A potentially naked Marcel Mercier.
She nudged apart the pile. T-shirt, khakis, boat shoes. Not a pair of shorts to be seen. Her heart slowed somewhat, surprising her by how fast it had been beating. How fast it was beating still. Even more so when the thought struck her—what if he didn’t wear any underwear? What if he was one of those men who found it constricting? What if—?
What if she was a complete idiot for even thinking of crap like that? She bent over the rail, looking down into the murky water. Marcel Mercier’s underwear. Sheesh.
Around her the wharf was nearly deserted, only a few industrious types milling about on their decks in the cool of morning, far enough away from the Liberty Sail’s gated dock to afford her—and him—a semblance of privacy. Let him swim naked for all I care. It wasn’t as if she could see him anyway. Not at least until the sun rose.
And there it was on the eastern horizon, cracking into the apricot sky, the harbor illuminated by a shaft of gold across the water. And there he was, aiming toward the ship, head down, arms slicing through the channel like a paddlewheel, a perfectly efficient swimming machine as taut and as sleek as a seal. All at once he pivoted and spun around, face up and doing the backstroke, just as cleanly and quickly as if motorized. She didn’t know if he could see her, and at the moment she didn’t care. It was like watching an Olympian, and dammit, she was riveted. And maybe a teeny bit jealous.a Rafflecopter giveaway
FRENCH KISS READING ORDER