Taking his Risk (Year of the Billionaire Part 2) (8 page)

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Can I stop you?" he asked, but he was smiling so I ventured on.

"Why a bodyguard? Does everyone with your kind of . . . wealth, need a bodyguard?"

"Most people with 'my kind of wealth' feel some need to protect themselves. I'm a target in many ways. Scammers--"

"You're too smart for that," I cut him off.

He grinned. "Okay, maybe not scammers, but just plain thieves or people desperate for some financial help can be a nuisance. And, then there's kidnappers."

"Kidnappers? In the U.S. or here, in France? I mean, I can understand if you're traveling to the Middle East or Africa, but . . ."

"You don't have to be in a third world country, evil is everywhere.
Human cankers." He sighed heavily. "If I tell you a story, can you leave it alone?"

"Leave it alone?"

"Yes, can you just listen and let it sink in but not question me about it?"

I wanted to hear what he had to say. I agreed.

"Years ago, not long after I made some truly outstanding investment hits, I decided to celebrate by taking a trip with some of the people who'd made that success possible." He rubbed his forehead as if the memory pained him.

"We went to a ski resort in Northern Italy. There were a couple of characters hanging around who seemed out of place, but I wasn't as suspicious then as I am now. One night at the bar, one of the guys struck up a conversation with me. Back then, I was so full of myself and proud of 'making it' that I didn't hold anything back."

Not like you do now. Now you're a master at holding back . . . at least when it comes to some things.

"So, as they say in the movies,
I was 'marked'. When my friend and I went out the next day to do some cross-country, the two guys also went. They followed us, but at a distance that didn't raise any alarms. We stopped for a rest in one of the stations on the trail." He swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair. "When we came out of the shelter, we were jumped. There was a scuffle at the edge of the trail. All four of us were rolling around in a ball. When the railing gave way, I was the only one who hung on. I grabbed the cable after it snapped and watched the two attackers and my friend fall. I was still hanging on when an avalanche slid past me and buried the valley where they landed. None of the bodies were ever recovered."

I watched him stare off into the distance, knowing he had told me half a story. Of course he was talking about his 'friend' Elsa. Who else could it
be? But the rules of the game were the rules of the game.

"I don't know what they were after. All I know is that it wasn't a simple case of trying to steal my watch. I suspect they were planning to kidnap me, or perhaps my friend. There may have been someone waiting to take me away who disappeared when things went south." He put his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes. The sound of him sucking a heavy breath through his nose filled the space around us.

"I do know that by being stupid and casual about personal safety I lost one of the finest people I've ever known."

"I'm so sorry, Tristan." I took his hand and squeezed it. "You've had a lot of loss for a young man. That's got to be tough."

He pulled himself to his full tall height and shook his shoulders. "Well, I've survived," he said matter-of-factly. "The whole point of the story is that I learned the value of having someone like Kwan around." We came to a magnificent church. "Here's St. Nazarius' Basilica. It's one of the highlights. You'll want to give this your complete attention."

No, I want to give
you
my complete attention. I want you to finish the story, dammit! I didn't want a lesson in the importance of personal security; I wanted some insight into you!

How could the man tell me a story like that with the same emotion he was now investing in relating factoids about an ancient pile of stones? More importantly, how could this man be so utterly satisfying in some ways and so damn frustrating in others?

I'm afraid Tristan's entire lecture on the fascinating history of the Basilica went in one ear and right out the other. It might be easy enough for him to switch gears and describe a church right after he'd given me the circumstances of his fiancé's death, but I was still somewhere out there in the snow looking for answers.

***

True to his word, Tristan instructed Kwan to take a more leisurely route on the way back to the coast. The countryside was a mellow tapestry of vineyards, villages and farms all gilded with the late afternoon sun. Everything seemed ripe. September's early song was rich and sweet in the peaks and valleys of the gentle rolling countryside.

We stopped in a village so that I could sample a wine that Tristan told me was one of his special favorites. "Th
e
Languedoc
region produces a ton of outstanding wines. We'd have to stay a month just to begin to try them all. But I wanted you to taste a
Blanquette de Limoux
."

I had gotten over the thousand things I'd never heard of, tasted or
done and simply said, "Tell me."

"The locals claim that their sparkling wine predates champagne. That's impossible to prove, but interesting anyway." He led me to a cool case and picked out a bottle . "You'll find it slightly sweet and a little cloudy. That's because the wine is left with the lee
s after the second fermentation--
Methode Ancestrale."

We paid for the wine and Tristan uncorked it in the car where, naturally, there were a couple of cut crystal flutes sparking in the little bar. It was different and delicious and I happily sipped on my glass as the miles rolled by.

The stop and start of the car when we reached
Agde
traffic woke me up. I'd fallen asleep with the lull of sparkling wine and a luxury ride. Drool was dribbling out of the side of my mouth and I quickly wiped it away, horrified. I did a quick check of the white leather for more.

Fortunately, Tristan himself was asleep as well only he wasn't drooling. Of course
he
wasn't drooling. He was lying back against the seat, mouth closed, breathing slowly and silently through his perfect patrician nose. I watched the rise and fall of his chest and resisted the urge to put my hand on it so that I could feel the gentle motion of his muscles. He had on a moss-green silk shirt that flowed over his skin in a way that seemed uncommonly sensual for just a shirt. I had noticed during the day how the color picked up one of the many shades I saw in his forest eyes and, along with the khaki pants he'd chosen for our outing, just seemed to blend him into the landscape as if he had joined a painting.

By some happy coincidence, I had chosen a terra-cotta colored sundress from the assortment in 'my' closet and a pair of sensibly flat, but very pretty sandals that laced at the ankles. The wide straw hat I found on the top shelf of the closet was a perfect accent, its big scarf in shades of the same tawny clay, ochre and olive. We looked like we had purposely coordinated our outfits.

It took me a while to get used to how people turned their heads when Tristan and I walked past. At first, I just figured it was because of his devastating good looks. But, after a while, I noticed that it wasn't just women who were looking at us. Men, women, old, young, singly or together, it seemed that something about us was worthy of a second glance. I understood a little bit more about that reaction as I pondered the lovely picture of us gliding through town in that cloud of a car.

Tristan didn't wake until we pulled up to the dock where
King's Risk gently swayed in her berth. Kwan handed the many packages we had accumulated during the day to the steward, Carlos. There was the gift basket for my mother all wrapped in yellow cellophane and adorned with a huge silk bow. I had made a futile effort to rein Tristan in on the shopping, but there was no reasoning with the man. The very truthful argument that Marjorie would be embarrassed by such extravagance met with a snort and "she'll just have to get used to it".

Of course that hurled me right into a fantasy about what he really meant by that statement and effectively shut me up. Maybe he knew that's the effect it would have. It wasn't impossible that Tristan knew exactly how much I invested in any mention he made of the future or any indication that we were a 'couple'.
Maybe he knew that forbidden expectations were as good as a guarantee a girl like me would be obsessed with them.

Eight

The sun was just sliding below the buildings to the west. We sat on deck and sipped the last of our bottle of
Blanquette de Limoux.

"Would you like to dine in or out tonight?"

"Oh, that's a hard choice. Your chef is awfully good."

"Yes, he is. But to tell you the truth, Kwan, Shane and even Carlos get involved in the kitchen. I have been blessed with a staff of men who love to outdo one a
nother at the stove. Chef Todd's the boss, of course, but he welcomes company."

"Well, we certainly brought back a cornucopia of produce for them. I can't believe the herbs!"

"There's also half a dozen fabulous cheeses from that one place and the veal sausage. Could you be satisfied with an omelet and a salad?"

"That sounds perfect. We seem to do nothing but eat. I'm going to go home as fat as one of those cute little pigs we saw today.
"

"A few days in France isn't going to fatten you up like a hog."

"Plump is cute on a pig, but pretty undesirable on a woman."

"Trust me, it would take a lot more than a few pounds to render you undesirable."

I smiled and puffed out my cheeks like a blowfish. "How's that?" I asked as they deflated.

"Well, when you do that it only reminds me of how good it feels when you have my cock is poking inside one of those cheeks."

"Ah, speaking of a tasty sausage…" I reached over and cupped him in my hand.

Tristan groaned as I stroked him under his trousers. "Yours to devour, my sweet."

I leaned down and blew through the fabric to heat his flesh. "Are we going for an appetizer?"

His voice rasped a little when he said, "I'm afraid I have a few calls to make. In just a few minutes, in fact."

I gave him an exaggerated little pout.

"Not to worry, I will make sure that dessert is more than satisfying."

"My King, satisfaction is something I know I don't have to worry about with you."

He kissed me sweetly and asked, "So, would you like to visit the 'adult' section of the beach tomorrow?"

"Okaaaayyy, so what goes on in the 'adult section'?"

"Just what you'd imagine. Adult stuff. Mostly it's couples going there to size up other couples. Aside from the straight up naturist part of
Cap d'Agde
, there's also a large libertine contingent."

"Libertine?"

"That's the French term for swingers. Couples who swap. And other stuff."

Now I
was
getting a little freaked out. "And is
that
something you're also interested in?"

Tristan tilted my chin up and focused my eyes on his. "I am not at all interested in sharing you with anyone. I'd accommodate you if you had any desire… any bi-sexual tendencies--"

I cut him off. "I do not have any bi tendencies. If that's what floats your boat, I'm afraid I can't help you."

"That's not what floats my boat. But if that was something you fantasize about, here would be the place to act on it." He kissed me softly on the lips and then on the forehead. "Raina, I want you to have whatever kind of sensual experience you can imagine enjoying. A lot of women like playing with other women, that's all. There's nothing wrong with girls having a little fun," he smiled. "The wise man indulges the woman whose sexuality he treasures. At least to a point."

A sudden insight told me that Elsa was the woman he knew who had a taste for a little female company now and then. The thought that he found it
cute
to indulge her infuriated me. In fact, the whole trip started to sour. He was no stranger to this place, to naked fun in the sun, to what went on over on the 'adult side' of the beach.

As I sipped the last drops of my wine
in rather sullen silence I couldn't get the picture of Elsa, the pretty girl next door, cavorting around the white French sands with Tristan. Tristan helping her
hunt
a like-minded woman for a romp. Tristan and the prey's male counterpart watching the 'girls play' and having a great old time. It kind of made me sick to my stomach.

For some irrational reason, I had no problem with the thought that Tristan had sailed the Med with any of a dozen women who'd been pictured with him over the years. If Tristan watched two Barbie dolls do one another and got a charge out of that--not an issue. It was the plain, sweet, utterly ordinary adoring face of Elsa Maynard buried in another woman's snatch while Tristan indulgently watched that attached to my heart like a ten pound lead sinker. Tristan 'indulging the woman whose sexuality he treasures'. What a statement.