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It wasn’t the way Luc looked at Sophie. No, this was something altogether different. Her mind skittered through all sorts of possibilities involving bare broad shoulders, rumpled bed sheets and a lot more skin than he was showing now….
It kind of took her breath away.
It was her last night in St. Michel….
Even if he wasn’t part of her “New Me” plan, she’d never see him again.
But then the strangest thing happened. Her better judgment kicked in.
What was the point of a one-night stand—besides a night of great sex?
Back home, her friend Ida May Higgins, the woman who’d known Lindsay since she was born, who’d cared for her after her mother died and had in many ways been a surrogate mother to her, insisted that the only way Lindsay could fix what her former fiancé, Derrick, had broken was by simply taking the time to be alone so that she could get to know herself.
Alone.
As in no one-night stands.
Besides, Sophie had yet to cut the cake and toss the bouquet. As the maid of honor, Lindsay needed to be available for Sophie, not formulating a plan to hook up with Mr. Hottie.
Willing herself not to look back at him, Lindsay swallowed the rest of her champagne, set the empty glass on a busing tray and made her way toward the terrace for a breath of fresh air.
Something—anything—to clear her head.
If she were at home right now, she’d pull out her mother’s recipe book—a small red notebook filled with pages of handwritten recipes, mostly desserts—and bake. The kitchen was her sanctuary; baking helped her keep her sanity.
Even though she’d been so young when her mother had died she didn’t have memories of her, she had her recipes. And bringing them to life somehow made Lindsay feel connected to this woman she never really knew.
She’d brought the red notebook to St. Michel with her but she hadn’t been near a kitchen in the month she’d been there. So, since baking wasn’t an option, she made her way toward the ballroom’s open doors.
The terrace was dotted with a smattering of people. Mostly couples who’d stepped out into the moonlight for a little romance, it seemed, from the way people were paired up, some with arms entwined, others stealing little kisses—one couple, off in the far corner, getting a little too frisky for public decency.
Lindsay hated intruding on the romance, but she couldn’t go back inside. Not just yet. To give them some privacy, she walked to the other end of the terrace, leaned against the ornate wrought-iron railing and tilted her face into the briny breeze that blew in off the ocean.
It was a gorgeous night. In North Carolina, she’d need a parka and gloves to be outside on a December evening. Here, the temperature was a little chilly, but it was brisk and fresh—just what she needed. She was already starting to feel revived.
After being in St. Michel a month, Trevard, North Carolina, seemed like a vague smudge on a distant horizon. It was hard to believe she’d be going home tomorrow. She blinked away the thought. No way would she waste her last night dwelling on the mundane. She’d have her fill of that soon enough.
She looked around, taking in the huge moon hanging over the water like a brilliant blood orange, spilling diamond seeds across the inky sky and into the restless sea below. Such a beautiful moon on Sophie and Luc’s wedding night, as if the heavens were bestowing a special blessing upon their union.
It was all so romantic.
A shooting star burst across the sky like a Roman candle. Remembering her earlier conversation with Sophie, a chill skittered over her. She crossed her arms to rub away the goose bumps, then closed her eyes and wished…
When she was done, she looked around, blinking a couple of times at the couples paired up on the terrace.
Well, Cinderella, you’re certainly not going to find your prince at Lover’s Lane. Better get back inside.
As she turned to leave the happy couples to their romantic seclusion, she nearly bumped into someone. Backlit by the warm glow of the ballroom, he was silhouetted and she could barely make out his features. But she didn’t need better light to recognize Carlos Montigo.
“It’s a beautiful night,” he said with a melodic Spanish accent, warming her from the inside out.
“It is beautiful. I was just—”
“If you’re cold, I’d be happy to offer you my jacket.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine.”
He nodded and stepped up to the railing next to her. Looking at him from this angle made her draw in a quick breath. He might’ve been born of the bad-boy mold that attracted her, but something in his voice and in the way he carried himself suggested he was different. But exactly how, she couldn’t discern.
“You made a beautiful bridesmaid for the princess.”
“Thank you. Are you a friend of the bride or the groom?”
She cringed at the inane question. This was not North Carolina. Sophie hadn’t met three-quarters of the guests, and she’d bet good money that Sophie and Luc didn’t know most of them personally. That was what famous people did—hang out with other famous people. Go to their weddings. Whether they knew each other or not.
“I am acquainted with the Henri Lejardin, St. Michel’s minister of art and culture, the brother of the groom. I have catered events for him in the past. I am in town for another occasion—the St. Michel Food and Wine Festival—and he invited me tonight.
“I am Carlos Montigo.” He offered a hand and she took it.
“Lindsay Bingham,” she returned.
He lifted her hand to his lips. She liked this gallant European custom.
His gaze slid to hers and locked into place.
An electric jolt coursed through her, and she couldn’t look away. Even though she knew she should.
Oh, boy, she was in trouble.
But then, with the same air of rogue regality he’d shown when he so blatantly perused her from across the room, he released her hand and did a sweeping search of her face, his gaze finally lingering on her lips, which were suddenly so dry she had to moisten them before she could speak.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Florida.”
“Really? I had you pegged for a European all the way.”
“All the way?” he said, mimicking her slight southern accent. His mouth quirked up at the corner, forming a sexy half smile that Lindsay would’ve bet money had driven more than one woman wild.
“You’re definitely American, and judging from the accent, from somewhere below the Mason-Dixon line. Am I right?”
“No, you’re not. I don’t have an accent.”
He stood about a foot taller than Lindsay, yet now that her vision had adjusted to the moonlit terrace, she could see that his eyes were actually a deep shade of green rather than brown as she first thought.
“Yes, love, you do.”
Oh, boy, indeed. Tall. Broad shoulders. Green eyes.
A lethal trinity, and if she didn’t watch herself, she could find herself in a lot of trouble. A cool breeze blew in across the water. She tipped her face up to it and closed her eyes, hoping it would help her regain her senses.
“Mmm, that’s nice. Isn’t it?”
“Paradise,” Carlos murmured. “I think I may have just found paradise, Lindsay Bingham.”
What?
“Really?” She leveled him with a bemused gaze. “And I think I’ve just heard the cheesiest pickup line ever.”
They laughed, and his eyes did that face-searching thing again that made her feel completely and deliciously devoured.
“May I buy you a drink?” he asked. “Seeing that it’s open bar.”
“Only if it’s the best champagne.”
He smiled. “Wait right here. I’ll be back. With a bottle.”
She was definitely in trouble. Especially since in the five seconds that he’d been gone, she’d already begun to tell herself that Florida and North Carolina weren’t that far apart. At least there wasn’t an ocean between them.
Even so, it didn’t mean she had to sleep with him just because the guy was coming on to her….
A little dose of harmless flirtation might be good for her. So why not?
Because.
That soothing breeze blew in again, caressing her. Not in a seductive way, but in a way that reminded her of her “New Me” plan.
In answer, she tipped her face into the breeze and breathed in deep.
Even though Carlos Montigo was tempting, she was tired. And if she was completely honest with herself, she didn’t have the energy to play games. Because her gut was warning that if she laid one hand on the Montigo burner she would surely get burned.
“Lindsay? There you are.”
It was Sophie. In that split second before Lindsay realized it, she’d checked her posture and smiled. Reflexive moves, thanks to the ever-present paparazzi that had been milling about the past month. Not because of how Carlos Montigo’s gaze had just shamelessly undressed her, and in response she’d thanked him with her best what happens on my last night in St. Michel stays in St. Michel smolder….
Her cheeks burned, and she strengthened her resolve to resist temptation.
“I thought you were coming back?” Sophie said. “We’ve been looking for you.” With her head, she gestured to Carson Chandler, who waited in the doorway. “Carson wants to talk to you.”
Talk to me?
Sophie had introduced Lindsay to Chandler earlier that week. Tonight, as she and Sophie walked toward him, he’d acknowledged her with a polite, “Good evening, Ms. Bingham. Lovely to see you.”
Why did he want to talk to her?
The billionaire media mogul had turned a travel guide business into an empire. Everyone knew his name. Sort of like how people knew of the Rockefellers or William Randolph Hearst.
Sophie gave Lindsay a look and mouthed, surprise!
“What?” Lindsay mouthed back.
But Sophie ignored her, turning instead to Chandler. “Carson, would you do me a favor?”
He smiled. “Certainly, your highness, your wish is my command.”
“Will you dance with Lindsay? My handlers are beckoning.” Sophie rolled her eyes and gave her head a quick shake. “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to having handlers. Or, for that matter, the fact that I need to be handled.”
She turned on a flourish of tulle and silk, leaving Lindsay and the older man alone. There was an awkward pause during which Lindsay’s mind spun. Carlos would be back any minute with the champagne. She couldn’t just leave without excusing herself. What kind of surprise could Carson Chandler have for her? He was handsome in an aloof, moneyed way, but then again didn’t all men look gorgeous in white tie? Still, he was old enough to be her grandfather. She resisted the urge to fidget, or worse yet, glance around for Carlos.
Finally, Chandler tilted his head to one side in a regal gesture and offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Feeling suddenly shy and exhausted, Lindsay tried to let him off the hook. “Please don’t feel obligated to entertain me.”
She was the kind of wrung-out tired that made even the thought of dancing feel like an effort. Since she was leaving tomorrow, what she really wanted to do was go upstairs and enjoy one last long, hot soak in that huge, marble tub in her suite.
“Dancing with you, Miss Bingham, would be my honor,” said Carson. “Besides, I have something I need to talk to you about.”
“Oh. Well, then.” How could she deny a man his honor? One quick dance wouldn’t hurt. In fact, she might even be back before Carlos returned with the champagne. “But please call me Lindsay.”
She took his arm and walked back into the ballroom with him. When he smiled, he vaguely reminded her of Ricardo Montalbán sans accent. Of course he would. Because wasn’t St. Michel Fantasy Island? How could she have missed that? A place where her best friend got to be a princess and Lindsay had been able to play Cinderella. For an entire month.
Here she was at the ball. Even though tomorrow her coach would turn back into a pumpkin and she’d board a plane homeward bound for Trevard, she’d had the time of her life.
Of course, she wished her Cinderella fantasy came with Prince Charming and happily-ever-after. But as Carson Chandler whirled her around the gilded and mirrored ballroom, she glanced up at the crystal chandeliers, admiring the way the light played through the facets, illuminating the cut crystal like brilliant diamonds.
How many women got to attend a royal wedding in their lifetime? She should be grateful for the experience, even if the handsome prince didn’t come chasing her across the Atlantic to see if the slipper fit.
Her gaze wandered back to the doors to the terrace. She wondered if Carlos was back yet. She hoped he didn’t think she’d run out on him. Surely he’d wait. Wouldn’t he? A ridiculous tangled sense of conflict flooded through her.
Oh, well. They’d just met and tomorrow she’d go home. Her “New Me” plan didn’t call for leaving one Jimmy Choo behind on the palace step with the slim hope a man—even Carlos Montigo—would find it and bring it to her on the other side of the ocean.
“The princess tells me you’ve worked in television, Miss Bingham.”
Carson’s voice startled her back to the present.
“Excuse me?”
The orchestra was loud. She must not have heard him correctly. He leaned in closer. A little too close for Lindsay’s comfort.
“You’re such a beautiful woman. Actually, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we were introduced earlier this week. Princess Sophie tells me you have broadcast journalism experience?”
Her cheeks warmed and graceless dread unfurled in her belly, working its way up until it blocked the words to explain her short-lived journalistic career. The question unlocked a door in the recesses of her mind behind which she’d stashed a very bad memory. The memory of an incident that cost Lindsay her dream.
“I was curious about the type of television work you’d done?”
Sophie was one of the few people who knew of this thwarted dream. Why would she tell Chandler?
“I don’t know what Sophie told you.” Or more important, why. “But in college, I majored in broadcast journalism, and I reported for a network affiliate for a short time.”
