He scoops up a spoonful of caviar and holds it out to me, saying, “Just taste.”
I open my mouth and draw the caviar off the spoon with my lips, then bite down on it. Tiny bubbles pop between my teeth and dissolve into a subtle brininess.
“Good, isn’t it?”
In answer, I open my mouth for more and Logan obliges. This time I burst the delicate eggs with the tip of my tongue against my palate. They taste like buttery bubbles of salty sea air.
“Now a sip of this.”
Logan pours a flute of champagne and hands it to me. Rising lines of fine bubbles sway up like miniature pearl necklaces through the pale golden liquid. I take a sip. Heavenly! If caviar is like eating the ocean air, then this is like drinking cold, gold, liquid sunshine.
“You know,” I say. “I could get used to the finer things in life.”
“You know, I could give you the finer things in life.”
I elbow him. It bothers me that he’s so rich, so good-looking, so talented, so everything. It makes us lopsided.
“The best things in life can’t be bought,” I say with a sniff.
“Don’t I know it.”
I load tiny piles of caviar onto triangular points of toast and mini-pancakes, and we gorge ourselves. Then we start in on the oysters. I’ve had oysters before, but these are delicious — plump and succulent. It feels decadent and faintly embarrassing to eat them, though that may be because of the way Logan is staring at my mouth.
We fall into a sated silence once we’ve finished the food. Oysters, champagne, and caviar, with chocolate truffles for afters — it’s a long way from Donny’s Dinette in Fairville, Alabama.
Almost as if he can sense my mind straying back to my online discoveries, Logan asks, “So, what have you been doing all morning?”
“Um …” Damn. And we’ve been having such fun. “Research.” My voice breaks and goes up at the end, so it comes out sounding like a question.
“Research!” Logan looks puzzled for a moment, then his face clears. “More about sharks, I s’pose?”
“Well, actually —”
I sit up straight, moving slowly, heavy with a growing sense of dread. I can’t figure out what to say next, which words to use. I can’t just blurt out: “Well, I fished in your trash and read your private letter and then poked around into your background, snooping for details of what you’d rather leave buried. And I discovered that you’re the only son of a good-for-nothing drunk, white-supremacist murderer and wife beater. And then I figured out that you changed your name and reinvented a different past. And now your vile father is blackmailing you, threatening to reveal the truth which would sink your rising star. But my goodness, isn’t the ocean looking just beautiful today, and is there any more of that champagne left, by any chance?”
I’m aware of my heart beating in an unpleasantly fast way, and feeling sensitive around the edges — as if anticipating a painful strike. I wish I’d never stuck my nose into what was none of my business. That I hadn’t found out any of it. I feel disloyal, scared, nervous about how he’ll respond to me checking up on him, and knowing his secrets.
Will he be angry? Or hurt? Perhaps he’ll worry that I might betray him and tell someone else. And if he just takes it in his stride, is his usual chilled self, will that be because he loves me enough to forgive me, or will it be just so I’ll keep the secret?
These thoughts race through my mind while Logan smiles at me in unconcerned expectation.
“Well, no.” I blow out a long breath. “My … research … wasn’t about sharks.”
Chapter 34
Sharks, whales and other tales
“Not about sharks? Whales then?” Logan asks. He knows about my rage at whalers, my dream to thwart them. “Wait! That reminds me — I got you a gift. Two gifts!”
He ambles over to fetch something from the bedside table, then strolls back, grinning widely, with both hands behind his back. For a moment, he looks so young and carefree — like an impish schoolboy about to surprise his teacher with a shiny apple, or perhaps a white mouse — that my heart contracts in a sudden spasm at what I have to tell him.
“Here!” He hands me a plain white rectangle of plastic, with a magnetic strip on the back. It looks like a blank credit card.
“Um, it’s lovely. Just what I always wanted.”
“You! Always joshing me. It’s a key card for my room, for this room. I got it especially for you, Miss Morgan.”
I just stare at him, my mouth slightly open.
“So you can come and go as you please. Now you can have easy access to me anytime you like.” He winks and tosses the card into my handbag. “Just don’t let Cilla catch you coming or going, or she’ll hand me my ass.”
“And me my marching orders,” I say softly.
If he’s giving me access to his room, anytime, even when he isn’t in it, that must mean he trusts me. A lot. I’m touched and in danger of tearing up.
“Thank you, Mr Rush, but I believe you said there were two presents?”
Without a word, he pulls me to my feet and hands me a small black velvet box.
“Logan?”
“Open it,” he says, as excited as someone about to receive a gift.
I do. I lift the trickle of silver nestled inside and examine it. It’s a delicate charm bracelet — made of platinum, I think — with tiny, dangling charms of sea creatures: a turtle, a whale, a conch shell, a dolphin and, of course, a shark.
“You like it?”
“I love it! It’s beautiful.” My eyes are moist now.
He fastens the bracelet around my right wrist. “There, I knew it would be a perfect match for my sea-girl. And there’s a necklace, too, see?”
He draws a matching chain of the finest links from the box and holds it up.
“Thank you, Logan,” I say, looking deeply into his ocean eyes.
And we stand that way for a long moment, holding each other’s gaze, saying so much in the silence.
Then Logan clears his throat. “Here, let me help you.”
I turn around, lifting my hair up onto the top of my head so that he can fasten the chain. His warm fingers falter against my neck.
“Are you trembling?” My voice sounds breathy.
“Uh-huh. You make me tremble.”
“Are you afraid you’ll break it?”
“I’m afraid I’ll break you.”
Then he touches burning lips to the back of my neck, and I turn in his arms so that he can kiss the hollow under my collar bone, the pulse in my throat, the sea and sunshine on my lips. We cling to each other, mouths locked, hands running through hair, over hips, under shirts. When his lips tug gently at the lobe of my ear, my knees cave.
He slips his hands beneath my knees and scoops me up, lays me gently on the cool white linen of the bed. His hot eyes fixed on mine, he shrugs off his shirt.
I’m suddenly aware that Logan is a man while I’m something more than a girl but not quite a woman. He’s twenty to my eighteen, he knows so much of the world I haven’t even begun to explore. He’s experienced and I’m a beginner.
I’ll need to trust him. Really trust him. And be worthy of his trust.
“Logan, I need to tell you what I —”
“Later.”
He silences me with a deep kiss and when his hands move lower, all thought leaves my mind. His hands pause on the top button of my dress, his eyes looking a question. In answer, I open the button and lie back on the pillows. Slowly, he opens my dress, one button at a time. Slowly, he kisses every inch of revealed flesh, murmuring against my skin.
“So soft. So beautiful. Ah, Romy, I’ve wanted to do this since the first time I saw you.” His voice is deep and rough with emotion.
When his lips reach my navel, I begin trembling. Then his mouth is back on mine and we’re kissing again. Deeper. Longer. My head is spinning. I can’t catch my breath. I cling to him as though I might be washed away.
Then his weight is on top of me, the bar
e skin of his chest burning against mine, his hands loosening the catch of my bra, exploring and caressing. My body rises up towards him. My hands pull him tight against me, his hardness against my softness. I’m hot as fire, liquid as water, light as foam on an ocean wave. And aching with a hollowness that begs to be filled.
Logan pulls his lips off mine, and I whimper, trying to reclaim their heat.
He stares down at me, his breath coming as rapidly as mine.
“Romy, I love you. I want you, I want to be a part of you. But … are you sure?”
“I want you, too. Now. Please,” I beg.
I tug at him, trying to pull him down again, trying to keep cold, rational thought from invading my mindless bliss.
“You’re sure, Romy, about doing this — here, now?”
My body is sure, and even my mind wants to grab this moment — for us to be fully together, to create a golden moment of ecstasy. I don’t know what the future holds, and I want something I can hang on to. There’ll be bad times ahead, I can sense it. Doubt and confusion, and maybe even heartbreak. He’ll be gone in a week. And maybe I’ll follow and maybe I won’t. But even with the tide of uncertainty that pulls at our relationship, even though I’ve never imagined having sex with someone I’ve known for so short a time and may soon never see again, I want to do this with him.
Already I can feel the secrets of his past slinking into this moment, widening a space between us. I want Logan to close that space with his hands, his lips, his body. I want him to kiss away my insecurities and fears for the future, and make a memory I can keep forever. I want this moment of special. I might not get to have him, but I can have this at least, can’t I?
But I’ve paused just a moment too long. Logan groans a sigh and rolls off me.
“Nooo.” I reach for him again, my eyes prickling.
“Come here.” He pulls me against the length of his side and into the crook of his arm, cradling my head on his shoulder.
“There’s no rush, sugar, I can be patient.” He kisses my forehead, the top of my head.
“But —” I feel panicky.
“When you’re ready, when you’re sure. This” — he points from himself to me and back again — “isn’t over. And it’s not going to be over in a week’s time. One way or another, we are going to be together.”
I want to cry at the tenderness in his voice.
“You’re worth waiting for, Romy, don’t you know that?”
He strokes my hair with a gentle hand, trails a finger over my shoulder and down the inside of my arm.
“But maybe,” he says, clearing a husky rasp from his voice, “maybe you should button up, so I’m not tempted beyond my better nature.”
I follow his gaze with my own and see that my breasts are pressed up against the side of his chest.
My face flames. I fasten my bra and the buttons of my dress, amazed that I can still blush after what we’ve just done. And very nearly just done.
I lie back down with my head on his shoulder, so close and comfortable. But I can’t keep my hands off him.
“Would it strain your better nature if I do this?” I ask, trailing light caresses over his chest.
“I can just about keep myself in check,” he says, smiling. “But don’t let your fingers do the walking below the Mason-Dixon Line.” He takes my hand and traces a line with my fingers along the skin below the edge of his waistband. “Wild beasts lie in wait there.”
“Wild beasts?” I giggle.
“Of monstrous proportions.” He holds his hands up, about a foot away from each other, to demonstrate the size.
“Yeah, right!”
We both laugh, and in that moment, the rising and falling waves of love inside me shift and solidify, anchoring themselves firmly in place somewhere in my core. Suddenly I’m sure: I cannot let him go.
Everything is clear to me now. I cannot — will not — let this end. No matter the risk and the uncertainties, I’m going to L.A. with Logan. We’ll give us our best shot. Somehow, we’ll make it work. So what if I have to keep our relationship secret and make his life the main focus of my own? So what if I have to leave my home and family and friends? My parents will have a conniption of tsunamic proportions, but they’ll come around eventually — they love me, they want me to be happy. And this will make me happy.
I feel a pang at the thought of the Syrenka sailing south to do battle against the whalers without me, but I tell myself it’s just too bad. I can’t have everything. Sometimes you have to sacrifice your personal dreams for love. Women do it all the time. Logan — this wonderful, loving, funny, tender man — is worth sacrificing anything for.
But first I’d better confess. I take a deep breath and push myself up on one elbow so I can look him in the eyes. “I need to tell you two things — one is good, and one is bad.”
“Give me the good news first.”
“No, I think I’d better start with the bad. You might not care about the other news once you hear that.”
“Okayyy,” he says slowly.
There’s a loud bang at the door. We sit up and look from the door to each other. A series of sharp raps sounds through the room.
“Logan? Logan, let me in — we need to talk!”
The voice is loud, flat, nasal, and female. Unmistakably Cilla.
Chapter 35
Hushed
Logan slips on his shirt and buttons it up while Cilla stalks around the room, a bearded dragon on each shoulder. Her eyes linger suspiciously on the remains of room service. As she passes the door to the bathroom, she suddenly thrusts her head inside.
“Looking for something, Cilla?”
“Someone, Logan. It wouldn’t surprise me to find Brittany here.”
“It would certainly surprise me,” Logan says, casting a quick glance at the wardrobe where I sit hunched in the cramped and stuffy darkness, perched uncomfortably on a collection of Logan’s shoes, trying not to make a sound.
I clutch my plate and glass in one hand and curl the forefinger of my other around the bottom edge of the wardrobe door, keeping it open two inches. I don’t want to suffocate, and I do want to eavesdrop.
“Well, Logan, enjoying your day off?”
“Sure.”
Logan flops onto the sofa, probably hoping she’ll stop her sniffing around and join him. She does.
I can no longer see either of them, but I can hear them easily in the plush stillness of the room.
“So, about Mars …”
“About what?”
“Don’t play dumb, Logan. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Contracts has informed me that you have not yet signed for Beast: Mars.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, when exactly are you planning to sign?” Cilla says, clearly irritated. “We need to get the ball rolling, and we can’t do that if the lead hasn’t signed on yet.”
“You did once before, with the first film.”
“That was different, and you know it. We were signing an unknown to star opposite Britney Vaux. Anyone cute and capable of being beefed up would have done well enough.” I imagine her giving one of his biceps a sharp squeeze with her red claws. “It didn’t matter who he was.”
“Why thank you, Cilla, that makes me feel right special and valued.”
“Now don’t get pissy with me. You were a nobody, and my movies made you a star.”
“You act like I had nothing to do with it.”
“These movies made you a star,” Cilla repeats. “Britney Vaux made you a star, she gave you a break. And now it’s time to return the favour.”
“I know what I owe Britney — you don’t need to remind me of that — but I had a look over that script and, no offence Cilla, but it’s bad. Real bad. There isn’t a line in that script that isn’t a cliché, a plot point that isn’t a plot hole, a line of dialogue that isn’t more corn than a boiled cob.”
“Will ya listen to him? Scribbles one deleted scene and suddenly he thinks he’s a writer.” Cil
la’s tone is bitter and scathing.
I can feel anger at her building inside me.
“You’re not a writer, Logan, need I remind you? And before you start whining some rubbish about wanting to do stage work on Broadway, let me also remind you that you’re not an actor either. You’re a star. A celebrity who happens to have landed his lucky ass in one of the biggest-grossing franchises of all time, and should be milking it while he still has the looks and the body and the fans. It doesn’t last forever, Logan. A week is a long time in Hollywood. You can lose it all like that.”
I hear the sound of fingers snapping and grow hot with fury. If I was a pet lizard, right now I’d be open-jawed and hissing. Cilla’s planting doubts and feeding Logan’s insecurities, all to serve her own money-grabbing ends. I want to kick the door open and give her a piece of my mind.
Why should Logan be held back from growing as an actor? It’s not fair that he be forced to play opposite Britney Vaux yet again and pretend like they’re a couple only so that Cilla won’t be upset or inconvenienced. It’s outrageous that people just cave in to her like this. That she manages to silence everyone. I want to shout at Logan to stand up for himself, to tell Cilla where to get off. Never has staying silent and keeping us a secret been so difficult.
“You owe me, Logan. You owe me and Britney and the cast. And you owe your fans. We’re all depending on you. So be a good boy and sign the contract.”
There’s silence for a few moments. Is her guilt-trip getting to him? Is he actually considering this? When Cilla speaks again, her voice is hard and flat.
“I’ve given you the carrot, don’t make me use the stick. I made you. Don’t forget that I know where you come from, what you come from, and I can send you back, Levi.”
I hear the door of the suite click shut, and I launch out of the closet. Logan stands alone in the middle of the room, his shoulders slumped, looking down at the floor. He seems smaller, somehow, diminished in some way. I can’t bear to see him like this.
I bang the plate and glass down on the coffee table hard, snapping the stem of the champagne flute.
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