Chapter Eight
When I wake, I don’t open my eyes right away. I’ve slept well, and I feel rested. The bed is comfortable, the soft sheets light on my skin. I left the door to the balcony open last night, liking the distant sound of the waves and the smell of the air. It’s at once the salty tang of the ocean and the lushness of the surrounding greenery. I allow myself a smile, remembering last night, wondering what’s to come today. With a sigh and stretch, I roll onto my side and nuzzle into the pillow.
When I reluctantly raise my lids, it’s to see the stormy blue eyes of Cris Ardmore staring back at me from the chair against the wall. I blink once before I remember myself and look down.
“Good morning, pet.”
“Good morning, sir.”
He sounds amused, although I can’t see his face to say for sure.
“Sleep well?”
“Yes, sir. Very well, thank you.”
“I could tell.” His tone is light, but my eyes widen. What the fuck time is it? “It’s almost eleven.”
Shit.
“I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Not to worry. If I’d wanted you earlier, I would’ve woken you.”
He didn’t want me? He doesn’t like me. I’ve disappointed him. Tears are rising, but they’re easy to stow. I thought last night was pretty great, but apparently I was the only one. Will he want me to leave now? I could change my flight…or maybe I’ll stay with Matty and we could go sightseeing. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Look at me,” he commands, interrupting my contingency planning.
When I do, he’s looking at me sternly.
“I know what you’re thinking. Don’t. I’m not messing with you, and I’m not angry. I told you to sleep, and you did. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve done as you were told and that pleases me. If I’d wanted you up at seven, I would’ve told you so. I don’t play games.
“You must’ve been exhausted. If I’d known how much, I would’ve put you to bed earlier. I’m glad you’ve rested, but it’s time to get up. You have half an hour to be dressed and ready and in the main house. Wear what you like. You’ll make lunch.”
“Yes, sir.” I feel at once relieved and off-balance. I believe he’s not unhappy with me, but his assertion that he doesn’t play games is disconcerting. What is this if not a game? Perhaps the philosophical musings are best left for later. For now, it’s enough he still wants me.
He ducks his chin, satisfied, and pushes out of the chair. He’s wearing a T-shirt that looks like it used to be blue, some worn khaki shorts, and he’s barefoot. Pure deliciousness. Except for Hunter, I’ve never had this much of a visceral attraction to someone so immediately…and look where that got me. Heartbroken, disowned by my family, and banished to the other side of the continent. If he’s a fraction as dangerous as Hunter, Cris Ardmore could prove hazardous to my health indeed.
I’m waiting for him to go before I move a muscle, but his eyes meet mine and I don’t look away. He takes a few deliberate steps toward me and plants his hand on my neck. I hold my breath and stay stock-still, not even blinking.
“Breathe.”
I inhale sharply at his command, not breaking eye contact, and he smiles his crooked smile. “Good girl. I’ll see you in half an hour.”
With a gentle tug at my earlobe that sends desire coursing through me, he leaves. When I’m sure he’s gone, I grab my phone and text Matty:
Carp.
Check-in complete, I roll out of bed and head into the en suite. It’s nicely done, which I didn’t get to appreciate last night, spent as I was. I eye the wooden bathtub covetously, hoping I’ll get to make use of it before I go. For now, a shower will do.
It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in a bathroom, and I’ve been in some nice bathrooms. But this—this is incredible.
It’s enclosed in glass and sits in a corner that juts out into space, affording an unobstructed view of the tropical flora that surrounds the house and somehow managing to feel private despite being entirely exposed. They must’ve used mitered glass at the far seam. Call me insane, but that is one of my biggest architectural turn-ons. Do other people have those?
I switch on the water and step under the stream, pausing to run my finger over the far seam. Whose idea was this?
I shake my head. Don’t ask those questions, India. Questions lead to answers, and answers lead to intimacy. You’re here for a quick fuck. Don’t make it into more than that. You’ll only be sorry.
* * *
I pad down the walkway in a camisole and skirt, still barefoot, taking a cue from the man himself. When I come into the main house, Cris is lounging on one of the sofas reading a paperback. And what does Cris Ardmore read, pray tell? He’s not close enough for me to see the cover, and I’ve already been given my instructions so I don’t have the opportunity to go look.
In the kitchen, I send a silent thanks to Rey for teaching me how to cook. When I arrived at Princeton, I literally did not know how to boil water. Play the cello, put in a respectable match on the tennis court, pull an appropriate literary quotation from thin air, or speak fluent Mandarin, sure. But cook? My parents had been so busy making sure I was accomplished they’d forgotten to make me competent.
I find several nice pieces of fish and heaps of fresh fruits and vegetables, so I set to making a salad with poached salmon. Even in the unfamiliar kitchen, the accustomed feel of the food and the knives in my hands is relaxing, and in half an hour, I have a respectable meal on the table.
I kneel in front of Cris, note he’s reading Blindness by José Saramago—one of my favorites—and wait for him to acknowledge me. He only makes me wait a minute.
“Yes, pet?”
“Lunch is ready, sir.”
“Let’s eat then. You must be hungry. You may look at me while we eat.”
“Yes, sir.”
He surprises me by taking my hand and waiting for me to stand before tugging me toward the table. Surprises me even more by pulling out a chair and gesturing for me to sit. He slides the chair in as I do. Such manners, still.
“Thank you, sir.”
He takes his own seat and begins to eat. He’s taken a few bites before he realizes I haven’t started and looks faintly alarmed. “You may start.”
“Yes, sir.”
He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “You don’t need my permission to eat.”
“Yes, sir.” I pick up my knife and fork and start to eat less delicately than I’d like, but he’s right. I’m starving. I’m aware of him watching me, but I pretend not to be.
“Are you finding your accommodations acceptable?”
“Yes, sir. My room is very nice, thank you.”
“What’s your favorite part?”
Caught off-guard, I smile. “The mitered glass in the shower.”
His crooked grin spreads over his face as he cocks his head. “You noticed that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can drop the ‘sir’ while we’re eating. I’d like to have a conversation with you.”
With his stern tone and severe expression, it’s all I can do to bite back the “yes, sir” that’s rising in my throat. “Okay.”
“Are you an architect?”
The glare he gets in return would blind a lesser man.
“Sorry, I forgot.” Consternation has an adorable effect on him, making him look much younger than he is.
I let it sink in for a few seconds. I hate playing the stonewalling game all weekend. For the first time in a long time, I had the urge to answer, so I make a counter-offer. “I noticed you were reading Blindness. Are you enjoying it?”
His face relaxes but then he looks suspicious. “I am. Have you read it?”
“I have. More than once. Saramago is a personal favorite.”
The corner of his mouth tugs up. “Something personal we’re allowed to talk about?”
“Yes.” I offer him a smile before making an innocuous observation about Saramago’s unique style of prose. I don’t want to embarrass him, but he responds readily with a more sophisticated observation of his own. Two can play at this game. I up the ante until our conversation wouldn’t seem out of place at one of my lit seminars at Princeton. Well, well, Cris Ardmore is more than literate. Another pleasant and dangerous surprise.
* * *
It’s five o’clock on Sunday, and Cris has returned me to my room to shower and pack. I’m disappointed we won’t be showering together. I don’t want to waste a minute of our time, but he’s being courteous and I appreciate it. I’ve been left a disreputable-looking mess and had to get cleaned up in the car on the way to the airport more than once. Luckily Matty keeps a spare set of clothes and some baby wipes handy.
It occurs to me as I’m soaping up and gazing dreamily at the mitered seam that Cris never showed me the best part of the house. Or maybe he did and didn’t identify it as such? The porch where we had dinner last night is awfully nice. That could’ve been it.
I feel sated and well-used. This has been an excellent use of my time. I’ll be good to go for the office early tomorrow morning, hopefully starting with a call from Constance. That’ll be an easy hour on the phone and a nice way to slip back into real life.
I’m sad to leave this beautiful bathroom. I don’t like to speculate about whether or not I’ll see a man again, but this time I can’t help myself. I’d like to see Cris again, and I got the distinct impression he’d like to see me again, too. I search my mental calendar for when that might be possible, and I’m annoyed it won’t be for two months. Maybe if I…
No, India, don’t. Just don’t.
I slip back into the dress and sandals I wore for the drive here and take one last turn to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. I’m finished with fifteen minutes to spare, so I pick up my bag and head to the main house. Cris is sitting on one of the couches with a book, and I set my bag by the front door before kneeling in front of him. He’s moved on to All the Names, and I fight to keep a smile off my face. Maybe next time we’ll get to have another book discussion.
Next time? Oh, stop.
“Are you ready to go home, pet?”
I hesitate the barest bit. “Yes, sir.”
I’m not ready to go home. To be honest, I’d like to stay. Indefinitely. What the fuck has come over me? Surgical strikes are my style, not getting mired in land wars. Get in, get your kink on to clear your head, and get the hell out.
“Would you mind if we called this a little early?”
What? Does he have something better to do? How rude. Maybe I don’t want to see this guy again after all. But like a good little sub, I won’t be contrary. “No, sir.”
He gets up from the couch and offers me a hand. I hope Matty’s already waiting outside. How humiliating would it be to have to sit on his steps or stand in the drive waiting for my ride to pull up? I’d be like the kid whose parents forgot to pick her up from daycare. But instead of showing me to the front door, he tugs me toward the other side of the room and opens a door that leads to a set of steps.
“I wanted to show you something. We didn’t get the chance after lunch on Friday.”
Whoa. I have to slam on the brakes and put myself in reverse. He’s done this on purpose—ending our contract. He didn’t want to show this to his pet, his submissive. He wanted to show it to Kit Bailey-Isles, the girl who discusses sex toys over raw fish soup.
“A second date so soon?”
“What can I say? I don’t play hard to get.” He smirks and leads me down the steps, keeping ahold of my hand. How cute.
When we get to the bottom, there’s a path that leads off into the jungle and I wonder where he’s taking me. I don’t have to wonder long because the trees and vines and greenery thin, the soil under my feet turns sandy, and I see the ocean. My face splits into a delighted grin. I knew we weren’t far from the water—you rarely are in Hawaii—but I had no idea.
We’re in a tiny cove of mostly rocks, but with a narrow strip of sand that leads to the water. There are two yellow kayaks tied up on the beach, and a giant white hammock held up by two trees. It couldn’t be more picture perfect.
“This is yours?”
“Yeah. Couldn’t build the house down here because the ground’s not stable enough, but it’s not far.”
“It’s beautiful, Cris. Thank you for bringing me.”
“My pleasure.”
We stand there for a while, not saying anything, only looking out at the waves and the sky, clasping hands.
The spell is broken when Cris checks his watch. “I’d better get you back. I doubt Mr. St. James takes kindly to you being late.”
I laugh. It’s true. Matty has overcome his island heritage and is extremely punctual. Almost Scandinavian-ly so. Not to mention, he starts to worry if I’m not on time returning from my little adventures. With reluctance, I let Cris tow me back to the house. He puts my bag over his shoulder and, curiously, picks up a wooden box from the kitchen counter before he shows me out to the drive where Matty is waiting.
Matty holds out a hand for my bag. Cris passes it off and then turns back to me, looking uncertain.
“Could we have a minute, Mr. St. James?”
This is not standard operating procedure, and I silently beg Matty to be cool. But I needn’t have worried—Matty’s a professional. He ducks a nod, a smile only I notice on his face as he climbs into the 4x4.
“Would it be weird for me to say thank you for this weekend?” One of Cris’s eyes squints. He doesn’t want to offend me. So freaking cute.
“Do you mean would it make me feel like a hooker? Only if you tried to give me a tip.”
I’ve made Cris laugh again. I’ll enjoy that feeling in my belly on my flight back.
“Well, then, thank you. That was better than I could’ve hoped for.”
Damn right it was, Mr. Ardmore. “Likewise.”
“Can I see you again?”
“Call Mr. Walter.”
He looks disappointed. I hope he’s not discouraged. He takes a step toward me and holds out the wooden box.
“This is for you. I hope you have a safe trip back to wherever you’re headed.”
I take it. A present? That’s a first. “Thank you.”
Is this it? I think he might turn and go back to his house, but instead, he grips my hair at the nape of my neck and kisses my cheek. For some reason I can’t explain, I blush. I don’t remember the last time I blushed. India “Ceviche” Burke does not blush. But here I am, the color of a ripe summer rose.
He doesn’t seem to think it’s odd as he leads me to the car and hands me up. “Goodbye, Kit.”
“Bye, Cris.”
Then my door is closed and he’s walking away. I have to busy myself tugging at my seatbelt to not fling myself after him. I keep it together long enough for Matty to start the Jeep and roll off down the path, back toward where I came from a little over two days ago. I’m feeling flustered, and Matty can tell. He doesn’t launch into his usual interrogation right away. Only after a few minutes does he try to pry some information out of me.
“What’d he give you?”
Oh, right, my little wood box. It’s sitting, unopened, in my lap. I lift the lid, and my mouth drops open. It’s a bento box filled with a few rice balls, a piece of veggie frittata, edamame, sliced mango, and a pair of chopsticks.
“Dinner. He made me dinner, Matty.”
“Oh, you’re in trouble, girl.”
“You have no idea.”