Saving His Blackmailed Lover

She might feel like a superhero when she was with him, but once she was alone, could she be her own kryptonite?

* * *

“Dinner was wonderful,” Cecelia said.

Deacon took her hand and they strolled along la Croisette together. The sun had already set, leaving the sky a golden color that was quickly being overtaken by the inky purple of early evening. The lights from the shops and restaurants along the walkway lighted their path and the crests of the ocean waves beyond them.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. There’s no such thing as bad food in France. They wouldn’t allow it.”

Cecelia laughed and Deacon found himself trying to memorize the sound. He hadn’t heard her laughter nearly enough when they were in Royal. He missed it. In their carefree younger days, she’d laughed freely and often. He wanted her to laugh more even if he wasn’t around to hear it. That was part of the reason he’d brought her here—to get her away from the drama of home in the hopes he might catch a fleeting glimpse of the girl he’d once loved.

Not that he didn’t appreciate the woman she’d become. The older, wiser, sexier Cecelia certainly had its benefits. Looking at her now, he could hardly keep his hands to himself. She was wearing a cream lace fitted sheath dress. It plunged deep, highlighting her ample cleavage, and clung to every womanly curve she’d developed while they were apart. Falling for Cecelia was the last thing on his mind when he arrived in Royal, but it was virtually impossible for him to keep his distance from her when she looked like that.

“Can we walk in the water?” she asked, surprising him.

“If you want to.”

They both slipped out of their shoes, and Deacon rolled up his suit pants. He hadn’t thought she would want to walk along the shore and let the sand ruin her new pedicure. Yet with her crystal embellished stilettos in her free hand, she tugged him off the stone path toward the water.

The cold water that washed over them was a shocking contrast to the warm sand on his bare feet. He expected Cecelia to bolt the moment the chill hit her, but instead, her eyes got big with excitement and she laughed again.

“It’s a little chilly,” he said.

“It’s April. It feels good, though. I can’t remember the last time I put my toes in the sand and walked through the surf. Too long.”

Deacon felt momentarily sheepish. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done it, either, and it was right outside his window the majority of the year.

“I understand why you’d rather be here than Royal,” she said after they walked a good bit down the shoreline. “It’s beautiful. And so different. I don’t know that I want to go back, either.” She chuckled and shook her head. “I will, but I don’t want to.”

Deacon felt the sudden urge to ask her why she couldn’t stay. “Why go back?” he asked. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Well, for one thing, I haven’t finished your hotel yet. It opens in just a week and a half, if you’ll recall. Plus, my company is in Royal. My employees. My friends and family.”

“You could have all that here,” he offered. “And me, too.” Deacon surprised himself with the words, but he couldn’t stop them from coming out. What would it be like to have her here with him all the time? Away from her parents’ sphere of influence and the society nonsense she’d fallen prey to. He wanted to know.

Cecelia stopped walking, pulling him to a stop beside her. “You’re not going to stay in Royal, are you?”

He shook his head. “You know I’m not.”

Cecelia’s gaze drifted into the distance. “I know. I guess a part of me was just hoping.”

Deacon’s heart sped in his chest. He hadn’t given much thought to this fling with Cecelia lasting beyond the grand opening. He just couldn’t disappoint himself that way. But it sounded like she was open to the possibility. “Hoping what?” he pressed.

“Hoping that you’d change your mind and stay awhile.”

Deacon sighed. There were a lot of things he would do for her, but stay in Royal? He couldn’t even imagine it. He didn’t know why she’d ask him to, either. Didn’t she realize how everyone treated him? How miserable it was for him? She didn’t seem very happy there, either. “Royal, Texas, and I parted ways a long time ago.”

Cecelia looked at him. “We parted ways, too, and yet here we are. Anything can happen.”

He didn’t want to argue about this and ruin their night. They were together now, and that was the most important thing. “You’re right,” he conceded. “Anything can happen. We’ll see what the future brings.”

Taking her hand into his, they started back down the beach. They were only a hundred yards or so from his hotel when he saw a child chasing after a dog on the beach. The little boy must’ve dropped the leash, and the large, wooly mutt seemed quite pleased with his newfound freedom.

In fact, the dog was heading right toward them. Before Deacon could react, the dog made a beeline for Cecelia. It jumped up, placing two dirty paw prints on her chest and knocking her off balance. Her hand slipped from his as she stumbled back and fell into the waves that were rushing up around their feet. She yelled as she tried—and failed—to find her footing in the icy water, soaking her dress and hair.

Deacon was in a panic and so was the little boy. They both lunged to pull the dog off her as it enthusiastically licked her face. It wasn’t until the dog was yanked away that he realized Cecelia’s shrieks were actually laughter. He stood, stunned for a moment by her reaction. Then he offered her his hand to lift her up out of the water, but she didn’t take it. She was laughing too hard to care.

It was the damnedest thing he’d ever seen. The people back in Royal wouldn’t believe it if Maverick circulated a picture of it. The perfect and poised Cecelia Morgan lying in the ocean fully clothed and covered in mud. The cream lace dress was absolutely ruined with dirty paw prints rubbed down the front. Her makeup was smeared across her skin, and her blond hair hung in damp tendrils around her face. She was a mess. But she didn’t seem to care. And she couldn’t have been more beautiful.

“Je m’excuse, mademoiselle,” the little boy said as he fought with the dog that weighed a good ten pounds more than he did. “Mauvais chien!” he chastised the pup, who finally sat down looking smug about the whole thing.

“Cecelia, are you okay?” Deacon asked. He wasn’t sure what to do.

She struggled to catch her breath, then nodded. Her face was flushed bright red beneath the smears of her foundation and mascara. “I’m fine.” She reached up for Deacon, and when he took her hand, she tugged hard, catching him off guard and jerking him down into the water with her.

“What the—” he complained as he pushed up from the water, soaked, but the joyful expression on her face stopped him. He rolled up to a seated position beside her. “Was that really necessary?” he asked.

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss. Deacon instantly forgot about the water, the dog, the cost of his ruined suit... All that mattered was the taste of Cecelia on his lips and the press of her body against his. She was uninhibited and free in his arms, kissing him with the same abandon she had that first night after her breakup with Chip. There was no desperation this time, however. Just excitement and need.

He couldn’t help but respond to it. This side of Cecelia was one he thought he might never see again. It was the side that had made out with him in the back of his truck, letting him get her hair and makeup all disheveled. It was the side that had sprayed him with the hose while he was detailing one of his restored cars and led to them getting covered in mud and grass as they wrestled on his front lawn.

Deacon had missed this Cecelia. Perfectly imperfect. Dirty. Joyful. Hot as hell. He realized that they weren’t alone in the back of his truck, however. The little French boy and his dog were still standing there. He forced himself to pull away, looking over the mess she’d become.

The dress had been tight before, but wet, it was clingy and damn near see-through. He could see the hardened peaks of her nipples pressing through the fabric. He would have to give her his coat to cover her when they walked home.

“Américains fous,” the little boy said with a dismayed shake of his head. He tugged on the dog’s leash and headed back in the direction he’d come from.

“What did he say?” Cecelia asked.

“He called us crazy Americans.” Deacon wiped the water from his face and slicked back his hair. “I have to say I agree.”

Cecelia giggled into her hand and looked down at her dress. Her fingers traced over some of the sand and mud embedded in the delicate lace and silk. “My mother just bought me this dress for Christmas. It was the first time I’d worn it. Oh, well.”

“I’ll buy you ten new dresses,” he said. Deacon pushed himself up out of the water and helped her up, too. He slipped out of his suit coat, wringing out the water before placing it over her shoulders.

“I don’t want more dresses,” she said, pressing her body to his seductively with the little boy long gone. A wicked glint lit her eyes as her lips curled into a deceptively sweet smile. “I just want you. Right now.”

Deacon swallowed hard. “I think this walk along the beach is over, don’t you?”

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