CHAPTER NINE
My muscles unwound in the salt water as I floated on my back. White gulls glided above in the cloudless blue sky, the breeze sending them on a journey to wherever. Weightlessly, I soared along with them.
Vigorous splashing suddenly woke me out of my meditation. I stood up in the water and spied Rocket chasing a ball. In his signature baseball cap and dark glasses, the sexy gardener was waist-high in the water.
As I made my way out, Rocket pounced on me to say hello, his paw leaving a scratch on my thigh. His master ran towards us. For some twisted reason, my eyes went to his wet shorts. That bulge was on full display and was impossible to miss. I immediately averted my eyes while heat engulfed me. Dripping wet, I remained frozen, pining for sunglasses. Can he read my attraction?
“I am very sorry about that. Did he scratch you?” he asked.
I checked the scratch on my thigh. It did sting a little, but I remained stoical. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry— the salt water should disinfect it.” My heart was in my mouth, and I could barely utter a clear word. He just got hotter and hotter.
“You may need it bandaged. There’s a first aid kit in one of the boats,” he said in that clit-swelling husk.
“No, that’s fine,” I said, smiling awkwardly. I really wanted to say yes, imagining his fingers visiting my injured thigh and beyond.
How stupidly bashful can one be?
Rocket stood by my side, sincere apology written in his large, soulful eyes.
He shook his head. “Boy, he likes you,” he said, patting the dog.
“He’s a cute dog.”
Although he was mysterious as ever in those dark glasses, I still sensed his gaze burning into me.
“Well, then, I’d best leave you to it,” he said, lingering. Like me, he seemed unsure. Cold comfort, really. Two shy people resulted in frustration. And frustrated was certainly how I felt watching him turn away. His butt looked delightfully squeezable. I swallowed hard as I watched his strong, athletic calf muscles flex on the soft sand.
After I returned from my little swim, I was so ravished by fantasies that I needed a session with Toy Boy. When Tabitha gave her vibrator that name, we laughed our heads off. From that moment on, I referred to my trusty, battery-operated friend as Toy Boy too.
I lay there alone in the dark. The image of his hungry hands all over me, and his big hungry penis, sent a delicious ache, making my orgasm more intense than usual. As I panted on my back, an inner voice screamed, you must find a man.
I plotted to get drunk and hunt down Mr. Sexy Gardener. While I cooked up ways to seduce him, I did wonder why he hadn’t introduced himself or even tried to hit on me. Could he be gay? Now, that would be tragic and grossly unfair, for women at least.
One thing was for sure: he had stirred something in me.
Despite raging, out-of-control hormones, I craved more than a one-night stand. Was that too much to ask? One thing I knew well about myself: I was not cut from the same fabric as Tabitha, whose desperate need for a man meant she ended up with jerks.
****
It was the week leading up to the gala ball. Brimming with anticipation I found it hard to sleep. As the event manager, I’d designed the ballroom, booked the entertainment, and arranged the catering. Too busy to indulge in anxiety, I spent most of the time on the phone, ensuring that everything about the event flowed. My contract renewal depended on it.
Amid this flurry of activity, I needed a gown fitting. And when Greta handed me a voucher for hair styling and make-up for the morning of the ball, butterflies migrated into my belly. I even passed on a batch of hot donuts that Melanie offered for morning tea, which was a first.
The thought of a lavish gown was too exciting. My only other experience with formal wear had been at the debs’ ball, and that didn’t go down too well. I’d worn a vintage dress owned by my late mother. I could still hear the snickering.
The only thing I knew about my gown was the color I’d chosen to suit my black hair. I gritted my teeth, hoping I wouldn’t hate it. Now, that would be a come-down after the shrill-filled speculation generated mainly by Tabitha.
When the gown finally arrived the day before the ball, I whisked a photo off to Tabitha, who purred with approval at the other end. It was silk, no less, and a breathtaking sky-blue color. The layered gown fell languidly to the floor, and although the bodice was fitted at the waist, it had a modest neckline. No cleavage would be revealed, much to Tabitha’s disappointment.
This friend of mine was on a mission to see me in the arms of a rich man. Despite hissing at her inflated ambition, I loved her for it. After all, Tabitha only wanted happiness for me—and of course, gossip fodder to keep her stimulated.
It was the morning of the ball. Too excited to eat, I drank my coffee and headed over for a final tour of the ballroom.
I walked about the grand room to make sure everything was correct. With all the tables and chairs in their rightful positions, the lighting rigged, and the stage dressed with red-velvet drapery, I was satisfied— if not ecstatic with the result.
I was astonished by the room’s sheer opulence. White, detailed cornices with carved angels’ faces contrasted pale, green-blue damask wallpaper. The gigantic fireplace of opalescent marble, held up by goddesses, was startling.
Glass doors opened out onto the terrace, making the room seem immense. A swimming pool positioned in front of the sea added to its boundlessness.
However, nothing staggered me more than the artwork. There were paintings by Alma-Tadema that rendered me speechless. The sublime works all featured nymphs on marble seats with a rich turquoise sea in the background. The neo-classical paintings all carried the same theme: languid women dressed in flowing robes by the sea. My favorite was the Godward showing a woman with long black hair reclining.
One thing was for certain: Aidan Thornhill loved beauty.
When asked to design the room, I’d envisioned something French from the late 1890’s. After all, I had a decent budget to work with, and my directive was to create a stylish and unique event.
Greta entered the room, nodding with approval. “This is fantastic, Clarissa.”
I sighed silently in relief. “That’s music to my ears. I wanted to recreate a scene from a Parisian café, inspired by the paintings in the room.” I pointed to the image over the fireplace. “They are a remarkable collection. Did Mr. Thornhill select them?”
“He did. Aidan spent a long time in Europe. Needless to say, he loves antiques.”
I nodded, in awe of my mysterious boss.