Chapter 9

Kalista

The scene outside the airplane window turns golden as we cross the Mediterranean, and enter Spain.

When Griffin told me that I had to start packing—not that I had any of my own clothes outside of the night gown I wore after the party—he told me that it’d be sunny and that I should pack a bikini. He probably would’ve said that even if he was taking me to Iceland or even Antarctica.

But I can’t complain about Barcelona.

As we step off the plane, the heat washes over me like I’m sinking into a much-needed bath. It was warm in France, but there’s nothing quite like sunbathing in Spain. I all but ran down the steps to the car that’s waiting for us.

Needless to say, I’m more than eager to see where Griffin will take me next.

So far, he’s yet to disappoint.

Griffin carries both of our bags down the stairs. Eagle following close behind.

“Thanks again, Eagle.”

“Ah, any time Gryphon—anything for a beautiful señorita,” Eagle smiles, and winks at me from over Griffin’s shoulder.

I can’t help but smile back at his hopeful grin.

Griffin looks back at me and rolls his eyes. He knows something I don’t, but that’s not surprising. He likes the mystery and this game of his of keeping me in the dark.

But that’s okay. Griffin can think he knows me, and I’ll play along—for now. But sooner or later, he’ll realize I’m not daddy’s helpless little princess.

I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he does.

We wave goodbye to Eagle and get in the Mercedes waiting at the end of the runway. The air conditioning blasts us, and it provides instant relief.

When the airfield is but a distant blip in the rearview mirror, Griffin looks at me briefly.

“So, love, how attached are you to…well, you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how would you feel about a little makeover?” he asks, looking at me again whilst trying to keep his eyes on the road.

I lift a hand to my hair, stroking the long dark locks as though it were my pet.

“What’s got to change about me?”

“Nothing, love. You’re perfect. But you’re a von Knopf. Where we’re going, people tend to remember the faces of billionaire heiresses and if that gets out,” Griffin laughs and shakes his head. “I’m going to be running out of fancy flats to keep you in.”

I suppose he has a point. There were reporters everywhere at my party, and I wouldn’t be surprised if someone recognized me from Twitter or Instagram eventually.

I look at my hair, holding them between my fingers.

“Sure, I’m sick of these split ends anyway.”

Griffin chuckles to himself and puts his foot down. We cruise through the sun-drenched Barcelona streets well beyond the posted speed limit.

I wonder which one of these apartments is his. Instead, he parks in an underground parking lot and walks me through the streets.

“You’re in luck, I called in a favor with an old friend of mine from London. He’s agreed to fit you in for all the styling you need,” Griffin tells me.

I look at him quizzically.

Who could he have found in Barcelona who cuts hair?

But then I begin to see the salon he’s walking towards, and I’m reassured. It’s sleek, white and clean, with barely any women inside. But we push the door open and a man walks out to meet us.

“Ah, Griffin, it’s good to see you. Is this her?” he asks, and looks me up and down.

I was joking about my split ends before—I’m sure I don’t have any—but this stranger looks at me, and I wonder what he sees.

“This is her. Kalista, meet George. George Northwood,” Griffin turns to look at me and smiles.

“Careful, love, you’ll catch flies,” he says, and I close my mouth.

It’s not often I meet people who leave me a bit star struck, but George Northwood is one of the biggest names in hair and fashion.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I say, extending my hand.

The next few hours fly by. I sit in the chair and let them do whatever they want to me—the stylists cut my hair from mid-back to breasts, and they’ve curled it into bouncy, beach waves. The color has been changed—intensified—to a rich chocolate brown that has tones of auburn.

I run my fingers through the waves, and despite the fruity smell of products in the room, it smells soft, fresh, and clean.

They even brought a makeup artist in.

“What do you think, Kali?” Griffin asks over my shoulder.

I watch his eyes study my new hair in the mirror. It’s apparent that he’s a fan, but how couldn’t he be?

“I think it’s a start,” I say, grinning. “If I really am going to change my look and become unrecognizable, then cutting my hair is only the beginning.”

Griffin smirks and raises an eyebrow to signal his curiosity.

“And, what’s the next step?”

“Shopping. Obviously,” I say with an angelic smile.

Griffin takes my hand and lifts me up out of the chair, smiling over at George.

“Obviously. How could I have forgotten?”

Griff and George step off to the side and have a hushed conversation. I try to listen as best I can, but their gift for discretion is better than mine for eavesdropping.

We walk back into the sunlight and the heat. Even with my jacket in the car, I still wish I was wearing less clothes—fuck, I wish Griffin was wearing less, too. I can’t wait to get Griffin by the pool, sun-soaked and shirtless.

Maybe I’ll even push him in.

“So, señorita, where to first? Gucci, Chanel, Givenchy?” he lists off names, but I know exactly what I want.

“Let’s start with shoes. Louboutin’s.”

I smile up at him. “Then we can work our way up from there.”

Griffin pauses for a moment, mentally doing the math about how much this little trip will cost. But then he smiles.

“Well, love, we best get a move on then.”

Oh, good.

I like a man with expensive tastes.

We travel from boutique to boutique over the next several hours. I’m living the life every shopaholic dreams of.

“Now, this is a damn fine collection, love, but I think you’re forgetting something,” Griffin says as we leave a shop that I just picked up a lovely Gucci dress from.

Given everything I’ve bought—or rather Griff has bought for me—I don’t think that anything else can fit into the trunk of his Mercedes.

He scoops up my elbow, leading me down the hall of the shopping center.

“I am?”

“Yes.” Griffin smirks. “I know what you’re thinking—when you’re around me, you won’t be needing any knickers. And it’s true, you won’t. But let’s not get you arrested for public indecency whilst we’re on the beach.”

A rush of embarrassment rises through me—how could I forget a bathing suit?

“And here I thought you’d love the chance to get me on a nude beach, Griffin.”

“Oh, I would. When we’re on my private beach, you can be as nude and natural as you like. But the police will still lock you up for indecency. No matter how decent your beautiful little body is.”

We walk through the doors to Victoria’s Secret, and pause in front of a row of negligées. Griffin looks at me, his eyes running up and down my body. I can feel him undressing me or at least mentally stripping me down to my underwear. Perhaps I should let him catch a glimpse of the real thing.

“These aren’t bikinis.”

“Correct. Your power of observation is as amazing as ever. But these are just as needed. And besides, they offer bikinis here as well. Two birds, one stone.”

Griffin looks away from me to the dark-haired, petite shop assistant who approaches us.

“Take my friend here to the dressing rooms. I’ll be through in a moment.”

He smiles at her, and I watch the assistant’s heart melt into a puddle on the floor. I don’t blame her. I almost did the same the first time Griffin flashed those dark eyes at me—not that I’d admit that to him either.

I let her lead me through, standing under the spotlights whilst Griffin chooses my lingerie. I wonder what he’ll pick out for me.

Something sexy, black and with straps? Or maybe he wants to see me in lace? Maybe pink or some other pastel combination?

Maybe both.

I hope it’s both.

It feels like I’ve been waiting for hours when Griffin finally walks into the changing room.

“Here you go, love.”

He begins to hand me the lingerie, but then stops just out of reach. “One condition though—you have to model every set for me.”

I laugh and close the curtain behind me. Through the tiny crack at the side, I watch Griffin take his seat and patiently wait—shamelessly flirting with the attendant in Spanish.

She’s clearly besotted with him.

I evaluate the sets of lingerie and bikinis laid out before me. Griffin has good taste—and a varied one, too. But I know which one I’ll start with.

When I’m dressed, I slip on the Louboutin’s he bought me earlier, and I step into the middle of the changing room. Griffin stops mid-sentence and turns to look at me. The attendant’s cheeks blush brilliant pink as the pair of them rake their eyes over my body.

Griffin, in particular, is enjoying the sight—based on the growing bulge in his pants—of the lacy black lingerie, suspender belt, and stockings that barely cover my body.

“Well, let’s stick wings on you and throw you down the runway, Kali,” Griffin says with a playful smirk.

He stands, subtly shifting his pants so that I don’t notice how he’s beginning to strain at the front of his jeans, and wanders around me. Admiring me from all angles.

I admit that I like the attention from him.

Griffin stands behind me, and I stare at him in the mirror. I’m challenging him to say something—waiting to hear his verdict. He smiles at me, leaning down slightly so he can murmur in my ear and set the hairs on the back my neck on end.

“You know what, love? You’ll do.”