and twelve—with his wife Krista. Bristol was his only daughter and she favored him so much it was uncanny. She was also his only offspring who’d inherited his artistic gift.
When he’d died, he had bequeathed to her full tuition to the school he himself had attended in Paris as well as the vast majority of his paintings. He’d felt she would appreciate them more than anyone, and she had. She’d heard that Krista had remarried and sold off all the artworks that had been left to her and their sons.
Paintings by Randall Lockett were valued in the millions. Art collectors had contacted Bristol on numerous occasions, but she had refused to sell. Instead her father’s paintings were on display at the two largest art museums in the world, New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Orsay Museum in Paris.
A few months before her father had died, they had completed a painting together, which was her most cherished possession. It was so uncanny that when it came to art she and her father had possessed identical preferences. They even held their brushes the same way. On those days when she felt down and out, she would look at the portrait over her fireplace and remember the six weeks they’d spent together on his boat while painting it. That was when they’d noticed all the similarities they shared as artists. She hadn’t known he was dying of cancer until his final days. He hadn’t wanted her to know. He was determined to share every moment he could with her without seeing pity and regret in her eyes.
Forcing those sad thoughts from her mind, she glanced back over at Ms. Charlotte. “Did Laramie behave himself tonight?” she asked, placing her purse on the table.
The older woman chuckled. “Doesn’t he always?”
Bristol smiled. “No, but I know you wouldn’t tell me even if he was a handful.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t. Boys will be boys. I know. I raised four of them.”
Yes, she had, and to this day Ms. Charlotte’s sons looked out for her, making sure she had everything she needed and then some.
After Ms. Charlotte left, Bristol climbed the stairs to her son’s room. He was in his bed, sound asleep. Crossing the bedroom floor, she saw he had put away all his toys. That was a good sign that he was learning to follow instructions.
Approaching the bed, she sat on the edge and gently ran her fingers through the curls on his head. He favored his father. Laramie Cooper’s features were etched in her memory. Whenever Laramie smiled, he displayed his father’s dimples in both cheeks. Then there was the shape of his mouth and the slant of his eyes. Like father, like son. There was no doubt in her mind that one day Laramie would grow up and capture some woman’s heart just as quickly and easily as his father had claimed hers.
As she sat there watching her son sleep, she couldn’t stop her mind from going back to that time in Paris when she’d met US Navy SEAL Laramie Cooper...
Paris, France, three years ago
Bristol glanced up from her sketch pad when she heard the male voices entering the café. Military men. All five of them. That was easy to deduce, even though they weren’t wearing military attire. They were wearing jeans, shirts and dark leather jackets. The five walked confidently and were in perfect physical condition. Boy, were they ever! She wondered what branch of service they represented. It really didn’t matter. Whichever one branch it was, they were representing it well.
The group took the table not far away from where she sat and one of the men, as if he felt someone staring at him, glanced over at her. Bam! She’d been caught. She hadn’t averted her gaze back to her sketch pad quickly enough. For some reason, she knew without glancing back up that he was still looking at her. She could feel his gaze, just as if it was a physical caress. It made her heart beat faster. It seemed that every single hormone in her body had begun to sizzle. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before.
Okay, Bristol, concentrate on your sketch, she inwardly admonished herself. Her father hadn’t paid her tuition at one of the most prestigious art schools in France for her to get all hot and bothered by a bunch of military men. Although the five were extremely handsome, it was only one of the men who had caught her eye. The one who’d stared back at her.
“Excuse me, miss.”
She glanced up and the man was now standing at her table. Up close he was even more gorgeous. Definitely eye candy of the most delectable kind. Hot. Sexy. You name it and this man could definitely claim it. That had to be the reason intense heat was plowing up her spine.
Bristol swallowed deeply before saying, “Yes?”
“I was wondering if...”
When he didn’t finish but kept looking at her, she asked. “Wondering what?”
“If I could join you?”
She wished he could but unfortunately, he couldn’t. She glanced at her watch then back at him. “Sorry, but I work here and happen to be on my lunch break, which will end in less than five minutes.”
“What time do you get off today?”
She tilted her head to look at him. “Excuse me?”
“I asked what time you get off today. I’ll wait.”
She figured that he had to be kidding, but the look in his eyes showed that he wasn’t. “I get off in four hours.”
“I’ll wait. What’s your name?”
This guy was definitely moving fast. But she couldn’t ignore the scorching hot attraction between them, even if she wanted to. And for some reason, she didn’t want to. She liked it.
“My name is Bristol Lockett.”
“The name Bristol is unusual. It suits you well. I like it.”
And she liked his voice. It was deep and husky. The sound made heat curl inside her. OMG! What on earth was wrong with her? She’d never thought such outlandish things in her life. She might not have always been prim and proper but she’d been pretty close to it. She’d been in Paris close to four years and although she’d dated, most of the time she did not. She preferred curling up with her sketch pad and working on her watercolors than going out with any man. But now this ultrafine specimen was making her rethink that decision.
“Are you American or French?”
She blinked at his question. “I’m American.”
“So am I.”
She smiled. And what a good-looking American he was, with a body to die for. She felt as if she could draw her last breath just from looking at him. This guy was tall, at least six foot two or three. And his skin was the color of lightly roasted almonds. His dark eyes appeared somewhat slanted, and as far as she was concerned his lips were perfectly shaped. His hair was cut low on his head and his ears were just the right size for his face. But what captured her attention more than anything were those dimples in his cheeks. Doing absolutely nothing but standing there, he was arousing something within her that no other man ever had.
“And who are you?” she asked, deciding not to let him ask all the questions.
“I’m
