I wait in the parlor, a sunken space surrounded by open windows. Salted wind blows in freely, smelling wild and precious. Music plays somewhere, or maybe a wind chime. A figure tends a natural pool down below on the hillside. I can't make out his face."Well, well, well. If it isn't Georgina Felton."I whirl gracelessly, only to stop dead even more gracelessly.Before me stands the most impossibly beautiful man I have ever seen. Tall, golden, sleekly muscular-his thick chestnut curls are dragged back, his sculpted jaw dusted with the chic beginnings of a beard. He wears all linen clothing, showing off golden calves and powerful arms.His eyes, set in a chiseled face, are thick-lashed and the exact color of the wild jungle."Flight was OK, I take it?" He doesn't seem to register my blank awe. Maybe he's used to it. He crosses the room, brushing past me to a bamboo drink cabinet by the windows. He smells of pine and sandalwood and man."What's your poison?""Oh. I. Um."Get it together!
The news comes that night, as I'm questioning my choice to get into that car on the tarmac.I change into something modest and business-like, even though it's getting late, and head downstairs. One of the servants directs me to Richard's office.I take the stairs, an elegant spiral of pale wood and bamboo, and find Richard standing in the conference room on the third floor. Every wall is made of glass, the unyielding black of night stretching on into infinity on all sides.I catch my breath at the sight of him. He's wearing a suit, changed for the dozen video calls he had to take as soon as we got back from the airport. (I can't believe he came in person to the airport! Is he already trying to coax mne into his bed? The thought makes my face burn.) He is a composite of elegant, powerful lines.The slope of his shoulders is broad, and he looks impossibly tall, one hand in his pocket, the other bringing a short glass of whiskey to his lips.I hesitate. Don't hesitate! Then I head in, kn
Even hunched over her laptop, wrapped in the drab kind of clothes so many women wear to hide their curves, Georgina is difficult to look away from.Her hair is an unusual shade; black from some angles, but when struck just right by light, a deep, violet sort of red. She has plain features, a nice mouth, a pleasing profile. But her eyes they're striking. A soft brown that seems to glow in the light and deepen to black in the dark.You want her because you can't have her, says the voice in the back of my head. It sounds mysteriously like Lewis. No, worse — you want her because she doesn't want you.I don't like the thought. I'm not sure a woman has ever turned me down. Even though Georgina is here strictly on business, somehow, the idea that she won't sleep with me does make me want her more. A conquest. A challenge. Like work, or college, or the markets.Something that can be broken like a wild horse."You can take that off, you know," I say, gesturing to her rumpled suit jacket. "You
My heart is in my throat. I grip the sailboat rail and gaze up at the waterfall, a pouring sheet of perfect, glass-clear water. The cave behind it is an open mouth, dark and mysterious and inviting."Well?" Richard is close enough his arm grazes mine, bare skin to bare skin. He's astonishingly hot."Romantic?"I can't help but smile and nod. "Yes. Perfectly romantic."He chuckles, retreating to his seat. Though he did most of the sailing himself, he brought a silent assistant in a polo, who now mans the helm of the sleek, beautiful little watercraft. "Shall we swim?"I turn to him in surprise. He mentioned a bathing suit, but — "We have work to do.""And well still have it after a swim." He'd put his shirt back on, but strips it now. In the second his face is covered, I let myself, foolishly, gape at the gorgeous, golden statue before me. A broad chest dark with hair, stacked abs that glisten slightly with tropical sweat. A furl of dark hair trailing beneath his navel..."Jump in," he
"I don't understand," he says, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. "When did you post these?"The candid shots I've posted to Richard's Instagram since yesterday — him stolid and suited in front of the dark, rainy window; him bent over his laptop, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, expression bare and stern and surprisingly vulnerable; and one of him almost, almost visibly anxious, hand in his dark curls, eyes narrowed on a video call just out of focus — have absolutely blown up."You have six hundred new followers," I say, showing him and ignoring the question. Sea water still drips from his hair and mine, and we're huddled (far, far too close) under the sailboat awning, wind whipping over the little vessel as the assistant pilot steers us back toward Villa Bijou."And far fewer hate comments than usual. And a dozen unsolicited nudes from variously attractive models." This last bit I say with humor, but feel the barest pinch of something like embarrassment, or worse — envy."This is the kin
But she is beautiful.When she works, when she watches the sunset, when she scolds me. No — not my type. Not at all. Too soft, too soft spoken and at other times too direct. I can't peg her down.Maybe that's why I can't keep her out of my mind.I catch her looking at me too. I don't bother hiding the display.In fact, sometimes I even tempt her deliberately. Every time her dark eyes slide to my body, or over it, every time her lips part or she bites her bottom one, a thrill of victorious pleasure goes through me.The days of that first week pass quickly, and I don't trick Georgina Felton into any more sailing trips or sexual conversations, as much as I want to. I keep my promise. And she keeps hers — she impresses me.Lewis texts the first Saturday after Georgina's arrival in Saint-Égaré: Board is happy. Keep it up. Also — told you so. Also, also — don't. Fuck. My. Sister.I can't help but grin, replying, Again, no promises. He ignores me after that, and I take it as a good sign that
"You've got to be kidding me."I sigh as I look into the sleek, white cardboard box. The fabric inside is midnight black, glowing faintly red when I turn it toward the light. "He bought me a dress?"But even as I express my discontent, my mind is wandering, wondering, what would it feel like to let him take it off?No. Way. In. Hell. I shake myself, but I don't have time to dawdle. I quickly change, tying up my hair and applying a scant amount of makeup. When I see my reflection, my breath hitches.The girl in the mirror, she actually, impossibly, looks beautiful. The dress is stunning and tasteful, likely outrageously expensive. It falls above the knee, and the straps are thin as wires.It makes me look younger than I've felt in years. Suddenly, all I can think about is what Richard will say when he sees me in it.People have already started arriving, It's a (reasonably) small party, only fifty people, every last one of them flown discreetly to the island on private jets. Just about
"Thanks, Mary," I say, patting the head servant fondly on the shoulder. "And the red from France, the one — yes, you know it."I turn from the kitchen, ducking out toward the deck — and stop dead. A pair of figures, laughing, is stumbling up from the natural pool below. I recognize Blake Tanner first. And then, somehow —"Georgina."The two halt abruptly on the cobbled walkway. Georgina is unmistakable in that dress. She's drenched head to toe, shivering violently, heels in one hand.When she sees me in the light of the open kitchen door, her eyes go huge, irises lined in white. Blake's arm is around her waist."Mr. Platton," says the pool boy, with telling haste. "I was just — ""I'll take it from here," I say, my voice made of steel. Barely my own. My hands at my sides are clenched into white-knuckled fists. "Thank you, Blake."The pool boy has the audacity to look at Georgina, as though for permission. She nods once, stoically, and Blake hurries past me and into the kitchen."I can