by Ella James
My heart speeds up, just thinking of it.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Come to my place,” he says. “You can sleep on it.”
He traces a finger down my back, and I can almost relax under his touch and just go with it. I can’t make decisions like that, though. I have to use my brain. I turn around, my ass bumping into his dick. I don’t miss the look of pleasure that flits across his face.
“Why are we going to your place?”
“You’re allergic to cats.”
“How do you know?”
“Your eyes are red and puffy.”
I draw my hand out of the water, press my finger gently around them. “You’re observant.”
“One of my strengths.”
“What are your weaknesses?” I ask, marveling again at how attractive he is.
His lips curl up and he says, “I’m afraid that you are, Red.”
Wolfe
I don’t push her. If she stays, I don’t want her to feel pushed. It’s not an offer I planned on making, but that was before I pulled her out of the ocean. Saw her smooth body, marred by goosebumps. Carried her here and washed her hair. I want her. I can’t deny it. I’m tired of being alone. I know she wouldn’t stay forever, but for a while, I’d like to see where I can take her. A woman this well-suited for me is hard to find, especially when you live on an island.
She walks in front of me on the path to my cabin. It’s intentional. I want to see her move. She may leave tomorrow and I want to be sure I see as much of her as I can.
As I walk, I think how fucking weird it is, having her here. I’m anxious as we approach my house. As if she can see me in the angles, in the wood. As if she is privy to all the thoughts running through my head when I made it. That’s how my critics are. They think they know me—but they don’t. They would never guess my true identity.
We reach the cabin—a two-story, cedar structure topped with wood shingles and surrounded by a rose garden—she throws her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, it’s beautiful.”
I want to turn her away. I want to put her in the boat and send her off. I swallow and say, “thank you.”
“You built it yourself.”
“I did.”
“And the roses?”
“Mine,” I say.
“Holy shit, you’ve got a major green thumb.”
I wiggle my brows, because it’s weird, getting compliments on a place I built so I’d never have to share it with anyone, never have to hear this kind of feedback.
I lead her around to the front of the house, up two stairs, and to the door, sandwiched between two rocking chairs I also made.
I can feel the heat of her body behind me as I turn the key. I step inside, and she’s right on me. She can see the glass roof in my room. The stack of Paris Reviews beside my couch. The sleek granite counter in my tiny kitchen: one of the only perks of “home” I imported. I hope I’ve put up all the paint and canvas, but there’re probably smudges here and there. I don’t mind it—like the smell—so I don’t notice.
She steps in and glances around. My eyes follow hers: the smooth stone I use for a coffee table in the little living area; the Bose sound system where I play music on a first-gen iPod. I see her take in the little kitchen area, done in smooth gray stone; the leather mat in front of the sink.
She looks through the open doorway, in the direction of my bedroom and bathroom, the tilts her head back, her long hair curling down around her waist. “Did you paint recently?”
I work the muscles of my throat. “Yes.”
“What part?”
I can’t say “walls.” The walls are wood.
“Varnish on the walls of the bathroom,” I lie. She’s an out-of-work art critic, but still, she may not know.
I lead her through the doorway, into my room: a wood-walled, glass-roofed haven that, like the den and kitchen, is tall enough to be two stories, even though it’s not. I watch her gaze roll up the wall. Can see it in her mouth how she appreciates the glass ceiling.
“I bet that’s beautiful at night.”
It is. I grit my teeth, wondering why the fuck her comments on my house feel so damn personal. I’ve always liked my privacy, but I guess years living here have made me worse. I nod at the bed. It’s a queen and folds out from the wall, right next to a little wood-burning stove I use in December and January. It’s covered with a thick suede duvet, which stretches atop silk sheets. I guess they’re another import, and just now I’m glad of it. Red’s beautiful body deserves nothing less.
“That’s yours. As long as you’re here, you’ll sleep in my bed.”
I watch her face carefully, searching for a clue about her decision, but she’s not giving away anything.
I walk further into the bedroom, past my desk and the sheet that divides my closet from the bedroom. “Here’s the bathroom.” I open the door beside my closet, revealing a claw-footed tub, a toilet, and a sink. “Pretty basic.”
She nods.
For a long moment, she just looks at me, and I look back at her. It’s me who tugs my gaze away, because I’m feeling…I don’t know. Fucking shy or something.
“Have a seat,” I say. “The bed won’t bite.”
She smirks, but doesn’t speak, just sits. She crosses her legs and leans back on her arms and watches quietly as I push the half-wall dividing the den-kitchen from the bedroom-bathroom area into the wall, opening the whole space the way I prefer. I make her buttered bread and black tea with honey while she watches like a little hawk.
I walk it over to her, surprised by how good it feels to place the tray in front of her. “I like it hot. Feel free to let it cool and add stevia.”
Her smile lights up her face. “Oooh, a health nut, are you?”
I shrug.
Despite how…drawn to her I feel, maybe I shouldn’t have asked her to stay. I’m uneasy with her here. Uneasy with her…lightness. She’s got some darkness in there somewhere, but it’s not who she is. Most of her is light as air. She’s a good person. Very innocent.
I let go of the tray and take a step back. “You want more, I’ll get you something else.”
She nods, then tucks her hair behind her ear. “Thank you for this. And everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
I get a blanket and a pillow from my closet and put them on the couch, turn to find her peeling back the covers on my bed. I have to admit, she looks good there. Really fucking good.
“I’m going to get a shower. Make yourself at home.”
“If you insist.” She smiles. “Do you know where I can find some cell service?” She holds out a phone, and I press my lips together. “You can try outside. Due west of the house, by that little grove of pine saplings.” I turn away, then turn back toward her. “Be careful,” I warn. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“I will.”
I walk into the bathroom, run the water, and call my cousin, who doubles as my manager. He answers on the first ring, which is a bad sign.
“Hey man. Thanks for calling back.”
“Yep. What’s up?”
“Well,” his tenor voice says, “It’s not good. Our man says her family is still gunning for you. Maybe more than they were. They’ve got a contact within the Justice Department now. They’re trying to get a government track on you. Seeing if they can dig up some credit cards. Deeds. That kind of thing. Find out where you are.”
Fuck. “Can you block that? Can ‘our guy?’”
“We’re working on it… Are you doing anything new since Ms. O’Malley passed? Still planning to try to stay on the island?”
“Of course.”
“You seen anybody lately? Workmen? Service people? Anybody who might recognize your face?”
I think of Red. Then I shake my head. She doesn’t recognize me. It’s the only thing that’s made my dalliance with her possible.
“Why?”
“Just saying…don’t. With all that’s going on, you might want to
lay low for a while.” He laughs. “Lower.”
“Might.” I exhale slowly. “How’s my business?” I usually don’t ask questions, but something about having Red here makes me want to be sure my shit’s on lockdown.
“Some little paper in Boston says you’re from the northeast coast. Something about the color schemes resembling winter. And yet another critic thinks you’re hiding things.”
I snort. I guess they’re not all idiots.
We shoot the shit a few more minutes. After hanging up, I walk out of the bathroom without realizing I never even wet my hair. I’ve lost my edge for lying. Living mostly alone, among a bunch of animals, has a way of making a person trust more.
The last thought I have before walking out my front door in search of Red is that maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe I could loosen up a little. Stop being so goddamned edgy. Bitter.
With Red here, almost anything seems possible.
Chapter Six
Red
At some point since I’ve been here, I missed twenty-seven calls from Katie. That makes me nervous—downright scared—so as soon as Race gets in the shower, I hurry to the clearing in front of his cabin and start searching for the pine saplings he mentioned. Unfortunately, my cheapo phone doesn’t seem to get service anywhere. I must have had service at some point while I was here, so I start to wander back down the path toward Gertrude’s house.
I heard somewhere that trees and buildings can block a cell phone tower’s signal. I need to find another clearing like the one at Race’s house. I look up at the treetops. I can see stars through the leaves, but no clearings. The nearest one I know of is the one behind Gertrude’s cottage. It’s not particularly close, but I don’t care. I hate to leave without telling Race where I’m going, but I’m worried about Katie. I lope into a run, my sneakers kicking up pebbles.
A few minutes later, I arrive breathless by the willows. It’s a windy night, especially windy on the point. The trees and flowers dance in the damp breeze. I can hear the ocean crash against the rocks below. I turn a slow circle, holding my phone up, my eyes honed on the tiny bars in one corner of the screen.
None.
Panic claws at me.
I wonder if Gertrude has a land-line. I bet she does. But I don’t have a key. I don’t think Race put one back under the polka-dotted pot. If he did, I didn’t see him do it. I turn toward the pebble path. I’ll have to go back and find Race. My gaze flits to the moon in a desperate attempt to discern, from its position, how late it is. What could Katie be doing? Is she hurt?
That’s when I see the tree house. I squint, but yep, it’s definitely that.
My first thought is whose is it? Did Gertrude have another family? Other grandchildren? My second thought: Katie.
I rush over to the huge oak tree and easily spot the winding stairs that wrap around it. I climb as quickly as I can. My phone lights up before I even reach the top; two bars. Now three!
I rush into the little square space, barely looking at the tin roof or the toys scattered about. I sink down on a bench and scroll to Recent Calls. I shift around. Something is hurting my butt. I shimmy into a different position, but it’s still there. I must be sitting on a stick.
I stand up, only halfway, and pull out a…paint brush?
Yep, this thing is definitely a paint-brush. It’s stained red. And…what? The paint is wet. That’s really weird. I look around the little tree house and can’t believe I didn’t notice it sooner: In the corner, closest to Gertrude’s house, is an easel with a canvas on it. I stand up, wondering immediately if Race is a painter. No one else lives here as far as I know.
I hold my phone up to the canvas and wait a second for my eyes to adjust. Is that… Oh, boy. Damn. That’s me. That’s very sexy, and that’s me.
I scrutinize the details, from the brilliant mane of hair around my face to the pale globes of my breasts to the shock of red hair between them.
Good job, Race.
Geez.
He’s good, though. Really, really good. His style resembles someone famous. I cluck my tongue. Who is it?
My eyes know the answer before my brain does. My gaze jerks to the corner, where I see it: “W.”
I blink and look again, but it’s still there. That small, distinctive “W.” I’d know it anywhere.
My eyes fly from the canvas to my phone. Could it be true? That Race is “W.”? Suddenly it all makes sense. His need to continue living on the island. His skill with that beautiful cabin he built. The smell of paint inside.
He’s good with his hands…
He’s confident, despite being a recluse.
He’s also rich as hell.
I look to the little initial again, half expecting it to be gone.
It’s not.
Holy crap. My Race is “W.”
The “W.”
I grin.
“W” is sexy.
Oh my God, I’ve got to tell Katie.
I hold my phone up, trying to decide if it would be a violation of Race’s privacy and immediately deciding it would.
But still… I know who “W.” is.
I had a tryst with “W.”!
What a beautiful cock he has.
I spin a little circle, feeling buoyant. I’ve loved W.’s work for years. I feel like I know him.
I do know him. Intimately.
I sink down on the bench. I need to chill out. Quit fangirling. Check on Katie. I’ll sleep on it, maybe even ask Race about it. I don’t want to upset him. Not when he’s tried so hard to keep his identity secret.
I bite my lip and look down at my phone. Looks like Katie left some messages.
I’ve got the phone to my ear, my finger on the “play” button, when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
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