbuckled her sandals, and walked in bare feet to set the stilettos on the floor of the closet, aligning them toe to heel.
    Dry but barely clothed, she sat on a pale rose upholstered chair facing the room"s entrance, spine steel-rod straight, ankles crossed, waiting. No one observing her tranquil hands, her still fingers, or her composed expression would guess at her cramping belly, the nausea roiling up her gullet.
    Raised voices—one male, one female—battled some point on the other side of the closed double doors. It would give her an advantage to listen, to plot, to plan, but the thought of the humiliation to come vaporized the energy to do so.
    Each day she awoke and wondered why the sun still shone, why the earth twirled, why she trudged forward. A good Catholic has faith, believes in God and that Jesus Christ guides his earthly flock. But she had never been good, never obeyed the Lord"s