Vegas Miracle Read online

  Chapter Four

  The sun baked the few bodies still lazing by the salt-water pool as Ryan strolled by headed for the cabana-encased lounge. Admiring the various female forms scattered between him and his destination, Ryan caught a few eyes and nodded. He was no slouch and has dressed carefully in hopes of blending in and not seeming like the obvious American in this group of sophisticated tourists. His cream linen shorts and soft blue silk shirt fluttered in the breeze as he stepped into the gloom under the striped canvas tent.

  He took a seat at the bar and glanced around, which was full at four p.m. in Nice. The sun was at its hottest and the interior here pleasantly cool.

  "Monsieur?" The drop dead, model gorgeous woman standing behind the bar put a napkin in front of him.

  "Ah, yeah. I’ll take a glass of Mortimer if you have it." It was his favorite French beer, a frothy lager made from peat smoked whiskey malt. The woman raised an admiring eyebrow and pulled a tap to fill his glass which he raised to her before taking a sip. "Cheers."

  Noting her eyes as they flickered over his shoulders then to the subtle silver colored band on his left hand, he set the glass down and smiled at her.

  "I was told Henri Christophe was here."

  "Oui," she jerked her chin to a spot behind him. Ryan turned his head and was struck by the sight of the man he’d been studying from photos bent over the shoulders of a famous movie star, his hands working her neck as she let out little yips of pleasure and pain. Ryan reddened. Jesus, it sounded like the woman was having an orgasm.

  He finished his beer, put enough Euros on the bar to satisfy any bartender and stood. The dark skinned young man looked up as if sensing his presence and his face broke into a wide grin. Ryan grinned back as he made his way over to him. The movie star stood, took in Ryan’s tall, blond, athletic form then turned and planted a kiss on Henri’s full lips.

  "Darling, so lucky," she glanced over at Ryan who waited, hands in pockets.

  "Oh please, he’s here to hire me or something, make me move to the godforsaken American desert, I don’t know." Henri patted the woman’s ass as she strolled away and Ryan caught the lilt of South American in the man’s speech. But before he could introduce himself, a small body launched itself out of the shadows and into Henri’s arms. The young man laughed and planted kisses all over the little girl’s face. The little-girl version of the man he’d come to hire clambered up and down her father’s torso and he flipped her around, upside down, then up onto his shoulders before kissing both of her knees and turning to Ryan.

  "So sorry, I don’t see my darling Renee much. She's about to leave me again, going to back her her maman, eh my love." He pulled the girl down and set her on the floor where she promptly stared at Ryan then held out a small hand.

  "I'm Renee Christophe. Please to have meeting to you."

  Henri patted her head. Kids made him nervous, always had.

  "Lovely, my dear. The English nanny has come in handy after all."

  Ryan took her hand.

  "I'm Ryan Sullivan. I'm here to see if your Papa will open a restaurant for me." He looked up and caught Henri’s eye. The man’s dark chocolate stare was intense. Ryan took a step back, uncomfortable with the sudden rush of blood that flooded his face.

  Henri turned his attention to his daughter once more.

  "Allez-y maintenant. Votre maman est en attente. J’taime."

  Ryan recognized the formal French used by non-native speakers and he stepped aside as the bikini-clad girl bolted down the steps. Turning back, he was surprised to see the man’s eyes glistening with unshed tears. Suddenly embarrassed, Ryan looked away.

  Henri flopped down onto the cushioned bench lining the far wall of the lounge and sighed.

  "Her bitch of a mother won’t rest until she poisons that child against me." He glanced up at Ryan, motioned to the chair across from him and snapped his fingers over his head.

  A large glass of red wine appeared at his elbow.

  "Need anything," he asked Ryan.

  "Uh, no, I’m fine." Ryan was clearly invading a private moment. He started to stand.

  "No, no, please," Henri put a sandal clad foot up on a nearby chair as Ryan felt his eyes drawn to the man’s compact form, his deep brown skin. The tight tee shirt caressed muscle tone and his white shorts were tight, making the outline of his…Ryan shook himself. What the fuck? Had someone slipped him a roofie? He sat up and crossed an ankle over his knee, suddenly at a loss for words.

  Henri sipped his wine while Ryan fidgeted with his collar. Finally the younger man spoke.

  "Las Vegas? Really?"

  Ryan was relieved to have common ground.

  "Yes, the Aria, the newest, most exclusive hotel casino on the strip. It has all the most expensive shops and a couple of great places to eat but it lacks one thing." He held out a hand, indicating Henri.

  "Sounds like hell to me." Henri stood and stretched and Ryan averted his eyes, unwilling or unable to acknowledge that the sight made him flush red again.

  He stood, willing to walk away. He was not about to beg this punk for anything.

  "Ok, well, I’ve got a couple of others I need to talk to."

  "Who?"

  Ryan grinned. These guys were all alike.

  "Oh, you know Wolfgang wants a presence other than in the MGM and there’s always Jamie."

  "Oliver? There's no way in hell he'd do it. You are a liar, Ryan Sullivan."

  Ryan shrugged.

  "I can’t really say. But if you won’t even consider it I won’t waste any more of your time."

  Henri stepped in front of Ryan closer than any man really ever had if there weren’t blows to be exchanged and Ryan leaned back.

  "Let’s go somewhere quieter." Henri nodded at the bartender who gave him a little wave. He put a hand on Ryan’s back and Ryan’s skin nearly caught fire with the heat. Ryan cleared his throat.

  "No, that’s okay. I need to get back home anyway. My wife..."

  Henri’s smile suddenly seemed genuine for the first time since Ryan stepped into the lounge.

  "Ah yes, the writer, Grace."

  Ryan glared at the man.

  "How do you know that?"

  "You aren’t the only one who does their homework. I read her book. It’s fantastic."

  "She just got a cable deal for it."

  "You must be very proud." Henri held out an arm indicating Ryan should go ahead between the various bronzed, shimmering bodies draped around the pool.

  "I am," Ryan muttered, his mind spinning with the scene and his own reaction to the man following him out.

  "We’ll just go over to my villa," Henri led the way to the parking lot and stopped at a late model Fiat. "I’ll cook."

  By the time they reached Henri’s villa, Ryan described the tough road Grace travelled to publication and how he’d tried to help find her an agent but in the end, she’d done it without his assistance.

  "This is a problem?" Henri downshifted as they climbed the dirt driveway through lush green trees. The play of the man’s muscles in his thigh as he clutched and braked had Ryan mesmerized.

  "What? Oh, well no, but you know I like to help."

  "Sounds to me like she'd rather you not."

  Henri hopped out of the little car and bounded up the steps into his house which featured floor to ceiling windows open to the evening breeze with a breathtaking view of the crystal blue Mediterranean. How the hell he afforded this, Ryan had no idea.

  Ryan walked into the immense open room as Henri brought him a glass of wine, showed him where the stereo was and said he’d be a few minutes in the kitchen and Ryan should make himself at home. As if that was possible. Every single one of his nerve endings was singing in unison. As he sipped the rich, crisp liquid, Ryan was certain this was some sort of surreal, alternative universe.

  He grabbed the back of a chair thinking he’d drag it closer to the open window with the view just as the shoulder he’d injured years ago breaking up a bar brawl in Vegas then so
mehow pulled again last week ago playing tennis sang out in agony. Ryan put the glass down before dropping it and clutched at his upper arm, which had gone numb as the nerves were pinched beneath Ryan’s clavicle.

  Henri emerged with a plate of dark red tomatoes scattered among bright white chunks of cheese and deep green basil leaves, a bottle of olive oil in the other hand. But his eyes narrowed when he saw his guest in pain.

  "I’m fine," Ryan clenched his jaw and sat stark still. "Just a shoulder injury. Do you have any ice?"

  "No, this is France. We hardly have enough ice for the occasional mixed drink."

  Ryan burst out laughing as the absurdity of the day enveloped him. Henri put the plate down and motioned for Ryan to come sit on the stool near him.

  "No, I’m okay, really."

  "Don’t be silly. I can fix it."

  Somehow, the thought of the man’s hands on his body made Ryan’s cock stir which left Ryan in the middle of what was easily turning into the strangest moment of his life.

  He moved over to the stool and sat, grimacing as the pain shot through him with every step.

  "Take off your shirt."

  "What?"

  "I can’t see how bad it is unless you do."

  Ryan shrugged and started unbuttoning but as he reached the top two buttons, his bad arm stopped cooperating. Henri blew out a puff of air and came around to help him. Ryan got a long look at the coal black hair curtaining the man’s face and had to clench his fists against the sudden urge to touch it--to see if it was as silky as it looked. He cleared his throat and looked up at the ceiling.

  With smooth efficiency, Henri moved around to Ryan’s back, letting his hand trail along the injured shoulder. He clapped his hands together so hard Ryan jumped and blinked. When he felt the heat from the young man’s palms in his shoulder, he nearly came up out of his chair.

  "Relax." Henri’s voice was smooth, soothing and extremely disturbing all at once.

  Ryan tried. The man’s hands were amazing, seeming to push and pull at once, separating the bone from ligament, releasing the nerves, bringing exquisite relief.

  "Holy shit," Ryan breathed, rolling the formerly injured joint around with full range of motion for the first time in weeks. Henri kept working at his upper back, going deep into his neck, bringing relaxation where Ryan didn’t even know he held stress. But when he sensed Henri’s body press against his back as his shoulders received both hands, he tensed. At the same moment, his cock sprang to attention and he shifted uneasily.

  As if sensing Ryan’s discomfort, Henri patted his shoulders.

  "Okay, that should do it. Excuse me while I throw some food on for us."

  "Uh, yeah, sure." Ryan leaned forward, unwilling to stand and let the other man know what his hands provoked.

  He could hear Henri rummaging around in the kitchen so he took the opportunity to pull in deep breaths trying to ramp down his mysteriously overheated libido and while putting his shirt back on.

  "Wine’s on the table," Henri called from the other room.

  Ryan noticed his glass was empty and paced the few steps over to the dining area. A laptop was open with a very familiar photo on the screen. One of Grace and him on the beach. Their honeymoon actually, the picture taken right after the lavish party they threw in St. Bart's in lieu of a formal ceremony. Ryan’s gut clenched at the sight of her gazing out over the bright blue ocean. He wasn’t sure who snapped the photo but it caught her hair whipping around her face with him sitting on a lounge chair nearby. The picture made the soft tabloids like People and Us magazine after Grace signed the contract for her cable show. She was already well known from writing "In The Limelight" but the promise of a television show with a famous cast really brought out the "who is this woman?" stories.

  He’d been amused and proud of Grace. But this photo, from a short Vanity Fair article about rising literary stars with a bent towards selling out, used photos from their honeymoon which Ryan found alarming while Grace had taken it in stride.

  "Hey, at least we aren’t hard to look at," she’d thrown the magazine down beside the bed before climbing up and straddling him that morning. He knew she was trying to distract him and he let her. It was usually a very pleasant distraction and that time had been no exception.

  Ryan peered a little closer at the computer screen. He'd forgotten this one but the sight of it brought the whole day back to him. The look of open adoration on his face as he gazed at the woman he loved had been reposted on thousands of Facebook profiles and Twitter posts within the writing community. His assistant Janice kept it in a frame on her desk telling him it proved he had a soul after all. The sight of Grace made his scalp tingle with the reality of what he thought might happen to him today. He did adore her. And he'd do anything for her, but somehow, the undeniable attraction he felt for the man making dinner in the next room had him morbidly curious, and more turned on than he’d been since he first laid eyes on his wife.

  "Dinner will be ready just as soon as I sear these chops."

  Ryan startled as Henri passed by him. He caught odors of garlic, a hint of lime and curry, and the underlying vanilla essence of the man who was undoubtedly about to seduce him.

  "Nice photo by the way," Henri pulled the top off a charcoal grill, held a hand over the white hot coals he’d started earlier and tossed several small morsels onto the grill, the he mouth watering aromas instantly snaking in and curling around Ryan’s head.

  Ryan filled his glass and brought the bottle out onto the small patio. It was nearly perfect between the smells of grilling lamb chops, the view of the ocean and his sudden calm just being around Henri.

  "Yeah, I caught a lot of flak for it though. I look like such a sap."

  "You look like you're in love with your wife." Henri stood, spatula in hand and gazed at Ryan.

  "I am." Ryan couldn’t explain his need to defend this.

  "I know you are. I think that's fantastic. She's beautiful, talented, I’m sure she's a worthy partner in many areas." He lifted the grill lid and pulled the chops onto a wooden tray, which he then dropped onto the table. A couple of place settings were there and Ryan wondered when he’d set them out. This whole day was turning out to be something of a strange, dream-like fantasy.

  Henri brought out a bowl filled with spinach, feta cheese and dark purple onion slices and set it bedside the wood board. A loaf of fresh bread in a basket and a lump of real butter completed the simple meal.

  "Bon appétit."

  Ryan nodded and sliced into one of the chops. His mouth was flooded with heat from a touch of curry and garlic that was balanced with the rich, creamy flavor of lamb. He devoured his chop without speaking.

  Henri watched him, a crooked smile on his face.

  "Did you taste any of that?"

  "It was amazing. Sorry, I’m a fast eater. Occupational hazard."

  Ryan sipped his wine and took a few bites of the salad. Henri sliced into his chop and chewed, never taking his eyes from Ryan’s.

  "So, no children?"

  The question shocked Ryan. After all the silence between them, he thought they’d at least break the ice talking about football or the weather.

  "No."

  "Why not? Can’t. Or Won’t?"

  "We have an agreement. I don’t want any. She's getting less content with that arrangement though. I can tell." Ryan had no idea why he revealed so much. Something about Henri’s directness and his soothing aura made Ryan feel his body reacting again and knew Henri could see his face redden.

  "Children are a blessing. You should have at least one."

  "Yeah, well, I’d be a shitty father. And I'm not subjecting any kid to that. May I?" He pointed to another piece of lamb on the cutting board.

  "Of course."

  He dug into the second, perfectly seasoned chop.

  "No one decides to be a shitty father. Why do you think that?"

  Ryan looked up at the dark skinned man with the chocolate colored eyes. He’d never felt more comfor
table talking to anyone before, not even Grace. There were things he withheld from her, thinking he was protecting her from his worst secrets. But somehow, it all came tumbling out with Henri.

  By the time he’d finished his tale of alcoholic fathers, weak willed mothers, and estranged brothers, Ryan felt as if a stone had been lifted from his heart. The wine bottle was empty and Henri opened another. In the process he'd moved his chair closer to Ryan’s as he spoke.

  "My God," Henri’s voice was a whisper. Ryan shut his eyes as the man put a strong hand on his shoulder. "I’m so sorry."

  Ryan shrugged.

  "It feels good to finally talk about it although I’m not sure why I laid all that on you." Henri’s hand moved up to brush Ryan’s cheek. He didn’t flinch. And when Henri leaned in and placed his lips against Ryan’s, it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world.

  But, after just a quick contact, Henri pulled away and sat back.

  "I’m sorry. I’m not being fair."

  "Fair?" Ryan’s voice was hoarse as he tried to come to terms with the fact that his balls were starting to ache. This was insane. He didn’t kiss other men. He loved women. He was married for Christ’s sake. And he loved his wife. What in the hell was this guy doing to him?

  Ryan sat back as well, anger rushing in to replace lust. Glaring out over the ocean, he willed his cock soft.

  "I’m not here to take you from your wife." Henri’s voice was soft and Ryan let it roll over him like the ocean’s tide. "Let’s just talk some more. Tell me about this restaurant you think I should open."

  Ryan sighed with relief. Back on familiar ground, he launched into the sell. Henri listened, asked smart questions and the two men hashed out the details of what would turn out to be the most successful celebrity chef restaurant in a city littered with them. Henri demanded details about Ryan’s connections in Las Vegas, why he felt it was so important to be successful there. After Ryan gave his background, they laughed over Ryan’s stint as strip club bouncer.