“Where is your gold?”
The voice was male and spoke in German.
My limbs retracted into cramped flappers and I got a mouthful of sluggish water that almost choked me. I coughed hard, tread water and looked at the source of the question.
I had drifted closer to that crazy gothic boathouse, where a man smiled down at me from the landing stage beside it. He was older but attractive, expensively dressed in pale linen. Shit. The owner of the villa—it had to be. Was I trespassing, swimming here? Could I get into trouble?
Then I thought of what he had said. What the hell was it supposed to mean?
“I’m sorry,” I said, also in German. “Gold?”
“Then you are not a Rhinemaiden?” he said.
Ah. I understood now. A reference to the watery guardians of the Rhinegold, famous in Wagner’s Ring Cycle.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Just a common or garden naiad.”
He laughed at that.
“I’m delighted to find one in my lake,” he said. “I’ve always wanted one.”
His face was youthful in its expressiveness, though it was impossible to place his age. His eyes were dark and watched me as if they could direct my movements, bringing me up out of the water to him.
They were covetous, I thought. It ought to have scared me, but it didn’t at all.
“I hope I’m not trespassing,” I said, ready to plunge into a frantic backstroke if his answer wasn’t friendly.
“Not at all. You are a naiad. The water belongs to you. But there might be a small penalty for coming so close to my property.”
His face drew me towards it. Whatever the penalty was, I wanted to pay it.
“What is it?”
“You have to come up here and have a drink with me.”
I twisted my neck back to the boat. It was a good five hundred yards away, and so were my clothes.
“Now?” I asked.
“Now,” he said, with the kind of authority that suggested there was no alternative.
And perhaps it was the sun, or my scrambled state of mind after last night’s drama, or just a moment of sheer and florid madness, but I didn’t care that I was naked. I began to swim towards him until I found footing, and then I walked slowly, gathering weeds as I went, towards the lake side.
I wished I could see myself as he must see me, emerging from the lake with green fronds hanging like wet ribbons over my breasts and hips, my hair dripping beads on to my skin.
It certainly seemed to have its effect on him, anyway. I watched him as he watched me and his eyes flickered from ironically amused to astonished to avid in a series of intricate widenings and narrowings.
“My god,” he said, reaching out a hand to help me up into the soft reedy mud. “You really are a water nymph, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, deciding in that moment that I would be. Just for the duration of this encounter, I would liberate myself from everything that pinned me into my established identity. Not Jessie Wright, fretting about her unfaithful boyfriend and her PhD on the cultural legacy of Ludwig the Mad of Bavaria. Just this body, rising from the lake, to meet this strangely compelling man.
“Well,” he said, and he didn’t relinquish my hand once I was on dry land, but instead raised it to his lips, heedless of a skein of green weed sticking to my knuckles. “This is an honor. What do water nymphs drink, by the way?”
Nobody had ever kissed my hand before. I was too fascinated by the gesture to answer immediately, watching the way his full lips touched my skin and his eyes lifted to mine.
“We like coffee,” I hazarded, though I thought it unlikely.
“That’s lucky. I have a pot right over there, on that table. Let’s go and sit down, shall we?”
He led me, still in possession of my hand, up the sloping bank to a flat expanse of lawn where a wrought iron table and chairs stood beneath a lime tree, set for a late breakfast with coffee, a basket of pastries and a folded newspaper.
“I think,” he said, pulling out a chair for me, “that you are not a German naiad. Am I right? Perhaps American? British?”
“We’re fairly international,” I said, not wanting to think about who or what I was. I didn’t want to answer any personal questions, unless it was, “Would you like to go to bed with me?” I couldn’t help knowing that the answer to that would be, “Yes.”
“I suppose you are,” he said, pouring the coffee. “Do you take it with cream?”
I nodded. I couldn’t help appreciating the fact that he had, as yet, made absolutely no reference to my nudity. This could be any polite morning meeting between friends or colleagues. Or lovers.
He pushed the cup over to me, leaving himself without.
“Oh,” I said, feeling guilty about this. “But I’ve taken your cup.”
He waved his hand.
“You are my special guest,” he said. “Besides, I already had one. Would you prefer it if we spoke English? I am fluent and would appreciate the opportunity to practice.”
How long had it been since I’d met a man with such ridiculously good manners? I really couldn’t remember but I was captivated.
“If you like,” I said, in English. “I don’t mind. My German is pretty good, considering.”
“Oh yes, it is excellent, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” he said, also in English. Damn him, now he was even sexier, speaking with that accent. He had the sort of voice that soaks into you and makes you crave more of it. I would have been perfectly happy to sit there sipping coffee and listening to him talk indefinitely.
He cocked his head to one side and appraised me in a way that made me feel the flush all over my body. My nipples tightened. He must have noticed.
“You must think me extremely rude,” he said, and my whole body did a kind of jolt, as if electrified, resulting in an incredulous little laugh. Why on earth would I think that? Did he know that ‘rude’ could be construed in another way? The emphasis he placed on it, together with a little glint at the corner of his eyes, suggested that he did.
“Rude? No, not at all. Why?”
“I haven’t introduced myself. Forgive me. I am Johannes Eberhardt, of Eberhardt Technologies. I don’t expect you have heard of it.”
“Oh … vaguely, perhaps. And I am …” I didn’t want to say it. It was absurd, but I clung stubbornly to my alter ego. “Flosshilde.”
He laughed, but I thought he was slightly stung by my failure to reciprocate with honesty.
“Then you are a Rhinemaiden,” he remarked. “Albeit one who may have gotten herself lost in the Thames.” He paused and his gaze intensified. “Tell me, Flosshilde, what is it like to live in water?”
“It’s … good,” I said, unsure of where we were going with this. “You feel light and free. The water holds you and keeps you safe from the dangers on land.”
“Are there no dangers in the water?”
“Dangers?”
“Predators,” he said, and I swear the way he said it made me clench. It was a statement of intent.
“I, uh, I’m not sure.” My breath had stopped.
“Surely there must be all kinds of creatures pursuing such a beautiful body, wanting to take it and make it their own?”
OK. We had taken a roundabout route to get there, but now we were definitely hovering around the gateway to sex. Was I all right with it?
Yes.
“They try,” I said, annoyed with myself at how the words came out, all sticky and breathy with obvious desire. “But none of them have caught me yet.”
“Not while you are in your element,” he said. “But now you are out of it.”
“Yes,” I said, fixing my eyes on his as boldly as I could. “I am, a bit.”
“The dangers of land,” he quoted me, with a dazzling smile. “Terrible dangers. Let me show you
.”
He picked up one of the pastries from the basket and broke off a crumbly, buttery section. He held it to my lips, leaning across the table.
“Take it,” he said softly. “Even naiads need to eat, yes?”
I let him feed me, and when his fingertips lingered about my lips, I licked the crumbs from them. I couldn’t seem to stop myself, and he was delighted to see it.
“So this little water sprite,” he said, brushing my collarbone clean, “has let herself be caught and brought to land. Isn’t she afraid?”
I half-shook my head, but I wanted to nod at the same time. Yes, I was. No, I wasn’t.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’m a generous man. I’ll give you a chance.”
“Oh?”
“You can finish your coffee and then you can choose where to go. Into the water, where I can’t catch you, or into the house, where I can.”
I caught my breath. “Right.” My choice was already made, not that I would have told him.
“And while you’re thinking about that,” he said, “is there anybody who might miss you? Anybody you want to call? Because it’s only fair to mention that, if I catch you, I mean to keep you—at least all day long and perhaps longer. But that will depend on you, I guess.”
He took a mobile phone from his inner jacket pocket and pushed it across the table to me.
Did I want to tell anyone where I was? Would anybody care? Would Louis even notice? And if I texted somebody now, would this man, this Johannes Eberhardt, take that as a capitulation from me? I was rather looking forward to a chase now …
“You know,” I said, pushing it back, “I don’t think I do. Not yet.”
He pushed it towards me again.
“No,” he said, quite seriously this time. “At least text somebody, tell them where you are and with whom. I know you’re a naiad and you might not understand modern mores, but perhaps you should learn.”
Oh dear. He was telling me off. And it was turning me on.
I took the phone and sent a brief text message, not to Louis but to Julia.
“Am next door with rich bloke. See u l8r.”
What a weird message. She was bound to try and call me back. Hopefully he would switch off his phone when we … if we …
Oh god. Don’t break the spell. Just go with it.
“You must think I’m terrible,” I blurted, the text message having brought an unwelcome note of reality into proceedings.
“No,” he said gently, his eyes … how did he do that with his eyes? I trembled beneath them. “I don’t think that at all. If I thought that, I wouldn’t be sitting here thinking about all the things I’d like to do to you.”
Do them to me.
“If you catch me,” I said.
“Ah yes. If I catch you. Are you finished?”
He looked down at the coffee, which I had drunk to the dregs.
“I have,” I said, pushing back my chair with legs that were maddeningly weak. I had to peel myself off the chair and I imagined the pattern of wrought-iron curls stamped into my bottom and thighs. What a sight for him, along with the lakeweed.
“Oh, that’s right, it should be ‘have you finished’,” he said, sounding rather sweetly crestfallen to be caught out in grammatical inaccuracy. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. You can say ‘are’ as well, but it’s more American English than British English. So it’s fine.”
“I spend more time in the States than the UK, you see,” he said. “I am more in tune with their rhythms of speech.”
“Your English is bloody amazing,” I consoled him. “Don’t sweat it, as they might say over there.”
“Thank you,” he said, brightening. “I like to be accurate, that’s all. But you have a decision to make, I think? Will it be the lake?” He waved one hand in an elegant flourish. “Or will it be the house?”
His eyes told me that he knew the answer, but I made a couple of false steps in the other direction first, just to tease, before turning and fleeing across the lawn.
Now he would see my patterned rear, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything except the breeze between my thighs and in my hair and the soft grass underfoot and the feeling of sheer freedom my nakedness gave me. I was restrained by nothing, constrained by nothing, and only the sun could see me. Only the sun and Herr Eberhardt …
The house careened towards me, its wedding-cake yellow and whiteness filling up my sights. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder, but Herr Eberhardt had not even risen from his chair yet. In fact, he was reading the newspaper.
I laughed to myself at his sheer effrontery and allowed myself to slow down. He was very sure he would catch me. Well, I wouldn’t make it that easy for him.
I found a pair of open French doors and strolled through them on to cool, dark wood flooring. It certainly showed up our shabby bolthole next door for what it was … this was a rich person’s house, all right. I took a little time to examine the tasteful furnishings and run my fingers along the keys of a baby grand piano.
I could never resist a bookshelf and I wondered if Herr Eberhardt had read all these tomes or they were just for display. Goethe’s Werther, on which I’d written my dissertation, was there in a splendid blue and gold livery. I wanted to take it out and flick through it … but perhaps I should leave it for later.
Should I go upstairs or down? Upstairs seemed a bad plan. Much more difficult to get away from, plus bedrooms … I went down a spiral stair into a dark paneled corridor. I pushed open a door and clapped my hands.
There was an indoor pool, not Olympic sized by any means, but big enough for a good splash about. And a jacuzzi. And …
I stood underneath the poolside shower, washing off the lakeweed and the residual sunbaked grime. The pressure was deliciously strong, pelting on to my skin like a brisk massage. When it started to hurt my nipples, I stepped aside, wondering if Herr Eberhardt had finished reading the share price index yet, or whatever he was into.
What was he … into …?
For the first time it occurred to me to be nervous. This man was an unknown quantity and, what was more, he was a rich unknown quantity residing in an isolated place. Perhaps he was one of those elite men with ‘specialist tastes’ that fell well outside the normal, or even legal, spectrum. Shit!
But then I remembered his insistence on my sending a text with my whereabouts and felt reassured. But then, perhaps if he was rich enough and powerful enough …
I thought about escaping in earnest. It was probably the sane thing to do.
I switched off the shower and went to the door, but before I could even decide what I was doing, I heard footsteps on the floor overhead and I ducked back behind the door, breathing hard, a big fluffy towel clutched to my breasts.
He was coming down the stairs.
My first instinct was to dive into the pool, but I would be completely visible there. There was a wooden door, kind of a stable door, at the far end of the room, but it was no guarantee of a way out.
I ran instead to the jacuzzi and climbed hastily into its bubbling depths. If I could lurk in here until he came close, then duck underneath and hold my breath for long enough, perhaps he might not see me beneath the chaotic foam of the surface.
Not that I even wanted to elude capture, but it seemed important that I play the game properly—to me and, I was pretty sure, to him as well.
I knelt in the maelstrom, keeping my head down, trying not to giggle at the way the jets pounded against my body, especially my inner thighs and breasts.
Seconds later, the door was pushed lightly open and I could almost feel his presence radiating towards me. What if he could feel mine? That would be weird and yet it seemed possible.
“I think you are in here,” he said. “It seems the obvious place for a naiad to come to.”
Damn, he w
as right. Totally obvious. I had unconsciously sought out the water without any reference to what might be unexpected.
I thought about just giving myself up then and there. I didn’t realistically expect to be able to escape him. His footsteps tapped, echoing, on the tiled floor. They were slow and deliberate. He was not a man to ever be rushed.
I hugged my arms around my knees and bent lower, my shoulders cresting the roiling waters. Only my head was now above them.
“You can’t hide forever,” he said in a sinister sing-song. “I am going to catch you.”
I inhaled as quietly and deeply as I could and stuck my head in the water.
I didn’t hear his next words, though they came from somewhere quite close. An impression of his voice mingled with the roar of the jets, all of it fragmenting inside my head. How long before I could come up for air?
He seemed to go silent just before my lungs threatened to burst.
I broke the surface of the water again, gasping so hard that it was a moment or two before I registered his face, peering down at me from above arms that were folded on top of the tiled wall of the jacuzzi.
An indulgent smile played about his lips.
“Damn,” I panted.
“Nice try,” he said. “But I could see your hair.” He stood straight. “And now I have a naiad of my very own. No, stay there.”
I had thought to climb out and hand myself over, but he was unbuttoning his shirt. Apparently he meant to join me.
I watched, mesmerized by his deft fingers at the buttons, then by his toned chest. I looked for silver hairs, but there were none, although he was graying at the temples. To all intents and purposes, this was the chest of a man in peak physical condition.
I could say the same for his stomach, and then his legs when he removed his trousers. He folded them neatly, took off his heavy-looking watch, then I waited expectantly for his next trick. Only a pair of gray silk boxers remained.
“I thought you would be more comfortable,” he said, hooking his thumbs in the waistband, “if we both were naked.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s thoughtful of you.”
“Yes,” he said. “I try.” He took off the boxers and I looked away, a little flustered.
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