Crave: Addicted To You

by Ash Harlow

  “Jolly cold, with rain. How’s the beach?”

  “Jolly sandy, with sun and surf.” We carried on like this for a bit before she asked me if I’d met anyone interesting. Having just returned from town with almost half a bottle of wine in me I was happy to share.

  “Do you mean besides the man-god down the road who has offered me a job?”

  “Who? Sackville-of-gold? He moves fast!”

  “Is he a player?”

  “Plenty of rumors as I recall, but they’re probably based on wishful thinking and fantasies.”

  “Have you screwed him?” There were certain rules Jen and I stuck to and one was that we didn’t share guys. Not that I was thinking of Oliver…much.

  “You’ve only been in town a few days. Looking for sexy-fun-time already?”

  “I haven’t touched a guy in over a year. I tell you, one searing gaze from Oliver and I swear my panties all but melted.”

  “Watch out, melting underwear is one of his techniques.”

  We talked for another half hour about Jen’s job and her fiancé, who I had yet to meet. It was great to hear from her and I was grateful to have her help with my living arrangements. And, now it seemed, the internet.

  When I finished the call I set about cracking Gran’s wifi password which took all of a matter of minutes. The modem box was in a kitchen drawer with the password written in a spidery hand inside the flap. Once connected, I searched for Oliver Sackville.

  There weren’t a lot of results beyond his business. A few social page photos with a bevy of women. A consistent one in more recent times by the name of Annabelle; tall, stunning, dark hair to her waist. Mr. Sackville, it appeared, was off the market.

  Either Oliver needed to keep his panty-melting gaze in check, or Annabelle needed to make sure he wore dark glasses when she wasn’t around.

  Four

  Darcy

  The following morning I scowled at my meager wardrobe as if a cold stare might force a hot outfit to magically appear, but magic was off the agenda. The royal-blue, too-short skirt and cream silk blouse would have to do.

  I stepped into the small hallway hoping to coax some enthusiasm out of the impotent shower in the vintage bathroom and was met by water oozing between my toes from the sodden hall rug. Had I left a tap running in the bathroom last night? Gathering my robe at my waist, I squelched along the hall. In the bathroom, none of the taps was dripping, let alone running.

  Opening the utility closet I discovered the water heater tank had sprung a leak and emptied its entire contents.

  “Is there anything else up your sleeve for me, universe?” I shouted, and typically received no reply. After rolling up the rug which had quadrupled in weight and was difficult to handle, I found a bucket and mop from the broom closet and got to work cleaning up. Soon my back ached and the hallway still resembled the estuary at half-tide.

  Making it worse, I caught the bucket on the hem of my robe and tipped the entire contents over the floor.

  “Thanks, universe. Back to square one.” I threw the mop to the floor. “You can shove the handle where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  “Everything okay in here?”

  Crap, Oliver. I’d completely forgotten the time.

  There was probably not a lot that stopped him in his tracks but the sight of me, ankle deep in water had done just that.

  “Wow, Darcy,” his gaze swept over me, “you didn’t have to go to so much effort. Love your outfit, though.”

  I glanced down at myself. The thin robe I wore was not the sort of thing I paraded around in front of strangers, let alone my hopefully new boss. I shot him a look that said my sense of humor had drowned.

  “Sorry, seriously, let me guess, hot water tank?”

  His voice did that weird thing to me again so I nodded and made a grab for modesty, clutching the robe at my neck.

  He was quite the gentleman, though, and had his head in the utility closet looking at god-knows-what on the tank. I heard him muttering something about antiques before he re-emerged. “It needs replacing. I’ll get someone over to do that today. I’m guessing you haven’t had a shower.”

  “Not even coffee.”

  “Worst start ever to the first day at a new job, eh?”

  “Made worse by having your boss catch you in nothing more than a robe.”

  “Didn’t even notice.”

  “Liar,” I said, and picked up the mop because I needed something to wrap my hands around for distraction.

  Oliver held out his hand. “Give me the mop.”

  “You can’t—”

  He motioned with his fingers. “I’ve cleaned filthy bilges on boats, Darcy. This is only water. Now pass me the mop.”

  The look on his face said there was to be no argument. When I relinquished my grip on the handle, he thanked me. “Go and grab your stuff; I’m taking you back to my place to shower.”

  He mopped as if that last line he’d thrown out was nothing more than a fast food order. I hoped he hadn’t intended it to sound quite so Neanderthal. Jane, my place, shower. Judging by the way he watched me, I wasn’t so sure.

  I ducked into the bedroom, grabbed my clothes and found a bag for shower stuff. It would be a squeeze in the hallway to get past him to the bathroom. He whistled. Did nothing faze him? I froze at the sight of myself in the mirror. My robe gaped open, and forget grabbing the edges together above my breasts because the light cotton was transparent. No wonder he was whistling. I hastily pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and went back into the hall.

  “Oh, you’ve changed.” He beamed at me.

  Half a night awake in a lumpy bed convincing myself Oliver was a butt-ugly womanizer who’d use me and kick me to the kerb, flew out the window. I wanted to roll like a puppy and bask in his gaze that made my hormones come out to mess with my intelligence. I was in a bad situation with this guy holding the key to so many things I wanted.

  I thought about the contract and work so I could pull off a professional smile. “I’ve noticed my robe doesn’t make very good visiting attire.”

  “It didn’t bother me.” Oliver wrung the mop into the bucket. “This looks good now. I’ll send one of the guys up this morning to see about replacing that water heater.”

  “Could he quote first, just in case?”

  “It’ll be done at cost.”

  My stomach sank. It didn’t matter if cost equaled five dollars, because I couldn’t afford it. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve already been enough of a nuisance.”

  “You can’t be without hot water, and I doubt you know any plumbers in town.” He paused from his position of dragging the mop through the wringer. “Oh, I get it. It’s the cost, huh?”

  I studied his hand on the mop handle. “Yeah, well, things are tight, temporarily.”

  That hand reached toward me. “Come here.” He pulled me through to the kitchen. My kitchen. “Your hot water tank will be replaced today. It won’t cost you anything and it won’t be mentioned again.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  He grinned. “Let me prove that I can.”

  “I’m not a charity case.” Well, I was, but he didn’t have to know that.

  “I’m not treating you as one. You have important work to do with a tight deadline. I also want you to look presentable when representing the Trust, so it is in my best interests to make sure you have hot water. Also, your back door doesn’t shut properly. I’ll get my guy to look at it.”

  My front door didn’t, either, but he didn’t have to know that. “This isn’t my house.”

  “I’m not talking about knocking out walls and adding a deck, just a couple of things to make your life easier. Now, come and have a shower, and a giant mug of coffee and we can start our day.”

  At his house he showed me to a guest bathroom, pointed out where to find towels and toiletries and left. I closed and locked the door, more to keep me in than any concern about keeping Oliver out. One look at the bathroom and I experienced a different kind of ins
talove. If I brought over a comforter would he let me live in this sleek, tiled place? I could sleep in the enormous bathtub.

  One entire wall was made up of floor-to-ceiling windows which looked out onto plantings of mamaku and kawakawa, under-planted with smaller ferns. It was a beautiful garden that gave you the feeling of showering outdoors, and a view down to the river.

  I stepped into the spray. “So good, so good.” I repeated the words like an incantation because I never wanted this to end. This was my first decent shower since arriving in the country so I messed around with the mixer for a bit, letting the water pulse across my shoulders and down my spine in the closest thing to a massage I’d be having for a while. I did that countdown from ten, promising myself I’d shut off the water and get my ass into gear when I reached zero, but ended up working through a best of three and then managed a further minute under the divine full-pressure shower spray.

  The bathroom had everything a guest would need including a luxurious thick robe. I felt a bit snoopy, rummaging in his cupboards but Oliver had insisted I help myself to whatever was there, and this was the guest bathroom after all. I found a hair dryer, fixed my hair and dressed.

  Oliver called to me when I left the bathroom and I followed the sound of his voice and found my way through huge rooms with artwork I wanted a better look at, onto his back patio.

  “Better?”

  “Oh, god, I can’t imagine guests ever wanting to leave here. That shower is fabulous.”

  “Good. Sit for a moment and have coffee. We’re late now so we might as well wait until rush-hour is over.”

  I laughed. “From what I’ve seen the only thing that holds up traffic in Waitapu is when a mother duck tries to usher her offspring across the road.”

  “I know. Gridlock, right?”

  I looked away from his smile before I turned to mush.

  “This morning I’ll show you the Lodge where the event will be held, and we’ll go over your contract. Cole should be there so you can meet him. Luther isn’t available, and Beck is in Auckland. What matters is that we get you settled in an office and started.”

  The road out of Waitapu Bay wound and climbed through the hills. Eventually we made a turn onto a dirt side road that took us through some spectacular native bush. Nikau palms stood like feather dusters among puriri, and the road diverted around a massive ancient rimu in a hairpin bend with an alarming steep drop.

  Soon we approached the massive gates to the Lodge. The complex was impressive, not only for its size but the way it flowed across the land, following its contours. Like the bend in the road, it embraced rather than destroyed the area’s natural features. The place was so secluded it was hard to imagine the town of Waitapu sat just over the hill.

  Oliver parked and was at my door before I’d released my seatbelt. Stepping down from the Range Rover I felt myself falling in love with the area as I took in the view. Oliver said nothing, allowing me to absorb everything at my pace. After a minute I turned to him. “I don’t know what to say. This is beyond words.”

  He nodded, quite serious. “I’m glad you like it. We feel privileged to be here. Come inside and meet Maraea, then I’ll show you around.”

  Maraea was the go-to girl for whatever I needed. She took care of the guests in a PA sort of way and could organize anything from a feed of crayfish to the most hair-raising outdoor adventures. Oliver excused himself and disappeared into an office. Within minutes of our meeting, Maraea had ensured I would meet her and her friends on Thursday for a drink at a local bar. That could be embarrassing as I still suffered from empty-wallet syndrome.

  Oliver returned carrying a folder, and our tour began. The place was understated luxury, sympathetic to its landscape but without compromise. The views out to the islands astounded me and below where we stood was just over a mile of white-sand surf beach.

  “Is that the Lodge’s private beach?”

  “Anyone can use it if they can get to it, but it’s a tricky climb over the cliffs from the Waitapu end, and the other end heads into Department of Conservation land. The forest is dense. Visitors who aren’t Lodge guests usually come in by boat, but we don’t get a lot.”

  We circled back through a network of paths in the native gardens and came to an area marked by two enormous boulders. “This is an old mineshaft that we shored up. It’s now the entrance to the Lodge’s private club. Would you like to take a look?”

  I had an idea about private clubs. They were either filled with stuffy old men pretending they were living in another land and a different century, or they were about tying people up and whipping them. Either way, not my thing. I shook my head.

  “Maybe another time,” I mumbled, feeling foolish. God knows I’m not a prude but I was a virgin when it came to sex clubs, or whatever this was.

  Oliver didn’t seem the least bit bothered by my refusal and with a light touch to my shoulder he steered me toward a new path that led us around to an enormous lawn.

  “Marquee tents go here. The kitchen is in that direction,” he waved his hand toward the rear of the Lodge’s main building. “Chef will handle the extra catering staff he’ll need but you’re welcome to sit in on menu planning.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll leave that to the experts. I keep a firm hand on things but I’m not a control freak.”

  “Good, because Chef is, and two control freaks would be overkill.”

  He shot a smile my way that would have been overkill if it wasn’t completely genuine. It made me want to inch closer to him and bathe in its warmth.

  He led me toward a large pool complex surrounded by native trees. Unusually the pool was dark, the bottom done in smooth river stones so that the water looked clear like a river instead of the usual artificial blue. Parts of it meandered in from the bush like a stream, then disappeared at the other end of the pool in the same manner. It was reminiscent of a swimming hole you’d come across in the bush.

  A man sat at a table, belting at the keys of his laptop with two fingers, like he was squashing ants. Waitapu Bay was either a magnet for hot guys, or they had a factory up the river churning them out. And for the sake of women everywhere I hoped they kept the molds because the ones I’d seen so far arrived fully fledged, oozing charisma.

  Oliver introduced me to Cole Danzig, who stood as we approached. He sounded American with a southern lilt to his accent, and ruggedness that suggested a lot of time spent outdoors lined his face.

  Like Oliver, he seemed immensely grateful I was here to run the show for them. It gave me confidence and I knew I’d have his support when needed. We had coffee and pastries and shared ideas before Cole was called away.

  Oliver stood. “Come on, I’ll take you back to town. I have my main offices at Tradewind Super Yachts. We can go over the contract and get you settled in.”

  Five

  Darcy

  The interior of Oliver’s Range Rover might have been expansive but it somehow didn’t feel large enough as we drove to Tradewind.

  Heat and energy, impossible to absorb, radiated between us. The way it was captured in the vehicle made me jittery and I wanted to lower the window to set it free. I thought I’d feel better if I could hang my head outside the car like a dog and experience something to distract my high-alert senses—the scent of leaf mold from the bush, decomposing roadkill—anything to take my mind off the man beside me. I opted for closing my eyes.

  “Open your eyes, Darcy.”

  His voice ran through me like warmed molasses, coating my nerve endings, and except for raising my lids I remained completely still in my seat.

  “The view as we round this corner is stunning.”

  Just kill me. I wished he could do something about that voice because even in tour guide mode, it sent a sexual tremor through me that settled as an ache between my legs. I squeezed my thighs together to curtail the arousal. It had been so long since I’d had an orgasm at the hands of a second party, I was ill-equipped to be this close to him.

  Oliver slowe
d the car as we rounded another hairpin bend, stopping in a safe spot, the vehicle’s engine idling quietly. He was right, the view was astonishing in its beauty. The day was clear, Waitapu township stretched before us in sparkling blue, rolling hills of rich green and the long stretches of the bay’s white sand. There were possibly better places to be poor, but I’d yet to hear of them.

  I told him I agreed, it was beautiful, and that he was lucky to have grown up here. His gaze lingered on my face and while still watching me, he slipped the vehicle into drive and started the long wind out of the hills.

  I had to keep telling myself that Oliver wasn’t the man for me. At this point, all he knew was what he saw of me in the passenger seat of his vehicle. He couldn’t see inside me, he couldn’t view my past. You don’t share everything when you’re trying to make an impression so when I’d talked about the work I’d done in Australia, I left out the part where I’d lost the best job I’d ever had. A dream job, at a global agency with clients who adored me.

  I left out the hours of police interviews, the court case, the constant fear, and the muck I was dragged through.

  That situation had sucked up my savings and the only work I could get was at a creepy sandwich bar on the fringe of an industrial estate where they thought curriculum vitae was a flash name for a deep-fried squid ring. The owner couldn’t have cared less what my CV said, nor whether my name was real. He paid me cash, and I kept my head down and tried not to think of my career change from one of Sydney’s top advertising agencies to Chief Roach Beater and Sandwich Maker. So, I left out the roach killer part, and my burger skills.

  Still, I knew I was capable of doing a good job for Oliver, and I would. As long as he stayed out of my past and let me forget it, too.

  “You all good?” he asked the second time our glances collided.

  “I’m better than good,” I said.

  When we arrived at Tradewind he switched off the engine and we sat, playing with that energy between us. I fought the urge to lean toward him.