Chapter Four
“I called last night. You didn’t answer. Where were you?”
Arden stepped to the side of the palm-lined path leading to the main entrance of the resort to let a young Japanese couple pass. They walked arm in arm, smiling and whispering to each other, lost in their own world.
Meanwhile, she stood in the middle of what had, until recently, been an upscale singles paradise, getting the third degree via phone from her father. There was something wrong with this picture. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and squinted at the gently swaying palms. Very wrong.
“I turned in early.” True, though not technically the reason she’d ignored his calls.
“It was barely nine your time.”
She refused to argue this. In her younger years, Luc had been too busy overseeing his empire to be bothered with her comings and goings. Now that he had the time, and—inexplicably—the inclination, she was way past the age of feeling compelled to account to a parent for every moment of her day. “Dad, what do you want?”
“Kindly remind your mother to refrain from using the corporate account for her personal travel. Attending a tennis tournament in Palm Springs is not a business expense.”
Arden sighed. “I think it was a golf tournament, actually.” Acting as go-between for her mother and father was another source of stress, though this one she should have been used to. Luc and Sonja got along better if they stayed out of each other’s ways, and she’d been recruited to the role of enabler a long time ago. Rafe did many things well, but he wasn’t going to manage their parents’ dysfunctional relationship. That chore landed primarily on her.
Her father greeted the reply with silence, and of course, she relented. “All right. I’ll remind her next time I speak with her.”
“Thank you. Now, I also have some questions about the amenities you recommended for the standard guest suites. Do you have a copy of the list?”
“Not in front of me, no.” She hadn’t “recommended” anything. She’d sent a request for a purchase order to St. Sebastian’s accounting office. After negotiating long-distance for the better part of a month with a Maui-based cosmetics company, and meeting with the management in person today, she’d finalized a deal that would stock every guest suite at the resort with luxurious, locally produced body and bath products. “And I’m on my way out for a few hours, so my time is limited. Are your questions quick?”
“The shampoo—”
“It’s not shampoo.” And this was a perfect example of why selecting guest room amenities was not something they did by committee. Choosing these products was her job. She did it well, and stayed on budget…mostly. “It’s a ninety-nine point eight percent natural, environmentally sound, specially blended hair cleansing product.”
“Pardon me. It’s also ten dollars per one-ounce bottle. Too much to spend on something that ends up down a drain. Shall we replace the toilet paper with dollar bills and let our guests flush them down the toilet?”
An ominous pressure settled across her forehead. The cost would have been higher had she not negotiated a volume discount. He should be commending her on the coup of securing such an exclusive product line at an advantageous price. “A standard room costs seven hundred dollars a night. At that level, guests expect luxury in every detail of their experience. If the shampoo reminds them of something they can get off a drugstore shelf at home, they start to wonder why they didn’t stay at the Four Seasons.”
Hopefully the possibility of comparing unfavorably with the competition would quiet her father, because the company in question had already committed to increase production and create co-branded product packaging based on her order. She shouldn’t even be having this conversation. The only person entitled to question her choices at this point was Rafe.
“We have verified the necessity of this expense?”
“Of course.” The pressure decided to nest at the back of her head, a dull, heavy dragon with restless talons. She walked through the lobby to the front entrance and spied Mr. Skyrider parked under the pillared carport, behind the wheel of a convertible black Jeep Wrangler. Dark sunglasses sat atop windblown hair. He looked up from his phone at that moment, and… Howdy stranger. Come here often? He was clean-shaven. Her lips tingled with a sudden, almost unmanageable urge to trail along his smooth jaw. She took a deep breath, and her headache subsided. “Dad, I’ve got to go.”
“I have more questions, and another item I need you to relay your mother —”
“Later.” She disconnected, and then, with Rider’s eyes still on her—one brow lifted in silent challenge—she deliberately powered down the phone.
“Drama in Siberia?” he asked as the valet helped her into the car.
She rolled her eyes and tossed the phone into her tote bag like she was dropping a mic. “Always.”
“Good news. I’ve got the perfect escape.” Then he grabbed a handful of the front of her shirt and tugged her to him. The scent of sunscreen, aftershave, and vital, sun-warmed man reached her seconds before his lips brushed hers. Just a brush, then another, but all her senses succumbed to the seduction of the kiss—the firmness of his lips, the minty wash of his breath, the male growl rumbling from the back of his throat. Somehow, her hands ended up tangled in his hair, all the better to cling to him when he slowly eased back.
“That definitely worked.” And because he was strictly a temporary diversion, she didn’t need to care how crazy she looked when she followed her original instinct and ran her lips along the underside of his jaw—or when she closed her eyes and breathed him in.
His laugh rumbled against her lips. “That wasn’t it, actually. Not completely, anyway. The escape I have in mind will take a couple hours, at least.”
Now her brows went up. “Hours? Is there tantric yoga involved?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
“All right.” She settled in her seat. “Be mysterious. I’ll go with the flow, so long as you tell me I’m dressed okay for whatever you have planned.” Last night he’d specified casual—shorts, flat shoes, swimsuit optional. Since he was wearing a dark green University of Hawaii T-shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops, she figured her raw-edged black T-shirt tank top, faded cutoffs, and black Havaianas fit the dress code. She’d thrown the clothes on over her favorite bikini and stashed a towel, sunscreen, a straw hat, and a hoodie in her tote. She’d left her hair free, but wore an elastic ponytail holder on her wrist.
Clear amber eyes conducted a slow perusal, and the heat in his gaze and the wicked smile on his lips left her breathless. It wasn’t just an appreciative glance, or a playful flirtation like the kiss. It was a blatant reminder he’d seen and touched every part of her—an unapologetic eye-fucking with a promise of an actual fucking to come. Her favorite bikini suddenly felt too small.
And he knew, too. His wicked smile turned downright cocky. “There’s just one small thing.” He ran his hand down her arm and rolled the ponytail holder off her wrist. “Turn around.”
She did. Then his hands were running through her hair, brushing her temples, tickling her scalp, and putting her into an exquisite trance as he gathered up the strands until he held it all in one fist at the back of her head. He snapped the elastic band around the tail, twisted it, and pulled the ponytail through with quick efficiency. She recognized a play as well as the next girl, but recognizing didn’t make her immune. Especially not when he used his grip on her ponytail to tug her head back until he could plant a hard, hot kiss on her mouth. She leaned against him, bowing her back as his hand splayed just under her breasts, his thumb angling into the space between them. Her heart beat wildly under his touch. She was still scrambling for balance when he raised his head.
“Now you’re good to go, Czarina.”
“Good” wasn’t the word. She was dying to go—pop off like a spring gun on a hair trigger. Somebody laughed nearby and reminded her of where she was. Straightening, she slid her sunglasses on and cast a nervous glance at the valet, relieved to find him completely occupied with the new arrivals behind them. Needs or no, she knew the value of discretion, and kissing a man in the drive of a St. Sebastian hotel in front of God and everyone didn’t qualify. There were security cameras directly above them, for heaven’s sake. She cleared her throat and looked at him. “Did they teach that in astronaut school?”
He smiled and started the engine. “You’d be surprised what skills I mastered.”
The moment called for a demo of some of her skills. As he maneuvered the Jeep down the drive leading to the main road, she skimmed her fingers along his leg, starting at his knee and coming to rest high on his thigh. “Go ahead and surprise me. I love surprises. Even the word—it has ‘prize’ built right in.”
And speaking of prizes, a big one surged just beyond her hand. She edged her fingers inward. His thigh muscle twitched, rewarding her boldness, but when she closed in on the prize, he surprised her by intercepting. He lifted her hand, kissed the knuckles, and then hung it from the crook of his arm.
“I don’t want to surprise you with a trip to the emergency room,” he said, “which is what might happen if I run off the road due to extreme…distraction. Distract me another way.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Conversation. What’s the drama in Siberia today?”
Damn. He’d unwittingly selected the least relaxing topic imaginable. She hated the idea of bringing her screwed-up personal and professional life into what was supposed to be a sexy escape, and intended to offer a stock answer and move on to a less stressful subject, but instead she heard herself say, “My father doesn’t appreciate my mother’s new golf hobby.”
“Your mother’s developed an interest in golf?”
“Oh no.” She laughed, and winced at the harshness of it. “My mother can’t stand golf. She’s developed an interest in a golf instructor.”
“Ah.” He reached over and squeezed her hand where it rested on his arm. “That puts you in an awkward position.”
“I’m used to it. And don’t feel too sorry for my father. He’s had lots of interests over the years. They both have. It’s just part of their charm.”
“Divorced?”
“We don’t get divorced in Siberia.” She laughed again, but stopped when he threaded his fingers through hers. “They’re separated. They’ve been separated a long time, and they take it to heart by avoiding each other whenever possible. They’re actually pretty good at it.”
“Sounds like they’re pretty lousy at it, since they have to drag you into the middle to make it work.”
“Old habits. And deep down I know I’m not just a handy conduit. My brother and I actually are two of their few shared interests. We glue them together whether they like it or not, because they love us.” Hoping to change the topic, and also curious, she asked, “What about you? Do you have a mom and dad somewhere bragging about their son the astronaut?”
His smile held equal parts amusement and genuine affection. “Yeah. A mom, a dad, and two older sisters, all living relatively drama-free in the same town outside Portland where I grew up.” He gave her fingers one last squeeze and then released her hand to take the wheel and make a turn. “I’m sorry about the drama in Siberia, though. That sucks.”
“I don’t mean to complain. Siberia has plenty of good parts, too.”
“Speaking of the motherland, ever cruised the Russian Riviera?”
Was there a Russian Riviera? She had no idea. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“I was wondering if you experience motion sickness, say, from being on the water.”
The question came as he steered down a private drive marked with a sign for the local yacht club.
She didn’t suffer from seasickness. St. Sebastian owned several boats—mostly small yachts affiliated with their properties in the Caribbean and French Polynesia—and while she’d never actually hoisted a sail, she enjoyed spending time on the water. But curiosity got the better of her. “What happens if I say yes?”
“We have a five-star sunset dinner at the club here.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then dinner’s going to be simpler, but the view will be kick-ass, and the predinner activities will involve an authentic version of something you tried to fake last night.”
Yes. Yes. Mother of God, yes. “I don’t get seasick.”
He pulled the Jeep up to a valet and tapped the brake. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
…
Nick adjusted the anchor line just as his guest emerged from below deck holding a bottle of wine, with two glasses dangling upside down from her fingers. Behind her, calm water glistened in the afternoon sun. The green slopes of Kahoolawe rose in the distance.
“Found it,” she said, making her way toward him with the easy grace of someone with a ready pair of sea legs. He’d had a feeling. Any Russian princess with the rubles to call the villa at St. Sebastian home for a week could—and probably did—cruise anytime she chose, though possibly in a vessel less stripped-down than his fast, maneuverable, forty-foot Odyssey. If so, the lack of villa-level luxury hadn’t put a hitch in her stride. She’d boarded the sailboat nimbly and taken him up on his invitation to explore the deck and cabin while he did the pre-sail prep. During the sail itself, she hadn’t minded the elements. She’d lounged on a cushioned bench seat, turned her face to the wind, and inhaled the salty spray. Nor had she minded fetching the wine while he’d lowered the anchor and slacked the sails.
“Over there.” He indicated the table with a nod of his head and finished securing the line. “Be there in a second.”
A lighter version of the wind that had carried them here now flirted with her ponytail and blew her loose top against her body. The neckline draped as she leaned over the small table in the sitting area built into the stern, treating him to a view of swaying cleavage semi-contained by a tiny black bikini top. A tug at the bow behind her neck, another at the center of her back, and those two triangles would land in a tangle on the deck.
She moved around until her back was to him, and he took in the view from that angle. The cutoffs would go next, and then the little black bottoms he got a glimpse of every time her shorts gaped. Like they did now, as she leaned across the table to plant the wine into the silver ice bucket clamped to the other side. When she was standing there, naked except for the flimsy excuse for a shirt, he’d tear the thing right off.
She turned and looked at him over her shoulder. When she caught his eyes on her, the corner of her mouth lifted. A knowing smile, which almost made him laugh because she had no idea what he had in store for her.
He smiled back. “Are you reading my mind, Czarina?”
She turned to face him, grin still in place. “Like a neon sign.”
“Think so?” He stepped around the wheel and closed in on her.
She crossed her arms and propped her hips on the table. “You’re planning on getting me naked.”
Her smile faltered when he reached around her, opened a small drawer built into the table, and snagged a corkscrew. “Can you grab the bottle for me?”
“Um. Sure.”
Messing with her wasn’t the most gentlemanly thing, but he knew her well enough to know she enjoyed the game. Predictability didn’t sit too high on her priority list, and he liked that about her. While she held both glasses, he stripped the foil from the bottle and then finessed the cork out with the old-school corkscrew. He filled both glasses and then leaned past her again to resettle the bottle in the ice bucket. When he straightened, he let his arm brush the side of her breast, enjoying the way she shivered from the light contact. He took the glass she offered him. “Still think you can read my mind?”
Her smile said she did, even before she tipped her head to the side and laughed. “You’re planning to get me tipsy and naked.”
“You’re not looking hard enough if that’s all you see.”
She raised her head, the gesture less coy than curious. “What am I missing?”
“Somewhere between last night at the bar and now, I developed an obsession for you. You and your elusive orgasm. So yeah, I am thinking. I’m thinking about how I’m going to extract one from you tonight, and tomorrow night, and the next. I’m going to train you to have complete and utter confidence in my ability to make you come—anytime, anyplace, in any position. Then and only then, Czarina, I’m going to introduce my cock to you again, and give you exactly the kind of experience we both know you want.”
The low-hanging sun cast a honeyed glow over her skin, turning her cheeks a deep, endearing pink. She took a healthy gulp of the wine. After swallowing with an audible gulp, she cleared her throat. “To that, sir, I say cheers.”
He tapped his glass to hers. “Cheers, Czarina.”
She took another drink, another swallow, and then sighed and slowly circled her head, working kinks from her neck. “I don’t know if you’re right about the orgasms, but you were right about one thing.”
“I’m right about the orgasms, but that’s still on me to prove.” He put his glass on the table and then turned her around so they both faced port, and an unobstructed view of the horizon. “What have I already proven?”
She relaxed against him. “This definitely qualifies as an escape from all my worries.”
He raised his hands to her shoulders and kneaded her tight trapezius and delts. The problem-solving part of him wanted to know more details about what worried her. He justified the urge to ask personal questions as a need to clear away any stress impeding her from achieving the climax she was overdue for, but that wasn’t the whole truth. He wanted to know more about her. Unfortunately, they’d agreed not to get personal—an agreement that had bothered him a little last night, and even more today, but she’d set the rules, and he’d committed to play by them. So fine, he kneaded her muscles a little more firmly. She moaned softly, and her head dropped back to rest against his collarbone. “What else is going on in Siberia that’s got you so worried?”
“Oh, you know…Siberia’s a complicated place. Lot’s of little headaches, and a few big ones I didn’t see coming. It’s hard to cover your ass 24-7.”
Translation? Somebody had done a number on her. Trust was an issue. He’d have to earn enough of hers to convince her she could let go with him—really let go. Starting now. “For the next little while, Czarina, your ass is mine. You don’t have to worry about covering it.”