Chapter Fifteen

Francine waited for Keaton to unlock the door to the suite before stepping inside. “I decided on this place because of its history. It belonged to former plantation owners,” he added when she smiled at him.

“It’s charming, Keaton.”

When she saw the king-size, four-poster bed with a crocheted canopy, some of the bravado she’d exhibited back in the Cove had dissipated. It wouldn’t be the first time she and Keaton would sleep together but she had a feeling it would be the first time she made love.

She knew he’d called ahead because there were lighted candles lining a buffet and dining room table. The scent from a vase of blood-red roses permeated the living/dining and kitchen areas.

“I’m going to check out the bathroom,” she told Keaton as he turned and walked back to the bedroom.

“Okay.”

She entered the bathroom and again there were more candles, along with an assortment of bath gels and salts lining the shelf above a sunken tub with a Jacuzzi. Turning on the faucet, she emptied a capful of foaming gel under the running water. Within seconds the spell of lavender wafted to her nose.

Francine returned to the bedroom where she found Keaton sprawled on the bed watching television. “I’m going to take a bath.”

He sat up. “Would you like some company?”

She hesitated. She’d never shared a bath with a man. “It’s lavender bubble bath.”

Keaton swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I don’t care, because I’m going to enjoy washing every inch of your gorgeous body.”

Francine opened her bag, which Keaton had placed on a luggage rack, and removed her cosmetic case and a bathrobe. She hadn’t brought any birth control, so she was going to rely on Keaton to protect her. Suddenly it hit her! Why did sleeping with Keaton appear to be scripted?

It was as if she were playing a role in a daytime drama and the writers had agreed it was time for one of their lead couples to sleep together. But she had to push those thoughts aside. Francine knew she never would’ve agreed to permit Keaton to make love to her if she hadn’t had feelings for him. At first she thought it was because of the recurring erotic dreams that had left her shaken, while craving the feel of a man’s hands on her body. But then something inside her changed once she realized he hadn’t put any pressure on her to sleep with him. He’d come to her in the middle of the night, lain beside her, and all the while hadn’t made an overture to seduce her.

The thought that perhaps he was gay never crossed her mind. She’d dealt with enough actors on and off the stage to identify a man who preferred a same-sex relationship. There were some with whom she’d even had love scenes, knowing in the back of her mind that they were only acting.

Whatever inhibitions she may have had vanished when rehearsing scenes that called for her to be partially clothed or completely nude under a sheet or blanket. Her instructors had shown Francine the proper technique for kissing a man, and how to use her body to convey without words the extent of her desire for her partner. The first time she’d had a kissing scene she was nauseated because the actor had sought to put his tongue down her throat. When he continued and she finally gagged she’d slapped him so hard there was stunned silence in the theater. The director was so impressed with her rage he decided to change the scene to include her slapping the man who attempted to force her to sleep with him. Then he directed her how to slap another actor without causing injury.

Her feelings for Keaton grew deeper because of respect and the realization he was a protector of women. He’d stayed in L.A. longer than he’d planned to help his sister resolve her volatile situation. And now it was his attorney who’d called him. Francine hadn’t wanted to eavesdrop on his conversation but he hadn’t attempted to walk away. She’d felt her heart turn over when he’d told Devon, “Remember that I’m here for you.” In that instant she knew Keaton was a keeper.

She gave him a sensual smile. “I’ll see you inside.”

Francine brushed her teeth, following up with a peppermint mouthwash. Stripping off her clothes, she left them on a chair and stepped into the warm bubbles, which floated up and tickled her nose. She’d rested her head on a bath pillow, luxuriating in the pulsing waters, and closed her eyes when she heard Keaton moving around the bathroom. He’d turned on the radio and the familiar voice of Faith Hill singing “Back to You” filled the bathroom.

All of Francine’s senses were heightened when she heard him brushing his teeth, and then gargling. She opened her eyes, sitting up straighter. Keaton had placed a low table next to the tub and she tried not to gawk at his nude body in the flickering candlelight. He moved out of her line of sight and then returned, carrying two flutes of a sparkling liquid and setting them on the table. It was apparent he’d raided the minibar. Her eyes widened when he stepped into the tub, his semierect penis swaying heavily between muscled thighs. His eyes met hers and she was certain he could see the rapidly beating pulse in her throat as he lowered his body, sitting opposite her. There was a dusting of hair on his chest and a tattoo covering his entire right shoulder.

“Is it too hot for you?” she asked. Francine said the first thing that came to mind.

Keaton stared at her under lowered lids. “No. It’s perfect. Just like you.” Reaching for a flute, he handed one to her, then took the remaining one. His eyes never left hers when he touched his glass to hers. “Here’s to being all in.”

She blinked once. “All in,” she repeated, then took a sip. Francine replaced the flute on the table and sank lower, until the bubbles concealed the tops of her breasts. She watched Keaton drain his glass. He moved closer, and without warning anchored his hands under her shoulders, shifting her effortlessly until she sat between his outstretched legs.

“This is better,” he whispered in her ear.

Francine lay with her back against his solid chest, his arms around her waist, unable to believe she felt so comfortable with a man she’d known only a few weeks. She knew he made films, his parents were chefs, his sister was undergoing a divorce, and his lawyer was pregnant. He’d admitted not having married or fathered any children, but he’d never spoken of the women in his past. Was there one he’d loved unconditionally and she’d not returned his love? Or was he incapable of loving?

“You’re not drinking your sparkling cider. I ordered it because you said you’re not much of a drinker.”

Keaton’s voice broke into her musings. Reaching for the flute, she took another sip. “I really appreciate that. I’m certain you don’t want to make love to a drunk woman.”

He chuckled softly. “No, I don’t.”

“There was a time when Cavanaugh Island had quite a few drunks. Kids in school used to whisper about their fathers sneaking off to buy moonshine from an illegal still that had been set up in the Creek. Some would be so tanked up they’d never make it home and when they did their wives forced them to sleep outdoors because they didn’t want their children seeing their daddies in that condition.”

“Do they still sell moonshine?”

“No. Someone decided to snitch and agents from the ATF came over from Columbia, destroyed the still, and arrested the family operating the illegal enterprise.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“It was during my first year in high school. The bad thing about living in a small town is that nothing is sacred. If a man is cheating, then it’s only a matter of time before his wife will find out. If she doesn’t discover his indiscretion on her own, then someone would be sure to let the cat out of the bag. Some women seek out root workers to either stop their husband’s philandering or chase away the other woman.”

“That’s unbelievable.”

Peering up over her shoulder, Francine tried reading Keaton’s expression in the flickering candlelight. “Not to the Gullah. Prominent among the culture is the belief in herbalism, spiritualism, and black magic.” Keaton brushed his mouth over the nape of her neck. She gasped when his hands covered her breasts, gently kneading them until her nipples were hard as pebbles.

He kissed her again. “Tell me about it tomorrow because I don’t want to end up with nightmares tonight after talking about spooks and mojo.”

Francine managed to slip out of his loose embrace and straddled him. She touched her mouth to the tattoo on his shoulder. It was Melpomene and Thalia: the masks depicting tragedy and comedy.

“Will you wash my back?”

“Is that all you want me to wash?”

She kissed Keaton under his ear. “Use your imagination.”

Francine closed her eyes, reveling in the magic of her soon-to-be lover’s hands on her mouth, throat, and breasts. The water cooled, the bubbles disappeared, and Keaton turned off the jets swirling the water around their writhing bodies, then opened the drain for the tub to empty out.

Her mouth was just as busy as she caught Keaton’s earlobe between her teeth, worrying it and eliciting gasps from him. They’d become sculptors, fingers stroking muscle, sinew, curves, dips, and her sex. Francine closed her knees, sandwiching Keaton’s hand between her thighs.

“Don’t baby,” he whispered. “Please let me touch you.”

Her knees slowly parted as if pulled apart by an invisible wire, and she inhaled as his finger gently stroked the swollen flesh at the apex of her thighs. The sensations she’d dreamed about came back, and this time it was no fantasy. It was very real.

Keaton stared directly at Francine, watching a myriad of emotions cross her features as he continued to slowly caress her clitoris. She was beautiful, magnificent. The darkening of her eyes, heightened color in her face, and skin stretched taut over her high cheekbones revealed her rising passion. Resting his forehead on hers, he kissed her with all of the passion that was coursing throughout his body. He devoured her mouth as if he’d been denied food for days. He increased the pressure until her lips parted, permitting him the access he sought when his tongue touched hers.

He’d never related to other women as he had to Francine. With her he could be himself. She was beautiful, charming, seductive, sexy, witty, and she made him laugh. In the past he’d taken himself and life much too seriously. Before relocating to Cavanaugh Island he’d spent more time alone than with people, writing and revising scripts.

Living in the Lowcountry had changed him—for the better. He’d learned to kick back and relax. He now took time to enjoy the sunrise and sunset. Seeing Francine and walking the beach had become the highlights of his day. Keaton had watched her interaction with Morgan. Their closeness was more than obvious when he saw them in the kitchen together giggling like teenage girls. Her demeanor at the dinner table was less effusive, more reserved, and several times he’d caught her staring off into space. Initially he thought her bored or that her mind had drifted but within seconds she picked up on the conversation as if she hadn’t missed a word.

Combing his fingers through her curling hair, he held it off her face. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered reverently. “Everywhere.”

Francine lowered her eyes, unaware of the effect of the demure gesture on Keaton. “Whenever I’m with you I feel beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful all the time, Francine. You’re even beautiful when you’re sleeping, awake, bumping, blowing, and cutting hair at the Beauty Box.”

She affected a sexy moue. “You were watching me sleep?”

He nodded. “Sleeping Beauty has nothing on you. You’re much sexier.”

“Stop, Keaton, before you give me a big head.”

“No, sweetie. Right now I’m the one with the big head.” As if to verify what he’d just disclosed, he reached between his thighs and rubbed his swollen penis against her mound. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

A slight frown appeared between Francine’s eyes. “I’m not afraid, Keaton.”

“I’m not talking about hurting you physically,” he said correcting himself. “What I don’t want is to hurt you the way your ex-husband did. I love you too much to do that. I don’t know what’s going to happen between us, but I’m willing to wait and see where it leads.”

“I don’t either,” Francine whispered, “but you have to know that I love you, too.”

Keaton lingered in the tub longer than he’d planned. Releasing Francine, he stood up and stepped out of the tub, and reached for a nearby bath sheet. His gaze met and fused with hers as he dried his body. He picked up another bath sheet, holding it out when she stood and stepped out. Slowly, gently, he blotted the moisture from her face, chest, arms, and legs. Her thighs trembled slightly when he drew the terry-cloth fabric between her legs.

Tossing the towels in the tub, Keaton bent slightly, scooping Francine up in his arms. Her hands went around his neck at the same time she rested her head on his shoulder. It wasn’t until he placed her on the crisp sheets, his body following hers, that it finally hit Keaton that he’d waited more than eight years for this moment. When he’d walked into the small theater that seated fewer than three hundred theatergoers and he saw Francine Tanner walk onto the stage, he hadn’t known their lives would be inexorably linked. He’d gone back again to see her perform and would’ve gone back to see every performance if his schedule and wallet had permitted it.

Reaching under a pillow, Keaton held a condom between his thumb and forefinger, smiling when Francine nodded her approval. Her gaze was fixated on his hands when he opened the packet and slipped the latex sheath over his erection.

“You can breathe now, sweetie.” Francine had held her breath while he’d put on the condom, and he suspected she’d been apprehensive about a possible unplanned pregnancy.

His hand splayed over her cheek, his fingers entwining the curls framing her face. Keaton’s head came down slowly, inch by inch, until his mouth hovered over hers, capturing her breath as she exhaled.

Angling for a better position, he slanted his mouth over hers, slowly increasing the pressure until her lips parted slightly. Feeling the tension in her limbs, he knew he had to go slowly. Her mouth opened wider and it was what he needed to stake his claim, his tongue meeting hers in a heated joining that raced through his body like the rush of molten lava.

The heat from Keaton’s mouth swept from Francine’s mouth to her core. Waves of passion shook her until she could not stop her legs from shaking. He suckled her breasts, worshipping them, and the moans she sought to suppress escaped her parted lips.

His tongue circled her nipples, leaving them hard, erect, and throbbing painfully. His teeth tightened on the turgid tips, and she felt a violent spasm grip her womb. Her fingers were entwined in the cotton sheet, tightening and ripping them from their fastenings at the same time she arched up off the mattress.

“Keaton!”

His name was torn from the back of her throat as he inched his way down her body and held her hips to still their thrashing. Francine dissolved into a maelstrom of ecstasy when he buried his face between her legs. His hot breath seared the tangled curls between her thighs and she went limp, unable to move, unable to protest or think of anything except the pleasure her lover offered her.

Francine registered a series of breathless sighs, unaware they were her own moans of sexual satisfaction. Eyes closed, head thrown back, lips parted, back arched, she drowned in the sensations taking her beyond herself and any passion she’d ever experienced. Then it began, rippling little tremors increasing and shaking her uncontrollably and becoming more explosive when they sought escape.

Keaton heard her breath come in long, surrendering moans. He moved quickly up her trembling limbs and eased his erection into her body. He was met with resistance. How had he forgotten that it’d been years since she’d slept with a man? Knowing she had waited filled Keaton with immeasurable pride, and he prayed he would never do anything to make her regret her decision to permit him to make love to her. Gritting his teeth, he drew back and with a strong, sure thrust of his hips, buried his sex in the hot, moist, tight flesh pulsing around his.

Sliding his hands under her hips, Keaton lifted her higher, permitting him deeper penetration, then quickened his movements. Francine assisted him when she wound her legs around his waist. There was only the sound of their labored breathing as both strained, tendons bulging in their necks, to get even closer. Then without warning, like lightning streaking across a summer sky, their passions peaked simultaneously, moans and groans harmonizing in a cacophony of explosive ecstasy.

He held back, refusing to ejaculate because he didn’t want it to end. He’d waited much too long to make love to Francine to have it end now. He reversed their position, bringing Francine with him until she lay sprawled over his body. Pushing into a sitting position, he caressed her damp back and trailed kisses along the column of her perfumed neck. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

“I’m more than okay. I’m wonderful,” Francine drawled, placing soft kisses on his throat and shoulder.

“I—”

She stopped his words when she placed her fingertips over his mouth. “Please don’t say anything, darling.”

Keaton realized Francine was one of those women who didn’t like to talk when making love, while he wanted to tell her how much he wanted and needed her in his life. His right hand moved over her bare hip, caressing the silken flesh. He drew in a deep breath, luxuriating in the intoxicating fragrance of the lavender mingling with the lingering scent of their lovemaking.

His eyes went to her breasts when she braced her hands against the headboard on either side of his head. They shared a smile as Francine began to move again, grinding her hips against his erection in a slow, measured rhythm. Up and down. Around and around. Cupping her hips, Keaton let her set the cadence as he visually feasted on the motion of her firm bouncing breasts, the rush of color suffusing her face and chest, the sound of her labored breathing as her passions rose higher and higher.

Lowering her head, Francine lightly touched her lips to Keaton’s, the tip of her tongue tracing the outline of his full, sensuous lower lip. Her body told him what her lips couldn’t: She loved him. She loved Keaton more than she’d ever believed possible for her to love a man, and sharing her body with him wasn’t enough. She wanted more, as in sharing a future with him. She closed her eyes against his intense stare, gritting her teeth when she felt the familiar flutters of her impending climax. She squeezed her thighs together to stop the pulsing, but it continued.

“No, Keaton!” His hands held her waist as he moved her up and down the length of his manhood. “Please let me go.”

“I can’t, baby. It feels so good.”

Francine wanted to tell him it was better than good. “Love me, Keaton. Please love me,” she chanted over and over until it became a litany. She closed her eyes, gasping at the sweet agony tearing her asunder. It eased slightly before she was hurled higher, climaxing, her orgasms overlapping one another until she collapsed on Keaton, while struggling to catch her breath. She sighed when his deep moans of satisfaction reverberated throughout the bedroom. They lay together, joined, losing track of time. She emitted a small cry of protest when he changed their position again, pulling out of her warmth. “I have to get rid of the condom,” he said in her ear.

Moving off the bed, Keaton pulled the sheet and lightweight blanket over her naked body. He’d paused for several seconds to stare at the sexy curve of her hips and incredibly long legs as twin emotions of pride and awe swept over him. He’d spent years fantasizing about Francine, never believing the fantasy would become a reality.

He walked into the bathroom, discarding the condom and extinguishing the candles. Francine was snoring softly when he joined her in bed. Pulling her close to his chest, Keaton buried his face in her hair, and minutes later fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Francine opened her eyes. The warm body pressed against hers and the overhead canopy reminded her that she wasn’t in her own bedroom. Heat followed by a chill gripped her as the images of two hands, one atop the other, flashed into her head. The darker hand belonged to a man and the smaller one to a woman. At first she thought the hands belonged to her and Keaton, but she’d glimpsed the glint of a ring on one of the man’s fingers, and the woman’s fingers were not quite as fair in coloring as hers. Who, she thought, did the hands belong to?

She turned her head, meeting Keaton’s eyes. It was apparent he’d awakened before she had. “Good morning.” The numbers on the clock on the bedside table read 5:40.

Shifting onto his left side, he swept her mussed hair off her cheek. “Good morning. How do you feel?”

Francine knew he was asking about the area between her legs. “It’s a little sore, but I should be all right in a couple of days. Were you hoping for seconds this morning?”

His gaze went to her mouth as he twisted a curl around his finger. “No. All you have to do is show up at the salon walking as if on eggshells and everyone will know what you were doing.”

She rested her hand along his jaw, grazing the emerging stubble with a fingernail. It was as if she were seeing Keaton for the first time, although she’d shaved him twice. The skin on his face was soft and firm to the touch, his thick, dark eyebrows silky and his eyes—his eyes appeared to see inside her to uncover her true feelings for him. Francine had openly admitted to Keaton and Morgan that she liked him. But if she were truly honest she would’ve told them she was falling in love. It’d begun so quietly, without fanfare, that she wasn’t aware of it until she’d agreed to make love with Keaton.

He was everything the men of her past wouldn’t or couldn’t be. First, he hadn’t pressured her to sleep with him—something she’d encountered much too often, and because he was obviously solvent he didn’t need her to support him.

“They can surmise what I’ve been doing, but I doubt if they’ll be able to prove it, especially if some of the more inquisitive ones in the Magnolias don’t see your truck parked outside my house all night.”

“There were a couple of nights when I did park outside your home.”

A slight frown appeared between her eyes. “I forgot about that.”

“I didn’t. That’s why we’re here instead of in the Cove.”

“Listen to you,” Francine crooned. “You sound like us locals who shorten the names of our towns to the Cove, the Landing, and the Creek.”

Keaton nuzzled her neck. “I am a local, or I will be when I move into my house.”

“As long as you don’t forget to register as soon as you can so you can vote in the next local election. As a supporter of Alice Parker’s candidacy I have an invitation to attend a Valentine’s Day fund-raiser at her home. I’d like you to be my plus one.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Okay. I’m honored you asked me to be your plus one.” Rolling over on his back, Keaton stared up at the ceiling. “I notice folks on the island take their elections quite seriously.”

Francine assumed a similar position. “You just don’t know the half.” She told him about Alice Parker challenging the incumbent and how townspeople had taken sides. Those loyal to Spencer thought he was doing a good job, while his former supporters believed he hadn’t done enough to stop the developers that were still attempting to get longtime residents to sell their homes so they could put up condos, hotels, and golf courses, and overpriced gated communities.

“That definitely would spoil the ambience and natural beauty of the island.”

“What will the design of your studio look like?”

“I was thinking a four-thousand-square-foot Charleston Single House with a two-story porch overlooking a garden. It will be protected by closed-circuit cameras, a wrought-iron fence, and an electronic gate.”

Francine frowned. “Isn’t that excessive?”

“Not if I want to insure the building.”

Her frown disappeared. “I didn’t think of that.” She turned over again. “By the way, I had a chance to look at the floor plans.”

“Which style do you like?”

“Even though I had Morgan decorate my apartment in a Zen style, I prefer the ones labeled simple country charm because your home is a farmhouse. The tables and chairs have a country look with a subtle contemporary side.”

“I like it simple,” Keaton confirmed. “Maybe one of these days you’ll come with me to see the house.”

“I’d love to. I think it’s time I get up and take a shower.”

Keaton rested a leg over hers, stopping her when she moved to sit up. “What time do you have to be at the shop?”

“I’m usually there around eight thirty, but I need to go in earlier because my mother will be home for the rest of the week.”

“I’ll call downstairs and make a reservation for breakfast before we head back.”

Francine tried to move his leg off hers but it was like attempting to lift a log. When it appeared he wasn’t going to let her get up she tried another approach. Smiling, she reached between his legs, holding fast to his flaccid penis.

“No!” Keaton bellowed when she began to stroke him.

She increased the motion. “Move your leg, baby.”

Jerking as if he’d been hit by a jolt of electricity, Keaton fell off the bed onto his back, bringing Francine with him as she lay sprawled over his chest. He glared up at her. “That’s a low blow.”

Pressing her fist to her mouth, Francine smothered the giggles threatening to escape. “I did not blow you, milord,” she said in a clipped British accent.

Keaton’s shoulders shook as he struggled not to laugh. “What am I going to do with you, wench?”

“That is for you to find out, milord.” She got up and walked into the bathroom, feeling the heat of Keaton’s gaze on her naked body.