by Colet Abedi
“What a delightful young lady you’ve brought with you, Clayton. Charming. Intelligent. Gorgeous. Absolutely, gorgeous. Why have you kept her hidden for so long? Your mother would just love to see you with a nice young lady like this.” I lower my gaze in embarrassment when Tom mentions Clayton’s mother. “How long have the two of you been friends?” Tom’s creepy gaze gives me the heebie jeebies.
I wonder what kind of business Clayton is doing with him. Or, better question, why?
“A short while,” Clayton returns evenly, his voice revealing nothing, I’m so thankful.
I wonder how long before he lets go of being annoyed about my dress. I mean, compared to Sheila, I look like a nun. Her nipples are practically peeking out from the top of her dress!
“I missed your family name, my dear,” Tom says to me. That’s because I didn’t give it to you, perv.
“It’s Walker.”
“Walker?” Tom lifts his head and thinks about this a good, long time. I’m sure he’s trying to figure out if I have the right blue-blooded pedigree to eat with them. Before he can finish his assessment, a bell chimes across the deck. I look over and see a man dressed in a severe black tux standing with both hands behind his back.
“Canapés are ready to be served,” he says in a deep English accent. I look around at this blatant display of over-the-top wealth and feel like I’m being Punk’d, because this is so not real life.
Clayton quietly escorts me inside, where I get a full look at the opulence. It’s insane. We walk into a family room extravagantly decorated in a traditional style, with two plush crème couches, a bar, a flat screen on the wall, and fresh flowers everywhere. I feel like I’m in an episode of Extreme Yachts.
Three servers, dressed in white, gloves and all, pass out canapés. I take a small toast with caviar and a dollop of crème. It is divine. Appetizers at parties I usually attend consist of chips, dip, and hummus.
Clayton stands next to me in silence, probably still stewing away. I finish my champagne, and before I can even look around for a place to put it down, someone whisks by, takes it from me, and hands me a just-poured glass. One could get used to this kind of wealth, I’m not going to lie.
I look up at Clayton, who’s now holding a scotch. I don’t even remember seeing him ask for one. He cocks a brow.
“Enjoying yourself, love?”
I lean into him nice and close and give him a sexy smile.
“Not as much as I would enjoy being back at the villa with you. Alone.”
I take a sip of my champagne and the bubbles are clearly working their magic. I’m slightly lightheaded and far more at ease, which I’m thankful for because Lord knows I’m feeling pretty out of my element. I mean, aside from the gazillion-dollar surroundings, I’ve literally just landed in a helicopter. Hello, when does that happen to me? I just discovered that Clayton, a man I’ve barely known a week, who I happen to be falling in love … so not going down that road tonight … is also, most assuredly, a lord. What is that anyway? Like, a knight? A prince? What does it even mean?
“I would prefer the privacy as well.” I’m thinking he wants the privacy for a completely different reason than me. I’m about to tell him this when I’m rudely interrupted by busty galore, Sheila the she-devil.
“Clayton, daaaaarling! I’m getting you a highball of Dalmore and then I want to show you something in our stateroom. We picked up this wonderful little piece of art … one that only you will appreciate.” She looks down her nose at me (I swear she squints her eyes a little) and starts to pull him away to her stateroom. Yeah, I know it’s yacht lingo for bedroom.
“Please excuse me,” he says apologetically to me. “This should only take a second.”
I want to wring her neck. Or his. I can’t tell.
“Sheila is desperate,” Elizabeth whispers. She has stealthily appeared beside me.
“Oh? I thought you all knew each other?” I ask curiously.
“Socially. I know that Tom has business with Clayton. But I’ve never cared for him or that trampy wife of his,” Elizabeth says. Now the champagne is talking. Good. “And I know for a fact she is not Clayton’s friend. My brother told me how much she annoys him. Sheila is pathetic and has been trying to sleep with him since she set eyes on him two years ago, when Tom and Clayton started doing business together. Clayton only gives her the time of day because of his business relationship with Tom.”
Trying to sleep with him? Now why did she have to go and tell me that? I stare at the door anxiously, waiting for them to come back, willing them to. And suddenly, the door swings open and in walks Clayton and on his arm is … wait … it’s not Sheila. It’s worse. It’s seriously the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. She might as well have just stepped out of the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, with her shimmering, jet black hair cut into a Victoria Beckham bob, her sultry, sparkling blue eyes, and bronzed legs that seem to extend right up to her perfectly shaped breasts.
I am frozen in awe of her, but then my eyes zoom into her arm, which is wrapped around Clayton’s like some kind of sexy python. With her perfect white teeth gleaming, she throws her head back in gales of laughter at whatever clever thing he’s just said, and the familiarity between them is utterly nauseating.
And then a thought explodes in my brain like a firework on the Fourth of July: he’s sleeping with her. Or, at the very least, he has slept with her. Probably a thousand times. It’s clear. Oh God, I’m going to puke.
Sheila walks in behind them smiling like a well-fed cat and looks over at me and practically shrugs her shoulders as if to say, Sorry! That bitch. I picture myself throwing her over the side of the yacht. Is this woman the “piece of art” she wanted to show Clayton? I feel like someone just punched me right in the gut.
I wonder how quickly the helicopter can take me back to the resort. Hell, how far away can it take me so I can run away and just forget that I ever thought for a second that Lord Clayton Astor Sinclair could possibly be mine.
My body tenses up and I turn abruptly. I’ve got to get out of here. I need … Erik and Orie each take an arm, holding me still.
“What the fuck is that face?” Erik whispers down at me, his eyes worried.
I’m so happy there’s soft music in the background and people are talking loudly, paying attention to their own conversations and not ours.
“Air. I need air. Now,” I manage to croak out, and the two guide me out the door, which thankfully go in the opposite direction from where Clayton is standing with Miss Universe, and onto the deck. I take deep, deep breath, clench my fists, and beg myself to get a grip. Why? Why does she have to be here right now and ruin this for me? Why am I letting her make me feel inferior? But I mean, seriously, she could make a supermodel hate herself.
“Talk to me, Goose,” Erik demands as I and suck in the night air trying my hardest not to act so obvious.
But I can’t form a sentence. Not yet.
“I don’t mean to take away from what’s obviously a serious situation but Sophie is so not Goose. if anything, she’s Maverick and you’re Goose,” Orie breaks the silence.
“So I’m the one who can’t eject himself from the seat in time?” Erik sounds annoyed.
“Yeah, I guess. If you want to put it like that.”
“That’s so fucked that you think so little of me.” Erik goes on.
“Erik, we’re talking about Top Gun, a movie,” Orie returns. “Why do you have to be so dramatique all the time?”
“Art imitates real life,” Erik says. “And I’m offended you think I’m Goose when I’m so Maverick. Or maybe even Ice-Man.”
Before Orie can comment—
“Did you see her?!” I blurt out, interrupting a conversation I know they will no doubt pick up again as I turn to face them. “That … that … Helena Christensen doppelganger?”
I’m sure my face is pale, my insecurity written all over it. Erik knows me better than anyone.
Both guys look instant
ly pissed off. What the hell?
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Erik snaps.
Orie takes the calmer, gentler approach as he always does, and brushes back my long hair. At least her hair is shorter. It seemed thin, too. Good! A flaw! Surely there are more. Right?
“You’re not going to cry, are you?” Erik looks horrified at the thought.
He quickly turns to Orie and orders, “Inside. Shots. Tequila. Pronto.” Orie doesn’t argue and runs inside.
“I can’t do tequila. I’ll get sick.”
“Well, sick is better than acting like a crazy lady because Clayton is talking to some other woman,” Erik says in a disappointed voice. “Jesus Sophie, for a second I thought something was really wrong with you!”
I stifle a laugh.
“She’s not some other woman. Don’t you dare lie to me to make me feel better! I’m not blind, for Christ’s sake. She’s fucking stunning.”
“And?”
“She’s perfect!”
“And?”
I’m suddenly furious at him. “And? And? What else would you like me to say? They know each other! Like … really know each other. As in they’ve probably slept together.”
“Slept.” Erik shrugs. “So what? Who fucking cares? You knew he was bound to have exes. Get over it.”
“Fine, but how could I ever compete with that?” I whisper, hating my weakness and self-doubt. I’m a hot mess.
“Compete? What are you talking about? You have him!” Erik practically shouts at me. The door rattles and we look over to see Orie walk out with three shot glasses and a bottle of DeLeón Tequila. Lord, he brought the entire bottle.
“What did I miss?” he demands as he reaches us.
“I was just getting to the best part,” Erik tells him as Orie pours.
“Our koo-koo bird here thinks she’s got to compete with that creepy Amazon inside the yacht.”
Orie laughs, looking completely relieved. “That’s hilarious.”
Okay, obviously they did not truly take in the goddess-like woman with her body entwined with Clayton’s like some kind of succubus. That, or they just weren’t paying attention.
“She has some mother eff’ing crazy eyes.” Orie says.
“Fatal attraction written all over her.” Am I missing something? Erik turns to me as Orie hands us shots.
“Take it. Now.”
I close my eyes, hold my breath, and swig the tequila. Holy shit! I cough, suck on the lime he hands me, and try to get a grip. The drink warms me from the inside out. I watch in horror as Orie pours another. I firmly shake my head no.
“Don’t even start with me, Sophie Walker. You will take as many goddamn shots as I say, and you will listen to me and listen to me good. Comprendez?” Erik orders as he puts his hand on his hip and faces me. I can only nod. “First, you’re crazy. Second, that bitch inside might be crazier than you. Third, you’re stunning and Clayton knows it. You put her beauty queen looks to shame. She’s taller than you, that’s all! And we’ve already discussed how you can fix that! Clayton’s had his eyes on you the whole night. Every single goddamn time I look at him, he’s staring at you, eating you up. No doubt pissed off about the length of your dress … ”
“How did you know that?” I ask in shock, but unable to disguise the delight I feel from the other things he said. Orie hands us each a second shot.
“Babe, we’re men. We saw his face when you did the turn for us back at the villa. He was fucking pissed. But you should have seen it when that weirdo Tom was talking to you; he looked like he was going to kill him with his bare hands,” Orie tells me with a smile.
“He did?” Hope blooms.
“Yeah. He did. He wants to take you by the hand,” Orie continues, “get the hell out of Dodge, and have his way with you, but he’s trying to keep it under control here.” He lifts his shot glass and we do it again.
Holy mother of God! I have to bend over. The burning heat from the tequila moves through me like liquid fire.
I hear Orie start to pour another.
“I can’t,” I tell him. “I’m gonna die.” Or throw up. I back away slowly, hoping they won’t make me take down another shot.
“She’s good,” Erik tells Orie as he examines my face.
I’m already feeling warm and totally buzzed from the champagne, which is now definitely being amplified by the tequila. I smile at them in gratitude.
“I love you guys. Thanks for always taking care of me. You’re the bestest.” I’m slurring, and I know it. But it’s kinda funny.
“Christ. Did we give her too much, Erik?” Orie asks in concern, as he looks me over.
“No. She’ll be fine. She looks sexy. She’s got the alcohol-induced flush and those fuck-me eyes. He’s gonna die.” Erik rubs his hands together in excitement.
He is? I’m not sure if I believe him. Orie primps my hair, Erik smoothes out my dress, pulls it down farther in the back, and then tells me to pucker my lips so Orie can put some clear lip gloss on me. I smile at them both when they step away. I feel good. Really good. My body is humming inside.
“You’ve been out here for a long time,” I hear Clayton say in his husky way.
Crap. There goes my buzz. Not really, but slightly. He makes his way over to the three of us and takes in the scene. Orie’s holding the tequila bottle and three glasses, and I know he understands what’s just gone down. His gaze finds mine and I’m suddenly overcome with longing. He takes in my, according to Erik and Orie, “wanton” appearance and his eyes glow with desire. I feel warm all over because he wants me. This, I do know.
“Is it hot in here?” I ask out loud to no one in particular.
Erik and Orie find my comment vastly amusing.
“We’re outside, girl,” Orie answers as he grabs hold of Erik’s hand. “But it has gotten rather hot suddenly. I think it’s all the energy here. We’ll just go inside and wait for you two.”
They run off, abandon me actually, and I’m left alone facing Clayton, who’s holding a glass of scotch in one hand and looking me over possessively.
“Are you still mad?” I ask.
He smiles tightly. “What do you think?”
I cross my arms.
“Well, good, because so am I.”
“And what are you mad about, Sophie?” he asks curiously.
I gather courage and tell him.
“First of all, do you think running off into Sheila Remington’s room to check out a piece of art is an appropriate thing to do when you’ve brought a date with you?” I ask him, finding myself really angry all of a sudden. “I might not be your girlfriend, Clayton, but you did invite me to this damn yacht, and you should have the decency to show me that small respect.”
His eyes narrow and he takes a minute before puts his drink down, then starts to stalk me in that wolfish way of his. Since I’m already at the railing and there’s nowhere for me to go, I hold my ground. He comes up on me, putting a hand on either side of the railing, then closing in so he can pull me close. His fingers caress the skin of my lower back.
“Please.” I roll my eyes at him, my desire temporarily cooled by my anger.
“You’re wrong. If you’re not my girlfriend, then what are you?”
Fuck buddy? Vacation … sex … friend?
“I honestly don’t know.”
He looks frustrated by me. “Sophie, you are my girlfriend. I didn’t think you needed me to tell you.”
I feel my chest, neck, and cheeks instantly flush, and my knees literally go weak. I lower my eyes for a second, trying to hide the pure unadulterated pleasure I feel from his words.
“And you’re right. I shouldn’t have gone with Sheila, but her husband is my client and I had no choice. But you’re really testing me, Sophie.”
“How am I testing you?” I ask, and I don’t have to wait long for the answer.
“I’m furious with you, and with myself, for this lack of control I seem to have with you. This is new for me,” he says, clearly f
eeling unnerved. “And I hate the thought of any man ogling you, lusting after what is mine.”
I melt into him, holding on to his shirt, his body against his. His arms hold me close. We look into each other’s eyes.
“I just have one more question. Who’s the Amazon?” I ask softly.
He looks confused for a second then gives a small, serious smile.
“Amelia.”
My heart thumps in my chest.
“And?”
“And what?” He definitely looks uncomfortable. I try to pull away from him, but he doesn’t let me; in fact, he holds me tighter.
“I can see, Clayton. The way she was clinging to you. And looking at you, hanging on every word that came out of your mouth,” I say. “You guys know each other, or at least knew each other. And it seems like she’s still into you.” I know I’ve revealed a lot to him, and made myself vulnerable.
He stares at me for a long while, as if deciding whether he should tell me the truth. I can tell that he doesn’t want to have this conversation at all. What man would?
“What exactly are you asking, Sophie?” I know it’s crystal clear what I’m asking so I guess he’s trying to prolong the inevitable.
“Did you date her?” This is code for did you sleep with her, which I don’t have the balls to ask.
“What does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know,” I tell him stubbornly. “I want to know if that beauty queen in there had been in all the same intimate scenarios with you as I have.”
He silently stares at me, probably cursing the fact that he brought me with him tonight. I’ve blown it. But I go on.
“You get to ask me anything. You get to ask me about my past, about Jerry, about everything. Can’t I have the answer to this one question?” Wow, I said that pretty well. And not a tear in sight. Must be the tequila.
“Amelia and I dated.” His voice is reserved. The last thing he wants to do is give in to me. But he has no choice because the logic I’ve used is undeniable. He can’t have it just one way. He has to give me this.
“When?”