Free A French Kiss in London by Melinda De Ross Page B

of apparent rejection, asked irritated, “What’s wrong?”
    “I just put on lipstick. I want to make a good impression to your mom. I didn’t want you to wipe off…”
    She wasn’t able to finish the sentence, because his mouth slanted over hers in a deep, stormy kiss, while he pressed her close to his body with untamed passion.
    “All night I’ve dreamed only about this—your lips, your naked body next to mine,” he whispered against her mouth. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Linda, but I’m addicted to you like air. I want you more than you can imagine.”
    “I feel the same way, and you have no idea how much that scares me,” she replied, breathless. Then she rested her cheek against his solid chest, where it seemed the very center of her universe had taken residence.
    He lifted her chin with strong fingers and gazed into her eyes.
    “Why should you be scared of something so wonderful, of the feelings we share together?”
    She hid her face again into his chest, desperately groping for a reasonable answer.
    “Because it’s something new…Because I’ve never felt like this in my life. Because I’m afraid…”
    “Of what?”
    “Not to be hurt. Not to hurt you, if our relationship isn’t going to work.”
    He pushed her away gently to look into her face.
    “Linda, I understand you were hurt by your ex-husband…”
    “It’s not about that,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “Tony didn’t hurt me, not the way you assume. Now I realize I don’t even think I’ve loved him. Not the way I…”
    She hesitated, glancing away, then back at him.
    “I never felt for him even a fraction of what I feel for you, Gerard,” she confessed. “It’s only that I began to avoid obligations, to cherish my independence, which I totally lacked when I was with him.”
    To busy herself, she began fumbling into her handbag.
    He watched her skeptically, while she took out a little mirror and lipstick, then applied it with a not-so-steady hand.
    “And do you honestly think that having a serious relationship with me would affect your independence?” he asked her in a tone which made the idea seem juvenile and stupid.
    She moved her eyes from the mirror to him.
    “I don’t know. Maybe not. Look, this is not the time to discuss it. What matters is today. Today we’re together, and we’re fine. We have all the time in the world to analyze things, to know each other better. Right?”
    As though he deciphered the confusion and plea in her voice, he forced a smile and said, “You’re right, my love. Let’s go. I don’t want my mom greeting us with a lecture because we’re late.”
    She was in the middle of a deep, relieved breath, when he added, “I’ll abandon the subject for a while, but I’ll leave you with one last thought. I’m determined to break down all the barriers standing between us. I want to have all of you, Linda. Not only your body, but your soul as well.”

Chapter Eight
     
     
    The road became a real pleasure once they passed the sectors where rush-hour traffic was very intense. The Jeep slid smoothly on the highway. From the speakers, Bon Jovi proclaimed his eternal love in a sensual, abrasive voice.
    “I’ve always loved car rides, but only next to a flawless driver,” said Linda, looking through the window at the rushing-by landscapes.
    “And do I qualify?” he teased.
    “Yes,” she answered, truthfully. “You’re an amazing driver.” She cleared her voice and went on, “If you’ve proceeded on inviting me to meet your mother, tell me something about her. What does she do? What kind of person is she? You didn’t even tell me her name.”
    Gerard turned down the volume on the CD player.
    “Well, let’s start with the essentials: her name is Chantàlle Léon. She taught elementary school French almost all her life. Now she’s retired and lives in her sister’s house. My aunt Sophie is also a widow. Her husband—an Englishman called Thomas Barry—died in a