“Are you watching Top Gear?” His voice betrays surprise and awe.
“I forgot the TV was on, you can change it if you like, or turn it off.”
“No, no it’s good, leave it on.” He tilts his head in curiosity and turns back to the TV. “They drive some beautiful cars.” I watch him take a bite from a fig, his lips full and soft. The smallest action, so bewitching, and before I can regain myself and look away he catches me. Slowly, he rolls his tongue along his lower lip, reveling in the sticky drops of nectar from the fig then offers me the succulent fruit. All reason is shattered the moment he wrapped his lips around that damn fruit. Every cell in my body is pulsating, a fire rising in my abdomen. A dull hum fills my head and my pulse quickens, threatening any amount of control I convinced myself that I wielded. His long slender fingers hold the delicate fig, careful not to bruise or damage the tender flesh. I can’t help but wonder if those fingers are always so careful and agile. The thought is rattling. I have to kick this man out of my head. The fog clears from my eyes in time for me to see his crooked, triumphant grin. He knows what he does, there is no question about that. I have to shake him off and look away, denying his offer.
“Why did you leave the bachelor party?” I ask, a seemingly a safe topic to distract myself from his overtly sexual energy and the sting of his earlier rejection.
“It was about to get dirty.” He is very matter of fact.
“I thought the dirty bits were the part men loved the most.” I can’t help but be playful. There is an energy between us that makes it almost impossible for me to hold my tongue, we have a verbal chemistry and my sharp tongue has been in desperate need of a counterpart.
“I prefer a…..higher caliber of entertainment.” His eyes hold me in a death grip, refusing to let me go. Raising the remainder of the fig to his mouth, he slowly licks the soft pink center, his eyes never leaving mine, he pops it into his mouth with a low groan and a wicked smile. “Like debutantes and socialites?”
“You twist my words. And you shouldn’t place any value on idle chatter, Sophie, women are wicked and ruthless,” he says flatly.
“I am a woman.”
“I suppose there are exceptions to every rule,” he offers warmly, the cynicism quickly melting from his face. “The women in these circles have too much time on their hands and too many fetishes and secrets to count.” His elusive language tickles my ears, commanding my full attention.
“Fetishes and secrets, huh? That sounds eerily like the conversations that were floating around about you this afternoon.” The words just sit there, I don’t know what to expect.
“Fetishes? No, I am devoid of any kink you may assume, Sophie. I'm as vanilla as the next guy.” I raise an eyebrow in total disbelief. “Perhaps French vanilla would be a better descriptor.” He winks and sends a pulse through my belly. “But nonetheless, don't let them fool you. I possess certain talents, talents that make me a popular topic of conversation apparently. But I acquired those talents by paying attention, by listening and adapting.” Humor flashes in his eyes while he watches me squirm. My mind is swimming in a cocktail of confusion, thoughts of heart pounding, sheet ripping, sweat drenched sex swirling in my empty head. I am suddenly gripped by frustration and anger at being played with.
“What is this?” My tongue is slightly sharper than I had intended, a scowl painted on my face. His eyes betray no emotion as he reads my face and then returns his attention to the platter of fruit.
“Well, these are figs and those are grapes…”
“Rhys, what is this? Is this how you make friends?” I wave my hand between us, waiting for an answer but all he offers is that crooked half smile. “What are you doing here? Why are you taunting me? It seems beneath you.” I can see the mirth in his eyes, turning up the wattage on his grin to full panty busting power. My god he really is sexy. That grin has a direct connection to my center, burning me up from the inside.
“Sophie.” His lips curl around my name, a whisper of promise. The lines of his face change, harden, all joking gone. He sits up carefully and turns to face me, our knees touching through the comforter. He squares his shoulders with mine and traps me with his clear green eyes like a doe in headlights. “Sophie, you are Olivia’s best and oldest friend. That makes you my friend, besides, she talks about you constantly. I feel like I do know you and can I just say that she did not do you justice.” His face is soft now, expectant, waiting. “I just…like you.” I release the breath I have been holding in frustration and my shoulders drop from relief. Sitting face to face with Rhys, the air is electric, his scent hanging like a spell, intoxicating and unmistakably male. His eyes are disarming and genuine with anticipation, but my tongue is twisted. His eyes are so deeply green, it is like being lost in a deep forest, he has wiped my mind clean.
“I am sorry that I cannot say the same about you. Olivia has never mentioned you.” His face falls momentarily, realizing that I truly know nothing about him.
“Never?” He mulls the reality momentarily. “Perhaps that was for the best, I wouldn’t want you to have the wrong impression.”
“And what impression would that be?” My curiosity peaked. I know the impression I have gotten from others and it is one that I cannot soon forget.
“I think you had a taste today. Did you not say that I was a popular topic of conversation?” The arch of his eyebrow is sharp and knowing. “Never mind that. I rarely have the opportunity to make my own first impression. What a concept,” he quips to himself, lost in the impossible idea of his anonymity. The carousel that is his revolving mood is exhausting. His mercurial nature ever changing and confusing, keeps a girl on her toes. With a renewed energy he bounds off the bed and goes to the mini bar.
“Let’s toast to getting to know each other, Sophie and Rhys, fast friends.” The emphasis falls on friends, as he pulls two crystal rocks glasses and a crystal decanter of amber liquor from the bar, adding ice cubes to the glasses from the silver bucket on the room service cart. Climbing back on the bed, he hands me a glass with a smile that makes him look so young and carefree. He pours one finger for me and then for himself before placing the crystal decanter on the bedside table. He raises his glass to me. “To Us, Sophie, new friends and first impressions.” I don’t take my eyes off of him as we toast, waiting for his mood to shift.
“Why is it so important to you that I didn’t know who you are?”
“Clearly you do not read gossip columns. I grew up in a bubble. Everything was dictated by my father and his standing, our name. From a young age, I have been in the public eye, I have never been anonymous. People know about me and think that they know who I am. They see pictures of me and think they know me. People project who they want you to be and then are disappointed when you don’t measure up. Women can smell the money from a mile away. They always want more. I learned from a young age how to give people what they want, without giving them a piece of me. It can be exhausting,” he reveals himself without hesitation. “It is refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t know me, or better yet, want something from me. I can truly be myself.” Relief emanates from his body, he is visibly relaxed. He has removed his mask.
“So, the idle chatter and general excitement that you rouse in these women is what, unwarranted?”
“No, I am aware of my reputation. And I have earned it,” he quips with a sly grin. “I am not opposed to the occasional casual encounter. I enjoy the company of women and have cultivated a very healthy set of skills. But, it has been a very long while since I have dated. I prefer to keep things light. One night, any more than that and people start to get the wrong idea. What they do once they have moved on is not my concern.”
“So you collect virgins?”
“No, not virgins,” he chokes. “But, I suppose you could call me a collector. I collect beautiful things, beautiful women.” He taps his temple. “But, women are fickle. I give them what they expect from me, and not a drop more. I don’t encourage emotion. Emotions are messy. I’m not in
the business of investing emotion in others.”
“So your life is one endless one night stand? That sounds sad.” And lonely, I think to myself.
“I prefer to think of it as tidy. Let’s change the subject,” he begs, not meeting my eyes.
“OK. Who is your father?” I ask. The look of utter shock on his face is priceless. Either I am truly out of the loop or this man’s sense of self importance is bordering on delusional. He lets out a burst of laughter and shakes his head.
“My father is Michael Slate.” He waits for the information to sink in. I search the recesses of my mind for that name.
“The shipping guy?” I question, less than eloquent. I vaguely recall recently skimming an article about the expansion of his holdings in Europe. His net worth is practically immeasurable. He could support a small country. Shipyards on both coasts, International holdings and a family name that reaches back a century or more. How did I not make that connection?
“Shipping, among other things, yes.” I turn my eyes on Rhys in question and forget to run my thoughts by the internal editor.
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you because your daddy is a billionaire? You are barking up the wrong tree.” I take a deep pull from my glass in an effort to stifle my biting tongue. Rhys laughs a deep belly laugh and the sound is musical.
“I like the way you talk to me, Sophie, you are honest, sharp.” The look of admiration on his face is enough to melt my icy façade and I can’t help but smile, wide and true.
“So tell me about your sad, rich childhood.” Baiting him, I finish my drink and let the warmth spread through me like sunshine spreads across the horizon. Placing my glass on the table I fluff the pillows behind me and pull the blanket up, comfortable and ready to listen.
“There isn’t much to tell. I spent a lot of time at boarding schools. That is where I met Matthew. My father comes from a large family so I spent quite a bit of time with them when I was younger. I have always done what was expected of me. Played rugby like my dad, went to St. Andrews like my dad and now I am in business with my dad. There was never much opportunity to stray from the prescribed course, if you know what I mean. I have always had to tow the line in my public life, be mindful of the family name. That is my life, in a nut shell.”
“What about your mom?”
“They divorced when I was young,” he snaps, downing the remainder of his scotch. “Enough about me, I would rather hear about you.” The way he effortlessly turns the tables is maddening, he makes it impossible to get control of our interaction. He leads every time.
“I thought Olivia already covered me.”
“That is knowledge by relay. I prefer my information to come directly from the source. What do you do, for work?”
“My degree is in education, but I write for our local newspaper. Usually the community column, you know, what’s happening around town, new restaurants, events, stuff like that. Occasionally I get to write about more important things, but not often.”
“Why don't you teach?" he asks, looking truly interested.
"I don't know really, it just didn't appeal to me. My good friend Mary is the editor of the paper. When this position came up, she mentioned it to me and I just couldn't pass it up. There is more freedom and flexibility with the paper. I can set my own hours and make my own assignments most of the time."
"What about your free time?” he probes. I cannot remember the last time someone was interested in my life. It’s not really that interesting.
“I take care of my Grandmother, she has dementia. She is the only family I have, and that takes a lot of my time.” It sounds so dull, and sad when I say it out loud. My life could be the life of a middle aged woman, just add a few dozen cats and the picture is complete. The thought puts a sour taste in my mouth, and I wish I had lied, made myself sound more interesting, anything other than my reality. “And I volunteer on the local school board, planning and helping to maintain kitchen gardens for the school lunch programs. You know, fresh food, nutritional pyramid, that sort of stuff.” I feel myself begin to ramble, spewing information at him with fervor, dyig to fill the silence, I cannot stop talking. Please stop me. I look up into his face to see a wide genuine smile that halts me in my tracks.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He laughs off the question and shakes his head.
“I admire what you do. You are a good girl, Sophie.” It sounds more like an accusation than a compliment.
“I am sure it is very dull compared to your jet set, high profile life. You must think my life sounds so boring, and ordinary.” My fingers lace and twist in my lap, an uneasy feeling of inadequacy churns in my gut.
“Just the opposite,” he offers. “Your life sounds quiet, nice. You have a good heart, Sophie. What are your plans?” He is eager and patient.
“Plans for what?” He pulls me from my increasingly evil inner thoughts.
“For the future, for your life.” His brows knit together, his face stern, while I mull the question, stirring up so many reasons why I no longer make plans. Plans suggest control and life cannot be controlled.
“I don’t really have a plan,” I have been so stuck in the past, frozen in a moment. I wouldn’t dare think of the future now, not when I know how easily it can be taken away. “I like my job. I take care of my grandma. That is my life, I’m fine with that.”
“You miss your parents.”
“What?” He has ripped the carefully tended bandage from my tender flesh with his obnoxious observation. What does he even know about my parents? His statement burns like a hot poker and puts me on high alert. I don’t talk about them, and I don’t want to rehash it here, now.
“Forgive me, Sophie. Olivia told me what happened. Is it okay to bring it up?” Pausing tentatively he swirls his finger around the ice in his glass, watching me, waiting for me to crack.
“No.” My face is stone, a mask I learned to wear when people probed. I stare down into my lap, fingers wrung and twisting around one another, unsure of how much to share, unwilling to open old wounds. “Of course I miss them. When they died, everything that I had planned died with them. But you play the hand you are dealt and that is what I am doing.” A mist falls over my eyes, but I push it back. He asks questions I don’t want to answer. He has invited himself into the deepest recesses of my life, a small part of me wants to welcome him, but I cannot. “I don’t like talking about them.”
After an hour of gentle interrogation I cannot think of anything more that he could possibly want to know, that he hasn’t already asked. And then the question that no one has ever asked.
“What do you dream about, Sophie? If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?” I splutter at the question and my head swims with the possibilities. This man sitting in front of me, wanting to know me, I cannot help but wonder why? What will he gain from probing my life, what is he hoping to find? I feel like I am in a job interview, the way he hangs on my answers, jotting down mental notes and silently filing away my replies. The whole conversation is completely one sided. He refuses to allow me to ask even the smallest of questions. “I want to know all about you, Sophie. I’m bored with myself. Now, when you close your eyes and dream what do you see?”
I cannot remember the last time I looked past my everyday life and considered the future. I have my head buried so far beneath the sand, I can hardly see two feet in front of me, much less into the future. But as I allow myself to consider the possibilities I know the answer could be infinite. However, at this moment I know if I closed my eyes, I would surely see Rhys and his wicked grin. The scotch and the hour are starting to weigh heavily on my eyes. I scoot my body down the bed and fluff the pillows under my head. Pulling the comforter up over my shoulders, I am cocooned in down and linen, comforters, buzzed, content. I launch into the stock answer as I can feel myself drifting into a shallow sleep.
“I would travel, all over the world. I want to touch things that have history and meaning. I want to experience the
world, life. I want to walk across Ireland, explore castles and churches. I want a cottage with a big garden. I just want to be happy and loved.”
“That sounds like a plan,” he teases, my mind half asleep and drifting quickly away.
Chapter 5
Awash with sensation, hands all over my body, so many hands roaming and skimming over smooth, heated flesh, every fingertip leaving a burning a trail. A mouth, warm and moist, everywhere, overwhelming me, sucking, biting, teasing me. I wrap my arms around powerful shoulders, pulling them into me, closer, harder, now. Need builds deep in my belly, pooling in my groin like warm honey, blood rushing to my core, throbbing, pounding in my head. I am surrounded, enveloped by the need to fill myself with you, to be part of you. I am aching with need when a great void opens, threatening to swallow me up, and there is no one to pull me out, you have disappeared. I struggle against the darkness, reaching for you, but you are gone, and I am all alone. A breath tightens in my chest, my lungs struggle for air under the weight of my loneliness. There is so much space surrounding me, empty and dark. I’m being crushed by the absence of everything, disappearing into oblivion with nobody to pull me back. I struggle to wake myself, wanting to escape the dream that has me trapped, the empty space that threatens to swallow me.
Gasping for breath I shoot up in bed, frightened and reeling from my dark dream. I fight to regain my breath, to calm my pulse. The room is dark, but the television is still on, some midnight infomercial promising rapid weight loss. And Rhys, his dark solid form, next to me, sleeping, softly snoring, arm flung over his head. He looks so sweet, almost harmless. I watch him sleep for a minute, his chest rising and falling with every shallow breath, his lips slightly parted, thick eyelashes splayed across his cheeks. Yet even in his gentle sleep, he conveys power and control. I want to reach out and touch him, brush the hair off his forehead and trace the lines of his cheekbones, run my fingertips over the stubble of his beard, but I think better of it. I rise and shuffle to the bathroom.
Whisper (The Voice trilogy Book 1) Page 5