Chapter Nineteen
The bed next to her was empty.
That wasn’t right.
Just eighteen hours earlier, she’d said her vows—she was now Marin Lassiter Barnes—and oh, how the press had had a field day with the fact that she was changing her name. She was tempted to post something to her Facebook page, something along the lines of Bite me—and she might, if they were still at it when she got back from her honeymoon.
But she intended to spend the next two weeks just enjoying Sebastien.
And that would have been easier if he were in the bed with her.
Getting up, she walked through the suite and out on the balcony where the sun was slowly rising.
She found him leaning against the railing, wide shoulder rounded forward, muscles clenched.
Sliding her arms around his waist, she pressed her lips to his back. “You had another nightmare, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
He turned, then, pulling her up against him and tucking her head under his chin. She held him tighter, smoothing a hand up and down his back. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Hey, I’ve got my beautiful wife standing here practically naked. How can I not be okay?”
She smiled against his chest. “You are naked. And this isn’t a private beach.” Somebody would get an eyeful of his excellent ass if they happened to look. “You’re also avoiding the question.”
“No, I’m not.” Then he eased back, frowning as he looked up and down the beach. “Let’s go inside.”
“What . . . you’re getting bashful now?”
Judging by the dull red flush on his cheeks, he was getting something, probably worried about the idea of him getting caught butt-naked on a balcony—and his mom finding out. Once they were inside, he tugged her down the bed and pulled her up against him.
“Sometimes, I . . .” He started in a halting voice, clearly not wanting to talk. But maybe had to, because he continued. “Sometimes I dream about Monica. But other times, it’s Smith. This time, it was him. Just me and him. He put the knife in my hand, then made me stab him. Told me that I did it because I wanted to, because I enjoyed it. The rest of my life . . . am I going to live the rest of life seeing that bastard when I close my eyes?”
Heart aching, Marin reached up and cupped his cheek. “I don’t know. You might. I . . . Seb, baby, you might want to talk to somebody about these nightmares. I know they’re getting better, but you’ve got to know by now that you aren’t to blame. If you hadn’t fought back he would have killed you.”
He closed his eyes and tried to avert his face.
She didn’t let him. “Don’t look away. Look at me. Do you see me?”
“All the time. Everywhere.” He gripped the back of her neck.
“If you hadn’t fought back . . . we wouldn’t be here.” She eased her weight to the side and caught one of his hands, guiding it to her belly. “If you hadn’t fought back, our baby wouldn’t be here. You did what you had to do.”
He was silent a moment, and then he rolled her onto her back.
Marin was quiet as he dragged the short silk nightshirt up, baring her belly. When he kissed her belly, she closed her eyes.
“Mine,” he murmured.
She slid her fingers through his hair and said, “Mine.”
“Claiming a battered, broken up wreck like me . . . I think I got the better end—hey!” Sebastien rubbed at his scalp, glaring at her.
“Keep insulting yourself like that and I’ll do more than pull your hair.” She sat up and tugged at him until he did the same. Pressing her mouth to his, she gave him a soft, slow kiss. “You’re mine. That’s what you are, Sebastien . . . mine.”
“Yours.”
They lay back down, arms around each other, content to watch the sun coming up over the ocean. He had his hand on her belly, going around and around.
“We’re supposed to get an ultrasound soon. You want to find out what we’re having?” she asked after a while.
Sebastien pushed up, studying her. “What . . . huh. I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it. Do you?”
“No.” Marin smiled. “Call me weird, but I actually like being surprised.”
“Okay. We can be surprised.” He lay back down, staring at the sky once more. It was that pale, orangy-gold color, he realized.
A breeze blew in.
He found himself thinking, one last time of Monica.
And there, of all places, with his hand on his wife’s belly, in a luxury beach bungalow halfway around the world, he realized he was ready to let go. “I don’t think I ever forgave myself for not saving her, Marin.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know that. I just wasn’t ready to believe it. Not until now.”
The sun broke over the clouds, limning them in the purest of golds.
Sebastien felt the breeze brush against his face. He closed his eyes.
Good-bye . . .
Then, rolling onto his side, he pulled Marin up against him and whispered into her ear. She laughed, then . . . gasped. A few moments later, she was sighing out his name and that was pretty damn spectacular.