Broken Waves

by Aitana Moore

  He was a good kisser, but she felt exactly what she had felt every time she had been kissed in her life: nothing.

  TEN

  Bryce might be famished, but he didn't act like it. After kissing Lee for a good while, he laid her gently on the sofa. His lips didn’t leave hers as she unbuttoned his shirt and tugged at his belt.

  "We can take it slow,” he murmured.

  She didn’t want to. She wanted it to be over, but he kissed her and stroked the small of her back as if they had all the time in the world.

  Kneeling on the sofa, he removed his own shirt and kicked off his shoes and socks. He pulled her dress over her head and unhooked her bra slowly, as if he were revealing a treasure with patient anticipation.

  "You're beautiful," he said almost dreamily.

  He nuzzled her breasts, delicately letting her feel his stubble for a moment, then he wrapped his tongue around her nipple. He seemed to avoid getting it hard, only holding it between his lips and licking it softly.

  She stayed in the same position, kneeling, as his hand slid inside her panties.

  No! she almost screamed. Her heart thumped like a beast throwing itself against the bars of a cage. The image of that man, his thick fingers, his voice, “You’ll like this …” It always hit her and made her hate the man touching her. She wished she could shriek and run.

  But he never touched her there. He only stroked her buttocks, cupping one side as he kept kissing her.

  It was torture. She wanted to tell him to go ahead and do the same as the man had done. Every man wanted to do it. Why did he have to take so long?

  Bryce bent her backwards, holding her fast as if remembering she was meant to have a bad back. He laid her down, and still he kissed her, placing himself between her legs.

  He moved back a little to look at her, and she closed her eyes, turning her face to one side. She felt him enter her, and she emitted a moan. He had made her wide open, and he was moving very close to her, bone against bone. She kept moaning, wondering how he could have so much self-control, why he couldn’t be like other men and just take his pleasure without bothering with her.

  Her moans became louder as she threw her head back, trying to get him over the edge, but to her shock, Bryce pulled back and rolled away, although he wasn’t finished.

  Then he raised his hands and slowly clapped.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "Ten for the effort, five for the performance," he said, putting an arm behind his head.

  "What do you mean?"

  "That you're pretending."

  Lee flushed, exposed to eyes that had become detached and sardonic.

  He nodded toward a thin blanket wrapped over the back of the sofa. "Use that, if you want.”

  She covered herself as he lay nonchalant in his nakedness.

  "Sorry, I've been rude," he said. "And you're a guest in my house. But if I wanted to lie on top of a woman who isn't feeling anything, I'd go to hookers."

  A bout of nausea hit Lee’s stomach. She tried not to show it. "I think I was nervous, or it was the champagne. I haven't drunk anything in a while."

  Bryce watched her for a second and said, "No, I think you're always like that."

  She flushed harder. "How can you know what I'm like?"

  "I thought you might be nervous, but I don't think so now. I think you don't feel anything."

  "Maybe you don't make me feel anything.”

  There it was, her anger. He had brought it out. If she didn't manage to make him stop examining her, everything would be ruined. Lee looked at the door, wondering whether she could grab her dress and bolt, but he lay sideways on the sofa, his head propped up by his hand, blocking her escape.

  "Could be, but you know what, I still don't think so. You don't like sex.”

  Lee held on to the blanket, bringing it closer to her neck. "What are you talking about?"

  "Why your problems sounded so fake at therapy. It was as if you had read a book on the stuff you should be saying. Don't mistake me, it’s clear that you have some serious issues, but it was just as obvious that you decided to go on about something else."

  The words came out of her before she could stop them: "I want to go to the hotel."

  "We’re only talking,” he said calmly. “You're upset because I caught you pretending what you don’t feel."

  "A lot of women pretend.”

  "Must be terrible." He grimaced almost comically. "I can see this is bothering you, but—"

  Her voice sounded brittle. "What business is it of yours, James? Some women are like me, what does it matter?"

  "Were you always like that? No boyfriends when you were a teen that made you feel anything?"

  "No."

  "What about by yourself?"

  She covered her ears. "Stop!"

  He whistled. "Not a single—"

  "Stop, stop, stop!" she shouted more loudly in his face.

  He sat and put his arms around her as she struggled. "Please don't thrash about or you might hit my knee."

  Exhausted, Lee lay against his chest. He stroked her back, but his touch wasn't sexual.

  "Don't talk about it," she begged.

  "All right.”

  "I'm sorry that I pretended. I feel that I have to do it, or—"

  He pulled back a bit. She lay in the crook of his arm as he brushed the hair away from her face. "You don't have to do it with me."

  She gave a small smile. "I'll friendzone you?"

  He shook his head.

  "Then you'll take me to the hotel, and I'll get another cicerone?"

  He scowled and shook his head again.

  "What, then?"

  "How do you feel about just sleeping? We're tired, aren't we?"

  "I don't think I'll sleep a wink."

  He picked her up despite his knee and moved down the marble hallway, stopping at the threshold of his bedroom for her to reach the switch with a toe and flip it. The bed was a lavish antique and occupied a great deal of the room. He laid her down and stretched next to her, pulling the covers over them.

  "We'll tell stories. How's that?" he said.

  Lee allowed her head to fall on his shoulder. "My father read me The Little Match Girl once.”

  “Isn’t that Andersen? He was a glum wanker. How did it go?”

  “It’s New Year’s Eve and a little girl is trying to sell matches in the street. She’s afraid of going home without selling any, because she’ll be beaten. She sits lighting the matches and seeing lovely things in their glow, until she runs out and sees her grandmother, who carries her up to heaven.”

  He was silent for a moment, then said, “It doesn’t make a lot of business sense to waste the matches she was meant to sell.”

  “The point is that she was committing suicide,” she said in a tone that was suddenly unsentimental.

  “Blimey. And you were how old when your father read this to you?”

  “Six.” She stopped short of adding: Just before he died. That had happened to Lee’s father, not Vivien’s.

  “And what did you think?”

  “Oh, I cried for hours.” Lee smiled, remembering the scene. “I couldn’t stop crying, so my poor father had to invent a sequel. He sat there and pretended to read that the little girl hadn’t really died, only seen her grandmother in a dream. The good grandmother had breathed warmth into her. She was found by a family and taken into their house, where she spent a wonderful evening, and went home the next day with money and a feast.”

  “And founded a match company, no doubt.”

  She laughed. “Don’t be cynical about my father’s story.”

  “He wasn’t always distant, then,” Bryce remarked.

  It was easy to get caught in lies when you let your guard down — she had to remember that this was a man who listened. “No, not when I was small. It’s easier for parents to relate to small children, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, is it?”

  “Guess not in your case.”

&nb
sp; He resumed stroking her hair. “I think we’ve had enough psychoanalyzing for a while.”

  “So you won’t ask me anymore?”

  “No. And you don't have to feel ashamed. Shit, as they say, happens.”

  There was another silence before she remarked, “You curse a lot.”

  “You don’t curse at all. Who washed your mouth with soap?”

  My kind grandmother, Lee thought, but said, “Will you tell me a story?”

  “Can’t remember any, and yours has spooked me.”

  “You must have stories of your travels.”

  “No one wants to listen to other people’s travel stories.”

  “I do.”

  “You’re a special one. But I’ll tell you another day, because I’m feeling either lazy or sleepy.”

  “James?”

  “Yes?”

  She swallowed. "What do you want with me?"

  "Oh, I'm committed."

  Lee felt a pang of dread, but managed to ask, "To what?"

  "Don't be scared, not to marry you or anything.” He gave the delighted laugh of a boy. “I’m committed to the terrible sex!”

  ELEVEN

  At least all was not lost, Lee thought when she woke up the next morning.

  She hadn't had to run away, and Bryce wanted to entertain himself with the possibility of "curing" her. He would want her to stay by his side, and she could even stop pretending that she was enjoying sex now that he knew she couldn’t.

  It appeared that he liked what was broken, perhaps because he was broken himself. Nevertheless, his interest wouldn’t last long. She needed to get to the ring. Seeing what a detached view he had of his own wealth, she could well believe that he might not have insured it.

  He was arrogant. Or something.

  Besides, if she didn’t move fast someone else might get to the diamonds before her. Over fifteen million dollars, just sitting in a home safe … it was too much of a temptation.

  His side of the bed was empty when she opened her eyes, although it was only six o’clock. She had a shower in the marble bathroom and put her dress back on. Her face looked fresh without makeup.

  Bryce was on a terrace facing the Roman hills. He was in a headstand, his eyes closed as he appeared to meditate.

  "Morning," he said.

  "Morning. I didn't mean to disturb you."

  "You don't."

  He got out of the headstand and smiled, looking young in his pajama bottoms with disheveled hair and a mischievous grin.

  "Hungry?"

  A table was set amidst terracotta pots with flowers, under a large square umbrella. Again, he pulled the chair for her and removed the silver covers from several dishes, revealing scrambled eggs, toast, golden waffles, croissants, jam, butter and a variety of fresh fruit.

  "Do you like any of this?" he asked.

  "All of it."

  "Good."

  He piled food on her dish as he bit into a piece of toast and served her coffee. Lee thought that she wouldn't be hungry, but she found herself eating.

  "News of the day," Bryce said, looking at the Corriere della Sera. "A piece of Antarctica is about to fall off and seas will rise, Syria is worse than yesterday, and Roma won against Milano 2-0. That's football, which you would know as soccer. Oh, and 'British billionaire bangs blonde.' "

  "Idiot."

  “I’m not quite a billionaire, but I like alliteration.” He smiled at her. "I haven't bought the tabloids yet. There was nothing on the web linking you to me or me to Rome, though.”

  She played with her coffee spoon. "I need to go to the hotel."

  "My man will drive you there, so you can get your things.”

  “My things?”

  “To stay here, of course. It will be a waste of time for you to keep your room at the hotel. And you should return your car, you can use mine.”

  "It’s a little early—"

  He frowned. "I thought we agreed! You need to undergo very intense therapy."

  "Don't joke about it."

  "I won't, it would only make your control issues worse."

  Lee stared at him. "You've got me diagnosed, have you?"

  "Most sexual problems come from control issues. You don't want to abandon yourself. You're afraid of the ecstasy I could give you."

  Men always thought they gave women ecstasy. They were often wrong.

  "I'm glad it's so simple, and that it amuses you,” she said.

  "I'm smiling because I'm thinking of you naked.”

  "This will be unbearable, I can't—" Lee stood, but he took the hand she had closed into a fist. "Would you please stop talking about it?"

  "Of course, my little Frigidaire, talking of things only ever makes them worse."

  She laughed at Frigidaire, although she wanted to be angry. He kissed her hand.

  “Let's be off soon. A walk is recommended, every day, for all people — those who like sex and those who hate it." Bryce laid down his napkin. “I’ll shower while you go get all your things.”

  He went back into the house and she sat looking at the old roofs and spires of Rome. Bryce would be a challenge. He controlled situations through charm and humor instead of being overbearing or fawning, and she wasn’t used to that.

  Nevertheless, she wasn’t one to shy away from a challenge. She duly went to the Raphael with the driver and packed her things. When she took the toiletry case to fill it, she felt the weight of the pot of cream inside. Taking it out, she unscrewed the bottom, letting four mini cameras fall on the palm of her hand. She would need to plant one of them above Bryce’s safe and watch him typing the combination. But the safe must be in London, or in the family country estate. She had just spent a month getting to know Bryce, and she needed things to start moving fast.

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he were less smart? Oh, well.

  She put the cameras back, screwed the bottom of the jar and finished packing. An hour later, she and Bryce strolled through the outdoor market in Campo dei Fiori. Lee wore white Capri pants, a black top and flat sandals. In jeans and a white T-shirt, Bryce carried an old camera.

  Lee had developed a certain calm in relation to having her image taken. It was inevitable in the age of the iPhone. Her marks would often snap images of her in front of anything, like a dish of salad. She would erase the images before leaving, but even if they were stored somewhere in the cloud, she wore big sunglasses, made enough faces and changed enough that she would not be easily recognized in a casual photo. As for Bryce, if he took pictures of her, she would open the camera and spoil the film later.

  He was going to be her last job, after all. Five million pounds, free of taxes, and Quinn would have enough as well.

  They went by the house where Keats had died, and because she was supposed to make her money through real estate, she remarked on the price of property in the center of Rome.

  "A penniless poet could die here in the 1820s. Now only someone like you could afford an apartment in this area."

  "Too noisy."

  "Well, there you go, only someone as rich as you would turn up his nose at this."

  Bryce sat on the stairs, amidst tourists and locals, and pulled her to the step below him. He was like a big cat, leaning back on his elbows, his legs stretched on either side of her in a display of loose possessiveness.

  Wasn’t that a contradiction? People were either possessive or not. He seemed too confident to bother.

  When hunger struck them again, they ate off Via Condotti, at a small place that wasn't too touristic. Then they strolled to Villa Borghese, where he showed her the Bernini statue of Apollo and Daphne. It looked lifelike, as if a god had truly pursued a nymph as she turned into a tree to escape him.

  Bernini had captured Apollo’s expression of surprise; his right hand clutched emptiness while the left rested almost tenderly on Daphne’s hip, which was already turning into bark. The nymph reached upward with fear and a sort of triumph, her hands and hair becoming leaves.

  Bryce quoted, "
‘Destroy the beauty that has injured me, or change the body that destroys my life.’ "

  Lee’s eyes followed every detail of the statue. "It's incredible that he could make marble look so delicate.”

  The Rape of Proserpina, another Bernini, was a different matter. There was no triumph or escape for Persephone as Hades, Lord of the Underworld, locked her into a violent hold. From the side Hades was all muscle pushing forward, his legs, arms and torso straining as he lifted her. Persephone, her feet in the air, struggled in vain. A dog behind her showed pointed teeth.

  But Hades’ hands were beautiful as he held Persephone by the waist and gripped her thigh. Bernini had managed to depict both strength and desire in the way the god’s fingers sank into the woman’s flesh. It was remarkable work.

  Bryce stood on the other side of the statue, and Lee covertly watched his hand, holding the camera. It was like the statue’s — elegant and strong.

  As he moved, she remained where she was, staring at the exquisite marble tear on Persephone’s cheek. She almost started when he materialized at her side and caressed her stomach absentmindedly.

  He let her go, moving away to look at something else. Lee waited a moment before she followed him. As she reached the main door, she was pulled into another room. It had many statues, their silhouettes visible under cloth or plastic. Bryce placed her against the wall and nuzzled her mouth with his for a few seconds before he forced her lips open and kissed her with his tongue.

  Lee almost gasped at the pain that hit her deep inside like a blow. The skin all over her body rose, and her breasts strained against her bra. She felt her underwear moisten and flushed in shame.

  His hands kept her hips still as he kissed her, his tongue teasing hers, his stubble hurting, and Lee found herself breathlessly clinging to the solid, lean muscle on his back. She pushed into his kiss until their teeth almost touched, and with a stifled moan she grasped a handful of his hair. Now he held her just below her buttocks, his fingers digging into her flesh like the statue’s.

  But he let her go again, one arm on the wall next to her as his breathing slowed and he stepped back — and soon she stood alone in the room with the statues, dizzy from knowing what she had wanted him to do.