by Eve Langlais
He laughed. “I doubt you could call me worse than I’ve already heard.” He flopped into the chair beside hers, the towel still around his waist though doing little to camouflage the rest of his body.
“Let me guess. Arrogant. Brutish. Cad.”
“Alphabetically? I am almost tempted to let you keep going just to see what Z would stand for.”
“Zany. Because your sense of humor is definitely off-kilter.” Her reply came pertly and brought a chuckle to his lips.
“I bow to your excellent grasp of language.”
“Stop making fun of me,” she grumbled.
“Perhaps your grasp isn’t that refined, given that was a compliment.”
“I can hear the mockery in your tone when we talk. You still think I’m faking it.”
“Honestly, Ariel, I don’t know what to think. I’m finding the whole thing rather difficult to grasp.”
“You’re finding it difficult?” A high-pitched giggle emerged. “I’m the one who got bonked on the head. Who has no recollection of who she is.”
“And what would you do if you suddenly recovered those memories?”
“I don’t know.” She flung out her hands. “But it would be something that didn’t involve a rich guy alternating between seduction and baiting.”
“You still think I’m trying to seduce you.”
She snorted. “Please, no real man wears those kinds of swim shorts.”
He glanced down. “They’re Speedo. You know, the kind real athletes choose.”
“Every woman knows guys who wear them in public do so to show off their junk.” Which, admittedly, he had nothing to be ashamed of. Even after being in the water.
His turn to make a scoffing sound. “Your premise is quite inaccurate. I’ve always worn this type of swimwear because it dries quickly, unlike those shapeless half-pants Americans choose to wear.”
“You look ridiculous.” A lie but she couldn’t back down.
“Would you prefer I remove them?” He arched a brow. “Easily arranged.” And then, to her shock, he rose from the chair, hooked his thumbs in the waist, and began to tug.
She turned her head. “You’re being juvenile.”
“And you’re being intentionally mean.”
He was right, but that didn’t mean she was going to apologize. She glanced back at him. “I’m just trying to clarify that I’m not interested.”
“Then that makes two of us. And it also means you won’t give a rat’s ass if I’m naked in your presence.” He began to tug again.
“Don’t you dare take those off!”
“I will do whatever I like given this is my property.”
The wet bottoms landed in her lap.
“I am not looking!” she growled. “Pervert.”
“We’ll see who’s the pervert.”
The implication as she heard him move away didn’t stop Ariel from turning for a peek. The tan lines on his butt followed those ridiculous little shorts. Meaning, he hadn’t lied. They were his usual attire.
She stared a moment too long.
A quick glance over his shoulder meant Hugo caught her and winked.
The man was way too sexy. Confident too, which was just as hot in its own way.
Whereas Ariel was a hot mess. She needed another swim.
Chapter Ten
Hugo couldn’t have said what possessed him. The woman goaded him, yes, but he was used to being a master at these types of games, which meant that he couldn’t explain how it came to be that he strode into his house naked. And worse, got spotted.
Gerome, to his credit, didn’t say a word, nor did he look anywhere below Hugo’s forehead as he said, “Would you like a robe? I was just bringing one out for you.”
“Thank you.”
Gerome somehow managed to hand him one without once looking him in the eye. It might have been comical if it weren’t pathetic.
Hugo felt as if an explanation might be warranted. “I lost my swim shorts.”
“Odd how they can fall off like that.”
“I might have given them a hand.”
“And can one ask why you felt the need to disrobe in front of our guest?” Gerome ventured, finally meeting Hugo’s gaze now that he was covered.
“She made me do it,” he grumbled.
“It must have been horrible how she forced you to remove your clothing,” Gerome said, quite deadpan.
“She didn’t force me. Mostly. But she left me no choice.”
“If you say so. Will she agree?”
Hard to tell. “If I promise to apologize, will you stop harassing me?”
“If I were harassing you, you’d know it. But I do agree that an apology is in order for your boorish behavior.”
“Later. At dinner.”
“Have you invited her?” Gerome asked.
“Er, no. Why would I do that? Doesn’t she eat?”
“Given you’ve been taking meals in your office or out of the house, I’ve been bringing her trays to wherever she wishes to eat. Today, she had lunch in the garden.”
“We’ll eat in the dining room tonight.”
“What if she says no?”
Hugo blinked at Gerome. “Why would she do that?”
“You did throw your swim shorts at her.”
Meaning Gerome had caught part of it. It explained his handy presence with the robe.
“I told you, she made me do it. She dared me,” he claimed as if that were all the explanation needed.
In a sense, it was. Male honor demanded that he win.
“I’m sure you misinterpreted her intentions. I’ve been reading this book,” Gerome said, “about the generational gap in expectation that has males acting in a manner most unbecoming for today’s enlightenment.”
“Did you just roundaboutly imply that I’m a chauvinist? Because I’ll have you know, I’ve taken off my underpants and walked naked before with a bunch of guys I used to run with.” A dare combined with alcohol that time.
“For future reference, unless you have permission for coital stimulation—”
“It’s called sex. Fucking.” Anything but coital. That sounded…wrong.
“—the clothes should stay on.”
“What if it’s a nudist beach or colony?”
Gerome had a placid expression that betrayed nothing.
“I think you should stop reading those new-age, pseudo-psycho books and take your pants off a little more often.”
Gerome got even haughtier which, given his demeanor, would have sent most fleeing, thinking he was about to crush them. “I am expanding my mind.”
“While I just keep getting dumber. I know. What can I say? For each gray hair I get, I lose another brain cell.” He waved at Gerome. “I am going to my room to get dressed. Remember to invite her to dinner.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“Go back out there now while she’s mad?” Hugo shook his head. “I’ll wait until she’s had time to mellow out.”
“Maybe she’s not too mad. I am pretty sure she was staring at your ass the whole way.” Gerome went from giving him shit to encouraging.
She might have been looking, but she’d avoided a kiss. He remembered the way she’d jerked out of his grip. The insult of it might have led to his irrational stripping.
Slashing a hand through the air, Hugo changed his mind. “You know what? Forget dinner. I have plans tonight anyhow.” He should keep his distance from the woman who was getting under his skin.
A woman who had him acting entirely out of character. It didn’t help that he’d yet to figure out her game. Did she play him? He could usually judge if someone did.
Usually.
However, she proved to be an enigma. A sexy one that had him jerking off in the shower. Not once, but twice. Practically unheard of these days.
At least now, maybe he wouldn’t get a boner every time she opened her mouth.
Dressing didn’t take long, but he delayed leaving his room. Maybe he should hunt he
r down and apologize.
But then apologizing might lead to her smiling at him, and the jesting back and forth might reoccur, and his libido might start taking over his thought process again until he did something even stupider.
Best he leave for the night.
Heading down the hall, phone in hand, he put in a request to have his motorbike brought around.
Gerome met him by the front door with a helmet in hand and a frown on his face. “Where are you going?”
“Out. I have an appointment.”
“But dinner…”
“What about it?”
Gerome glanced over his shoulder. “Your guest is waiting for you.”
“You invited her to dine?” Hugo’s voice rose. “I thought I said not to.”
“No, you said you weren’t going to do it, so I did it for you,” Gerome explained.
“Then undo it.”
“I can’t just uninvite her. She’s expecting you.”
“No, she isn’t.” Ariel suddenly appeared in the parlor entrance, a glass of wine in hand, her red hair loose and flowing around her shoulders, the pale-yellow frock she wore delicate like her features.
“I have an appointment,” was Hugo’s lame reply.
“Then don’t let me keep you. I see you found your pants.” Her gaze dropped, and he blushed.
At least, he assumed that’s what the heat in his cheeks meant.
“I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”
“I wasn’t planning to. Have fun with your appointment.”
He couldn’t have said what made him do it. Why he turned around and said, “Oh, I plan to have plenty of fun, if you know what I mean.”
He winked.
Her lips pressed flat.
Hugo sauntered out the front door, knowing that he’d made her jealous and not understanding why it made him so happy.
Chapter Eleven
The jealousy took her by surprise. Why would she care what Hugo did and whom with? Let the man take his desires elsewhere. Then maybe he wouldn’t be so pathetic in his attempts to seduce her.
Really, tossing his swim shorts at her and strutting off like a stripper with the confidence and the body to pull it off?
In that moment, Ariel really wished she knew whether someone was waiting for her on the other side of this amnesia. Surely, she had someone special in her life. Someone who wouldn’t appreciate her flirting and most especially wouldn’t like her fornicating with another man.
Because she most definitely liked men.
The door shut, and she heard the purr of a motorcycle as she headed back to the parlor and the open bottle that she used to refill her wine glass. She twirled the liquid before taking a sip, enjoying the taste, and oddly able to identify parts of the flavor, which she compared to the label. She had a fine palate, apparently.
Gerome followed. “I’m sorry. Earlier, he gave every indication that he’d be joining you for dinner.”
“Then changed his mind for a booty call. Can’t say as I blame him.”
“I assure you, he’s not meeting a woman.”
“Doesn’t matter if he is. Your boss is no one to me other than a host. Which reminds me, I should probably look into moving out given that my memories aren’t any closer to coming back.”
“Which is exactly why you need to stay,” Gerome insisted. “We have the resources here to help you.”
“What if I can’t be helped?”
“You can’t give up yet. It’s too soon.”
“How did you come to work for Mr. Laurentian?” Ariel asked.
“An old employer of mine died, and Mr. Laurentian, having heard, offered a few of the staff new jobs.”
“Kind of him.”
Gerome shrugged. “He’s a good guy who likes to think he’s bad.”
“I called him a hero.”
“I’m sure that went over well.”
Ariel chuckled, recalling the expression on Hugo’s face. “You’d have thought I insulted him.”
“He’s not the type to accept praise.”
“Which is odd, given he’s quite arrogant.”
“You’re awfully interested in the boss,” Gerome stated.
“Just curious. You have to admit, he poses a fascinating dilemma. Handsome bachelor, who is obviously well-off, lives as a recluse with his faithful everything man.”
“He’s almost settled down a few times. But things don’t always work out.”
Gerome said it politely, but Hugo himself alluded to the fact that he’d been burned. Burned badly enough he had no interest in trying anymore.
She felt an odd kinship in that respect. To change subjects, she asked Gerome, “Do you play chess?”
Gerome did, though it turned out she didn’t. But, she was sharp at poker.
As the evening waned, she sent Gerome off. The man meant well, but he hovered like a mother hen with a chick. At her age, she should be the mother.
And for a moment, just a second, she saw two faces and briefly got the impression of names: Caroline and Donovan. My babies.
Then it was gone again. A brief glimpse that left an ache and a realization. She was a mother, and her children didn’t know where she was. Were they worried yet?
Or was she the shitty kind of parent whose progeny avoided them even on holidays? The not knowing gnawed at her.
She took another sip of wine. The third bottle proved as tasty as the first two.
Wandering through the house, barefoot and slightly tipsy, she noted the place had an impersonal feel to it, lacking picture frames or dorky knickknacks with their labels that proved where a person travelled.
It was also too perfect. Obviously, designer-decorated, with each room following a theme. She’d wager that Hugo hadn’t selected a single piece in the place. At least the designer he’d hired had a nice style. The kitchen was a modern marvel with a huge gas stove, a massive island, and all the ingredients she needed to bake.
She couldn’t have said what prompted it, or how she knew what to grab and how much to measure out. The act of baking seemed as natural as breathing. In no time at all, she had a tray in the oven, and pastries began to take form as she whipped together a custard filling and melted the chocolate for the topping.
By the time she was done, she’d made a dozen fluffy éclairs. She brought one with her to eat in the cozy couch tucked into a window. A place to comfortably watch a chef at work.
She ate the treat and leaned her head back, eyes closed.
What else could she remember without remembering? She could swim. Cook. Argue.
She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew, someone was shaking her and calling her name.
“Ariel! Come on, wake up.”
She blinked her eyes and felt sluggish as she slurred, “What’s wrong? Why am I outside? Did I sleepwalk?”
“Gas leak in the stove. I got home and found you passed out in the kitchen.”
“I guess that explains the queasy stomach and headache.” She grimaced. “And it’s my fault. I was baking earlier.”
“I saw,” Hugo remarked, his expression creased in concern. He held her wrist and checked his watch as if counting her pulse. “Are you a pastry chef?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’m any good.”
“You’re really good,” Gerome mumbled, striding towards them with an éclair in each hand. “These are delicious.” A point reinforced with his bite that squished the filling from the pastry. Not that Gerome wasted any of it. The éclair was gone in two bites.
“Are you sure you should be eating those?” Hugo asked.
“They’re fine. But if you’re worried, I will take care of the rest,” Gerome solemnly promised.
“Don’t blame me if you end up sick, then,” Hugo grumbled. “I am going to assume by your presence out here that the gas has been shut off. And did you air out the place?”
“Yup.”
“I’m sorry I was so careless,” Ariel said.
“Wasn’t your fault—” Gerome started to say, only to shut up as Hugo gave him a pointed look.
Fuzzy head or not, she understood that there was more going on.
“What is it? Why are you looking at him like that? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Nothing you need to worry about. I wonder if we should call emergency services to have her checked.” Hugo spoke to his butler, not her.
She grimaced. “I’m fine. It was propane gas. It’s not like I got carbon monoxide poisoning, or someone lit a match.”
“Lucky for us. In that case, if you think you’re recovered, let’s get you to bed.” Hugo scooped her up from the grass, and she pushed against his chest in protest.
“I can walk.”
“Just be quiet and let me carry you.”
Being cradled in his arms was nice. She gave in and rested her head on his chest. “How was your evening out?”
“A bad idea, apparently, since you can’t stay out of trouble.”
“You can’t seriously blame me for this?”
“You seem to be developing a habit of attracting unfortunate events.”
“Not on purpose. Perhaps I am related to the Baudelaire family.”
“Who?”
She frowned. “I don’t know.” The answer slipped from her grasp.
“Where did you get the recipe for those treats?” he asked. “I didn’t think we had any cookbooks.”
“I baked those pastries from scratch.”
“You mean from memory.”
“Yes, and yet I couldn’t tell you what ingredients or how much right this minute.”
“Meaning it’s such a familiar thing for you that it’s done without even thinking about it.
“Like riding a bike. I guess there are some things you never forget.” But why cooking and nothing else?
With what appeared to be effortless ease, Hugo carried Ariel into her room before he set her on her feet. She didn’t mean to wobble, but the room suddenly spun.
He grabbed her. “Careful. You’re obviously still woozy.”
“I’ll be okay. Eventually. Maybe.” She didn’t move out of his grip. Falling down at this point didn’t rate high on her list of things to do.