Under Covers

thirty-three | nice

thirty-three | nice

in the 18th century, climato-therapy was prescribed by English doctors as a remedy for various ailments and flocks of wealthy British aristocrats would visit Nice for a change in climate; the Promenade des Anglais was built as a walking path for their therapeutic regimens

RAYNA

May 9th, 18:55 (GMT +2)
6 days until it happens

I PRESS THE tips of my middle fingers against the soft, papery wash of pink darkness beneath my eyes, peering into the mirror and releasing a stab of breath.

I need to sleep. I'm so tired – emotionally, cognitively, physically – that it feels like my skin is gonna slip straight off my bones.

My phone buzzes. "What's up, Sam?"

"Hey, baby. So, a bit of a coinkydink. Nikitin and his cronies are flying into Nice tonight for a weekend in Monte Carlo. Might be a good chance to hear more about his plans for this device."

Cassidy in Monte Carlo, Dalton in Monte Carlo, Nikitin in Monte Carlo? A coincidence indeed.

"Okay. Can you send me over whatever intel you have? I'll take a look." Fluffing the back of my wayward hair, I ask, "What time are they getting in?"

Slurping. I'd bet money it's an iced capp. "Late. Best bet'll be to catch 'em in the morning. I hear Nikitin's a bit of a beach bum."

Beach. Nice. "I can do beach."

***

RAYNA

May 10th, 11:26 (GMT +2)
5 days until it happens

THE SUNSTREAM SMACKS aggressively into bare swathes of my skin. Legs stretched out on the lounger, tall glass of iced tea streaming cold, sand sparkling beneath me.

I wiggle my toes impatiently. "We sure this is the right beach?"

From the seat next to me, Jake doesn't even glance in my direction. "They'll be here." Wry, "Patience is a virtue, or so I've heard."

"I have many virtues but that isn't one of them."

He adjusts his Ray-Bans, stares out at the bubblegum-blue strip of ocean grazing the shore ahead. "Mm. I've yet to encounter a single one."

Irritated, I tear my eyes away from the profile of his irritating chiselled jawline, the irritating golden ripple of his irritating six-pack chest as he reaches back to muss those irritating, dark, salt-swept waves.

"Jake."

"What."

Rummaging into my bag, I lob a blue bottle of sunscreen into his lap. "Help me out, won't you?"

He grunts beneath his breath.

I drop my butt down onto his lounger, facing away from him. My skin tingles traitorously.

The popping of a cap, a wet squiggle. A blast of cool slips into my skin, followed by the rough sweep of his broad hands pressing across my bare shoulder-blades, down the arc of my spine. Involuntarily, a bubble of breath catches in my throat.

He rubs in the lotion with firm swirls of his fingers til not a smear of it is left behind. This man is nothing if not thorough. Through the flimsy scraps of my bikini top, the tips of my breasts tighten, needy, but his hands don't wander.

Warm breath tickles the nape of my hair, fogging the crest of my neck. "Done."

"You missed a spot."

He lets out a tiny, gruff chuckle that rolls right through me. His knuckles knock softly down the knots of my back, lingering on my tailbone, where the strappy edge of my swimsuit peeks out from beneath my denim shorts.