“I’ve always loved you in that colour,” I say. That’s all I allow myself. There are a thousand more words desperate to get out of me. She needs to know she’s a goddess. She ought to be told every minute of the day.
Zara frowns. Something about the compliment hit a nerve with her. I don’t know yet whether that’s a good thing or not, but I’m too drunk on her presence to care right now. I place my hand on the small of her back to guide her outside and my thumb brushes the bare skin where the dress dips down in a low V. She’s so warm there. I could kiss my way up, slowly and teasingly, all the way to the top of her spine where a bite on her neck would draw a moan from her.
Zara doesn’t move away from my touch. But she doesn’t look at me, either. It’s one step forward, two steps back, and everything is going so achingly slow.
It’s lucky that I know she’ll be worth it.
In the back of the BMW on the way over, her hand creeps an inch or so closer to mine. I can tell by the faint pulse at the base of her neck and the tightening of her lips that she’s nervous. That’s good. Nerves mean she’s not the one in control. I’m rediscovering every facet of Zara: her anger, her pleasure, her pain and her fear, and each emotion is more delicious than the one that came before.
I’d like her to let me take charge, for once. I’d like that very much indeed.
I open the door for her and she takes my hand as she steps out of the car. It’s the first time we’ve touched since I pressed her body to mine in that ridiculously small bikini back on Moon Beach. Her fingers brush over mine and cling for just a second longer than I’m expecting – unless I’m imagining it. When it comes to Zara, I have an overactive imagination.
The waiter leads us to a secluded table. I’ve made sure we’re sitting somewhere where no business associates will catch sight of me. I don’t want to show off my connections to her tonight. I don’t want anything to disturb us.
The menu overwhelms her. It’s not just the disconnect between Malaysian curry and European cuisine – there are dishes here she never heard of in all her years growing up in England. I remember the feeling of disorientation from my first years entering the world of big business. Back when I was playing at the businessman, in my rented suit.
“You’ll like the langoustine with lemon confit,” I suggest, as casually as if I’d been eating lemon confit for dinner all my life. “Then the sauté gourmand of lobster and chicken quenelles to follow.”
“Whatever you think,” she says. Unusually subdued. The glittering atmosphere in here is weighing on her. I’m starting to regret my choice, but then again, I need Zara pliable if I’m to get anywhere. Spiky Zara, defensive Zara, Zara firing on all cylinders – she’ll never let me in.
I need to show her the full force of the money and prestige I’ve earned over the years we’ve been apart. Show her that all the crazy dreams I used to tell her have actually come true.
And see if she’s still interested.
“Where are you planning to stay once Christine comes home?” I ask. The waiter comes over with the wine list, and I wave him away casually. “Chateau Blanc. The ’66.”
Zara’s eyes widen. She doesn’t need to know that I’m about as much of a wine connoisseur as she is. I know this one tastes good and will get us both drunk enough to start talking feelings instead of business. I also know I can afford it – I can afford everything on the menu a hundred times over without batting an eye. Chateau Blanc it is!
“There’s space on the sofa,” she shrugs. “When Mariam gets here it’ll be a little tight, but we’ve got friends in Mayhew and they might put us up for a while. We’ll make it work somehow.”
“That’s no good. Let me offer you a better solution. I own a block of luxury apartments on the outskirts of Mayhew. I’m sure there’ll be one available.” I know there is, because I checked this afternoon. “You can stay there as long as you need to.”
“I can’t afford a luxury apartment, Chance.”
“Did I say you’d be paying rent?”
Zara clenches her teeth, annoyed. “Why do you own property in Mayhew, anyway? That place is a worse dump than I remember.”
I shrug. “Exactly. I could’ve bought my parents a house in California, the south of France, a private island in the Caribbean – but they wanted to stay in Mayhew. So instead, I’m investing in regenerating the area. One day, when I have children, they’re going to visit their grandparents there. And I’d like it to be a nice place to go.”
I’m glad the waiter arrives with wine at that moment. I hadn’t meant to mention the future in that way. I take a hefty swig of the wine as soon as it’s poured. Zara doesn’t touch hers. She’s gone very quiet. I change the subject.
“When’s Mariam coming up?”
“In a few weeks’ time. She needs to find someone to look after the Snack Shack. Someone who won’t drink half the profits like her usual choice of staff.”
Our food arrives. Zara watches me carefully before starting to eat herself. She’s out of her depth here, and I love the moments of sweet hesitation before each move she makes.
Perhaps I’m only kidding myself about having the upper hand. Every time I try to ask her a question that digs a little deeper – about her life in Malaysia, about her work, about how she feels now that she’s back in England, Zara shuts up like a clam. I’m met with a brick wall of silence every time I try to change the subject beyond basic facts. Yes, her parents are well. No, they don’t travel to the UK at Christmas. Yes, she has entered the surfing competition at Moon Beach. No, she didn’t place.
“But I didn’t mind,” she says, a glimmer of light finally sparking in her eyes. “It was cool just to get out there. Just to compete against those guys.”
“I loved watching you surf this summer,” I say. Another step too far, I fear. Zara lays down her knife and fork. She grimaces.
“Yeah. Until those idiots wiped me out with their speedboat!”
“That wasn’t your fault. Until then, you were amazing. You looked like you were flying across the water. So…strong. So powerful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The faintest flush of pink traces the edge of her collarbone. “I didn’t realise you were watching me.”
“I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
She pretends she hasn’t heard me. Refuses to meet my eyes, carries on talking about surfing instead. But the passion that lights her up from within now only makes her more enticing. I’m riveted. “There’s something magical about being up on a surfboard. Paddling out, waiting for the right wave. It just clears every other thought out from your mind. It’s the only time I ever really feel at peace.”
“And when you’re riding a wave?”
Her smile slays me. “That’s freedom, Chance. A pure shot of freedom straight to the heart. I think I’d die if I couldn’t surf. That’s probably why I’ve stayed on Moon Beach so long.”
“There’s not much surf in Mayhew,” I point out. It’s a sleepy, landlocked, country town, after all. Zara shrugs, but I can see the hurt in her eyes.
“I was exaggerating. I’m not going to literally die. Grandma comes first.”
“Perhaps I can help. I’ve got a beach house down in Cornwall right on Porthmerran Bay. When Mariam comes down you could take a break from looking after Christine for a while. Take the house for the weekend. See what you think of the Cornish surf.”
I sit back, anticipating an outburst. It’ll either be gratitude or rage. I’m almost hoping for the latter. She’s so beautiful when her eyes flash.
Zara’s shoulder stiffen and she stabs her fork into her main course as though it’s personally offended her. “I know exactly what you’re trying to do, Chance. And I don’t like it. You can stop right now, do you hear?”
“Stop what?”
“I am not some – some toy that you can buy with your fancy money. I don’t know what you’re hoping for… Wait. I think I know exactly what you’re hoping for. I’m not on the market, Chance. I don’t gi
ve a crap about your beach house and your flash cars and your credit cards. I’d rather eat cheese on toast than a posh dinner. So you can take your charity and stick it up your arse. Don’t pretend you’re doing all this out of the goodness of your heart. You want something from me and I’m not prepared to give it. Not now and not ever. You were a bad mistake the first time. I don’t make mistakes twice.”
She clenches her hands in front of her to stop them shaking. The anger is coursing through her, wild and passionate. It electrifies me like nothing has in the past ten years.
Oh Zara, Zara – if we can do this to each other without even a touch, imagine how intense a night together will be?
I lean forwards and grip her by the wrist. I don’t mean to take hold of her, but I can’t go another moment without feeling the touch of her skin. Despite the horror on her face, her fingers clutch at mine the way she did when she was drowning. Our bodies know each other still. They know the only way to survive is to cling together.
“I do want something from you,” I tell her. My voice is a low and serious growl that I’ve never heard from my own throat before. “You might think I only want your body. And it’s true that I want you more consumingly than I’ve ever wanted anything before. I’m burning alive to taste you again, Zara. But if you think that’s where it ends you’re mistaken. I want to possess you, body and soul. The way we promised each other we would. We fit together like nothing else in this world. You can’t deny it. I can see it in your eyes every time you look at me. So yes, I’m trying to seduce you. Do you think I have a shortage of women to seduce? I’m willing to wait as long as it takes, for you and only you. It’s not a question of giving me your body. I want it all.”
She jerks her hand away from mine and stares at it as though I’ve burned her. “I think I should leave. Now.”
Fuck.
I signal the waiter, trying not to let my voice tremble. “The bill, please. As quickly as possible.”
He looks at our half-eaten food with concern. “Was everything to your liking, Mr Madison?”
“Just perfect, as usual, Jacques.” I give him a big smile. Zara watches from beneath her thick lashes, glowering at me. I pay the bill and shrug into my coat as if I’m completely unaffected by my confession and her total shutdown of a response.
What was I expecting? I got carried away too quickly. Hell, who wouldn’t? Looking into those sea-blue eyes is like downing a shot of vodka. She’s a spirit I don’t have the head to handle. Yet.
Look at me, still talking as if I’m in with a chance. I’ll be lucky if I ever see her again after that little shit-show.
As Jacques holds out Zara’s coat I snatch it out of his surprised hands. She stiffens as I hold it out to her, but she’s not going to kick up a scene in the middle of the restaurant. I slide one sleeve up her bare arm, then the other. My hands hesitate at her shoulders. Our bodies are close up against each other. Almost touching. Still so far apart.
I can feel the light rhythm of her breathing. I can see the soft moisture on her lips.
I need to drink it all in, now, before it’s gone forever.
“My car will take you back to Mayhew,” I tell her as we wait outside for the driver to pull up.
“What about you?”
“I feel like a walk.”
I feel like seven or eight whiskies and crashing in a lonely hotel. Zara pulls the coat in around herself, though it’s not cold. She’s looking at me, so I’m looking at the floor, at the streetlamp, at the restaurant window, at the starlit sky. Goddammit, this would be so romantic if I hadn’t cocked it all up.
Suddenly, there’s a small hand plucking at my sleeve. Zara slips her arm through mine.
“Thank you for dinner,” she says.
“You’re welcome.”
Her head slowly, so slowly, sinks down to rest on my shoulder. I don’t even dare breathe. It’s as if some shy woodland creature has crept out of the forest. The slightest movement might scare it away.
“I can’t work the heating in Grandma’s house,” says Zara, almost shyly. “Do you… do you think there’s heat at your place? The flat you said was free?”
I fight back a smile. “I can call up the concierge for you. He’ll let you in tonight and show you how everything works.”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
Her voice is a little stilted. Extra-polite. It doesn’t sound quite like Zara, but I’m not sure my heart could handle the full force of Zara right now anyway.
“Listen,” she says, as my driver opens the car door. “Chance…”
“Please take Miss Jacobs to her house in Mayhew,” I tell the driver. “Then wait while she collects her things and drive her over to the Hillvale Apartments. Charles Watson will be expecting her there.”
“Of course, sir,” says Lewis pleasantly. Zara turns to me before she gets in, her eyes a little desperate.
“Chance…”
I could kiss her now. I’m sure I could. I take her face in my hands and stroke the hair back from her forehead. She looks radiant, worried, a little guilty. Her lips are full and pink and slightly parted. I’ve never been more tempted in my life.
I settle for planting a soft kiss on her forehead. I hear her sigh gently.
Then she’s in the car and away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Zara
“This place is amazing!”
Mariam bounces up and down on the emperor-size bed, squealing at the view over the rocky Cornish coast and waving her arms in the air. I have to admit she’s got a point. Even so, I was hoping she’d used up all her squeals on the Hillvale flat, with its beautiful furnishings and the rooftop garden and the jacuzzi bathtub. My eardrums have really taken a battering since she arrived in the UK.
Chance’s beach house – if you can call it a house – is a hyper-modern building perched on the edge of a clifftop overlooking the rocky and wave-lashed Porthmerran bay. From the outside, it’s one massive shining window that reflects an endless expanse of sea and sky. On the inside, it’s huge vaulted rooms with cosy furnishings, massive fireplaces, and sofas you could sink into and never come back up again. Every room has a bed so enormous and comfortable I’m tempted to sleep in a different one each night just to test them all out. Each ensuite bathroom has a walk-in shower room with massaging jets coming out at all angles and a bathtub you can lie down and stretch out your arms in just in case you’re done with standing up for the day. There’s a hot tub on the roof. There’s a heated infinity pool on the balcony. It’s the kind of house a superhero would daydream about someday moving into. Mariam and I haven’t stopped running around, opening doors and shrieking with delight since we got here.
The housekeeper, Grace, greeted us with a couple of delicious fruity cocktails and a tray of snacks. Miniature cheese on toasts, cut into tiny pieces and made with the most exquisite French cheeses. Mariam’s confused by the food choice, but I get the joke.
“Anything you need while you’re here, just let me know,” says Grace, with a warm smile. “I’ll collect your laundry in the mornings and after every trip to the beach, naturally. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are usually at nine, one and eight, but I can make you snacks whenever you like and mealtimes can be adjusted to whatever suits. There are fully stocked minibars on the balcony and in the living room, but I’ll be happy to mix you a drink whenever you require one. Would you like me to unpack your things?”
“Yes, please!” says Mariam immediately.
“No, we’re good,” I say quickly. I’m not at all comfortable with the idea of someone else having to hang up my clothes.
We spend the morning surfing. It’s been a while since I’ve been in water as cold as this, and my stamina’s not what it used to be. The waves are hollow and powerful, a different prospect from the long, soft rides I’ve been used to, but the moment I get back up on the board I forget the cold and the strangeness of the place. The Cornish coast has a craggy, wild beauty that I’d forgotten in my years on the soft beach
es of Malaysia. The more time I spend in the water the more I start to like the taste of the wind whipping my face and the cold salt spray. It’s more exhilarating than anything back home.
It almost drives every thought of Chance out of my head. But lately, nothing’s been quite enough to do that. I’ve just had to accept my burgeoning obsession with him as a fact of life.
I haven’t seen him more than a handful of times since that night at Le Cygne Céleste. He came round to the flat to see how I was settling in. Brought me a housewarming gift – a giant fern that reminds me of the jungle edging the beaches back home. I made him a cup of tea and I thought maybe he’d try to kiss me – but he didn’t. He didn’t even try to hold my hand. He sat on the other end of the sofa and made small talk. That was it. That was all.
He took me out in London to buy a couple of pieces of furniture for Grandma Christine – she needs chairs that are easier to get in and out of, a rail for the bathtub, all that older person stuff. Not a whisper was heard about his great confession of the night at the restaurant. I couldn’t work up the courage to ask him about it. I did notice that he looked pretty damn fine in his leather jacket and shirt, though. I spent the whole time wondering whether he was checking me out, too.
We went out to lunch in Mayhew after Grandma came back from the hospital. That’s we as in all three of us. Jeez, Chance. I know patience is a virtue, but – a lunch date with my Grandma? That’s taking it to the extreme.
That was the one occasion when I caught his eye and I saw a spark there. A tiny spark, but one that I remember better than I care to admit to myself. Something that speaks to that deep inner part of me that wants to jump on him, rip off his shirt and lick my way up his cut body from abs to hip bones to…wherever else my fancy takes me.
I get the feeling he knows exactly what he’s doing. I’m being played like the world’s horniest violin. If only I could see more of him, I could work out exactly how I feel. Remind myself that despite everything that burning sensation between my legs keeps telling me, Chance Madison is bad news. But these little, teasing moments… these glimpses of perfection… that sudden flash of heat when his lips pressed into my forehead. Gah! I can’t get it out of my mind.
Taking His Own Page 11