"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
He takes my face in his hands and pulls me roughly against him, conquering my mouth with his. My gasp is swallowed by his lips, his velvet, practiced, perfect lips — his impossible lips. I can't be kissing him!Electricity floods my body, slashing through the haze of too many whiskeys and a foolish tumble into the pool. Richard's shadowed face when he caught me shivering with Blake — I thought it was outrage, or indignance, or shame, or annoyance. But it wasn't, was it?It was something far more impossible.It was jealousy.Richard's hands drag down my body, halting briefly to cup my breasts in a firm, over-confident way that makes me groan, desperate and weak, against his mouth. His palms leave lines of fire down my sides, my hips, my thighs. Then his dexterous, slender hands catch the hem of my dress and wrench it up."Richard," I gasp, and he bites my lip, hard. Pain and pleasure pull inside of me like a trigger — I could melt. Okay, my mind and body say suddenly. Just once, just o
"Good morning!" says Georgina with unusual verve. She swings into the conference room in her usual drab fare, hair still damp at the ends. She doesn't look hungover in the least. She doesn't look like last night, she laid herself before me, and let me touch her until she came."How are you, Mr. Platton?"I find myself smiling mildly. "Satisfied," I say, amused at her jolted expression. "And you, Ms. Felton?""Very — well," she stammers, quickly trying to compose herself. She sets up her workspace hastily, twice dropping a pen she has to scramble under the conference room table to recover. "Have all your guests left?""Most are in town. They'll hang around a bit before flying back." I lean my chin on my hand, observing her with interest. My jealous rage at seeing her with Blake last night is almost entirely eclipsed by the memory of what I did to her. Almost."What were you doing last night, by the way? In all of the... fervor, I didn't get to ask. Did you feel like taking a late-night
The days after the party pass without conflict. Slowly, Richard's guests begin to leave the island, after stopping in throughout the week for meals, drinks, tennis, beach visits and sailing excursions. Richard is slick with all of them, a monolith of unshakeable wealth, taste, and power.But he's not without cause.Slowly, he incorporates my advice and direction into his conversation with the rich and famous. He's been keeping a finger on the pulse of the markets, cushioning blows to his own stocks while prowling for new investments. He's born for it, with an arsenal of knowledge that leaves me stunned, and a keen instinct that continues to justify his unimaginable wealth.But understanding that caring for the public will help his image, he's gotten loads of his fancy friends to direct funding to areas in need. I think it's all about the good press — but maybe, just maybe, deep down Richard Platton does care about others. It's far too early to tell, but the benefit of his donations do
"Blake, hm?" I prompt, lounging in the parlor with a glass of whiskey.Georgina, having just crept up from the servant's quarters, freezes dead, like a teenager caught sneaking out the window. She wears a modest, floral dress in blue. Her hair is down and flowing freely, and she looks utterly beguiling in the dark.Caught, she surrenders and pads into the parlor, pouring herself a whiskey and topping mine off before sitting near — but not beside — me on the long white sofa. "It was just a date," she says softly."And how did it go?" I ask, recalling our conversation in the water that day, which was only a few weeks ago, but feels like years. "Did you have the chemistry needed?"Georgina blushes deeply but doesn't avert her eyes. She's getting used to my goading, it would seem. "Honestly? Not really."Why don't I believe her? I sip my drink, looking out the windows at the dark swell of the sea. Lightning illuminates a distant bank of thunderheads, drawing slowly, imperiously, nearer. A