Five Golden Rings (Facets of Passion)

by Jeffe Kennedy

  It stung, but after Miguel’s games, this paled in comparison. The soothing gel also helped. They finished her facial and threaded her eyebrows, then took her in for a manicure and pedicure. Mr. Control had even picked out the color. The UV light they used to set the polish gave her nails a glassy gleam that made her fingers and toes look like they’d been dipped in gold.

  Finally, a woman did her hair and make-up. She pulled her shoulder-length curls into a sleek twist, using lovely pins shaped like golden feathers. Tilda had never had a professional cosmetic job—the department store “makeovers” surely didn’t count—and she looked different than her usual thing. Refined and elegant. Sexy.

  Back in her room, she discovered a gown had been delivered, a full-length sheath of the palest champagne, covered in tiny gold beads in feather patterns. They were so small, that the thin silk drifted over her like down. Earrings were included, elegant white feathers suspended from gold wire, so long they nearly brushed her shoulders. The heels were high and made of transparent straps. From a distance it looked like she wore nothing at all.

  No underwear was included. Of course.

  Outside, the revelries were ramping up. People were partying on the sand as the sun lowered and music from several sources wafted up and down the beach, with hoots and various delighted screams. It promised a wild night ahead. Tilda sat on her balcony, drinking the champagne Miguel had sent up, along with a note promising to be there soon. She wondered what she might have been doing tonight if she hadn’t met him.

  She couldn’t really imagine it, which showed how much her world had changed in such a short time.

  He was an interesting man, to be sure—one who bottled far too much inside. Whatever was going on with him was eating at him, emerging when he let down his guard. She didn’t mind that he was rough with her. Not a bit. And she didn’t need the romance he seemed to have suddenly decided was missing. No—that wasn’t about her. He’d grabbed onto that because he felt like he wasn’t delivering something else.

  She would talk to him about it, if he’d let her. Which he likely wouldn’t.

  Only fun. Nothing serious.

  At the knock on her door, she smiled, feeling giddily excited to see him, despite her ruminations. Bubbly like the champagne. She opened the door to a polished, urbane Miguel. He wore a tailored cream tuxedo with a pale gold bow tie. Cleanly shaven and with his hair newly trimmed, he could have stepped out of a James Bond movie. With that charming grin, he bowed and presented her with a lavish bouquet of white roses.

  Okay, maybe more romance wasn’t so bad after all.

  “You look ravishing, mi amor.”

  “You’re not too shabby yourself.” She took the bouquet, allowing herself a little coo of delight, and set the vase on her bedside table. When she turned back to him, he held the jewelry box with the collar and cuffs, and a wicked smile.

  “Lift your skirt, so I can put these on you.” He knelt down and looked up expectantly. She raised her hem for him. “Higher.”

  She pulled it up to her knees.

  “All the way, Roo. I want to see all of you.” His voice took on that demanding tone and his dark eyes glittered. “Spread your thighs for me, while you’re at it.”

  Feeling unaccountably shy, and ridiculously naked without her pubic hair, she raised the hem to her waist, staring steadfastly ahead.

  “I love that you can blush,” he traced a light finger along her inner thigh, “and that you did this for me. All exposed for my pleasure.”

  “The waxer said—”

  “I know the rules. Besides, after the sanding last night, I figured you could use a rest.” He placed a gentle kiss on the baby soft skin just where her labia parted, his tongue lightly darting between. Her pussy pulsed in response, moisture flooding for him. She gasped. “So responsive,” he murmured, then set to locking the cuffs around her ankles.

  He made her stay that way, holding up her skirt above her waist, while he fastened the wrist cuffs and collar, then turned her to face the mirror. “See how beautiful you look?” He kissed her temple, his darker skin a foil behind her. This was another iteration of her, exotic with the cuffs and collar, gleaming gold against her slightly darker tan, her legs tapering to the elegant vee between her thighs.

  “Ready? I think you’ll like what I have to show you. It’s someplace special to me.” Nothing about his behavior seemed less than a sexy man taking a woman out for a date, but she knew him well enough now to sense the dark emotions seething beneath the surface.

  His driver took them to the seaplane harbor. To her surprise, Miguel settled in the pilot’s seat and winked at her.

  “You know how to fly?”

  “I’m an excellent pilot—do you trust me?”

  Implicitly. It rocked her to realize how much. She’d met him a week ago, nearly exactly at this same time, barely knew anything about him beyond his sexual proclivities—only because he refused to share anything else—and yet she felt like she trusted him more than anyone she’d known. It made no sense. After all the men she’d gotten to know in the right ways—the lovely meals, the galas, long conversations about careers and politics—with this one she’d somehow let down her guard in a different way. Possibly because he didn’t know Matilda Campbell, CEO. He knew only Tilda, drunken dumpee, and Roo, who was spontaneous and sexual and, what had he said? Oh yes—uncomplicated.

  So, it didn’t matter what she felt because this fling would go nowhere. He didn’t want to know that side of her and, really, he didn’t need to, for what they had. This would be enough. She’d make sure of it.

  “All part of the vacation-dare package, right?” she replied lightly.

  “That’s right.” He gave her a funny look, however, as if he’d expected her to say something else, then put on his headphones, adjusted the mike and fired up the engine.

  Taking off from the water felt entirely different than from a concrete runway. At first the plane trudged through the water, more like a boat. But, as it gained speed, the water seemed to part, giving way to air without the least hesitation. They soared up into the sunset sky with ease and grace. This must be how the seabirds feel.

  They flew fairly low, over the gilded water, to a nearby island. The plane skidded into the bay like a water skier, coming to an easy glide of a stop near a pier. She forgot her darker thoughts in the loveliness of the moment.

  “Easy, yes?” Miguel looked pleased at her grin of delight. He was determined to enjoy himself, clearly, so she needed to get on board with that.

  He helped her out of the plane and held her hand as they walked along the short pier to a boardwalk that led into the jungle, lined with glowing lights fed by small solar panels.

  “What island is this?” she asked.

  He gave her a sideways glance and shrugged. “We never named it.”

  “Ohhh.” She shook her head. “Your private island. I had one, too, but they get so expensive to maintain, you know? All that landscaping.”

  His lips twisted in wry appreciation. “In truth, it belongs—has belonged, always—to the family holdings. I’m basically a tax-paying citizen who gets to enjoy a national park.”

  “In a country of, what, 30 people?”

  “No, more like 150, with all the extended family.” He looked up, counting in his head. “Actually 154, by the latest accounts.”

  “Wow. There are nine of us, including spouses.”

  “The Campbells were a large clan—you just stopped counting all the cousins along the way.”

  “That’s true.”

  “When there are fortunes involved, the cousins tend to stay closer. Whether you want them to or not.” That impatient anger tinged his voice, now underpinned with regret. It means I’ve likely lost.

  “You know, maybe we should talk about it.” She tried to make the offer sound casual. “Get it off your chest.”

  “No.” He shook his head brusquely. “I want to enjoy this evening—and to show you this.”

  She was abou
t to reply to that, to press him, but they rounded a bend, the foliage parted and Miguel swept a hand at the scene before them, as if he’d created it himself. A misty waterfall poured down a mossy cliffside, pounding into a deep pool that churned with fine bubbles like champagne. The emerald shadows were lit with solar lights, soft and subtle, like fairy glow. A candlelit table for two perched on the moss beside the water, the crystal sparkling with mist from the waterfall.

  “Thank you, mi amor.” Miguel squeezed her hand and kissed her cheek.

  “For what?”

  “The look on your face. This is my favorite place in the world and it means so much to share it with you now.”

  It was tempting to pursue the significance of the darkness in his voice, but he’d made it clear that she was there to enjoy and be enjoyed, not for serious conversation. She really needed to let go of this. You’re on vacation, dammit. Just enjoy.

  “Swim before or after we eat?”

  “Why not both? We’ll need to get in seven swims, if we want to keep to the rules.”

  He flicked her a sharp glance, catching a hint of what she hadn’t said. She gave him an airy, vacation smile, as if she didn’t notice his seething mood beneath the charm. A piece of work, the pair of them.

  And he did have the charm going full-bore. He made the evening beyond romantic. They swam in the water, which did feel like swimming in the finest champagne, and ate an amazing cold dinner of oysters, shrimp, lobster and other delicacies. They fed each other bits of chocolate, grew quite drunk on champagne, and at midnight, Miguel kissed her with such tender feeling, she thought she might melt away like sugar in the rain.

  But, true to his assurances, they did not have sex, making her wonder if he somehow thought sex and romance couldn’t go together. She thought about telling him she’d rather have the former and go without the latter, if he insisted on an either/or. After all, pretty much any man could fake the flowers and fancy dinner thing for a while. None of them had ever produced the sexual scenarios Miguel thought up.

  She didn’t, however, and they slept in a mosquito-netting-draped bed, set in a clearing a few steps away, falling asleep to the sound of the waterfall.

  It should have been idyllic.

  January 1

  New Year’s Day

  Eight Maids a’Milking

  “So, do you have any new year’s resolutions?”

  “I never make resolutions,” Tilda told him, which wasn’t exactly true. They sat at a little breakfast café near the harbor of the town Miguel had flown them to. She’d changed into the white Marilyn sundress he’d brought along for her and some flat sandals for walking. She’d repaired herself the best she could in the café bathroom, pocketing the feather pins and finger-combing her hair, splashing water on her face and wiping away the smears of the industrial-strength makeup.

  Good thing the Caribbean was all about being casual.

  “Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “How un-American of you.”

  It felt a little barbed, which was why she hadn’t wanted to jump into answering the question. He’d been testy this morning, full of restless energy. The New Year’s Eve romantic evening had been chaste and lovely, but he seemed to be a happier man after a lot of kinky sex. She blamed some of her own irritation with him on the same thing.

  “Which way do you go—full-on type A American resolutions or island time tomorrow-is-soon-enough?” she volleyed back.

  “Ha ha,” he answered, his eyes scanning the harbor. Unsettled. Anxious.

  “You know, I would be fine with going back to the resort.”

  He frowned at her. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, this has been lovely and wonderful—and I appreciate all the trouble you’ve gone to—but you’re clearly concerned about your business affairs and—”

  He cut her off with a chop of his hand. “I told you I don’t wish to discuss my business.”

  “Did I ask you to?” The question came out tart and he squinted at her in annoyance, then lowered his sunglasses. She took a breath. Their first fight. She couldn’t even make it through a twelve-day fling without one. She reached for his hand on the table, but he pulled it away to pick up his coffee before she touched him. Oh, is that how we’re playing it? “Look, Miguel. All I’m saying is, I get you’ve got big things going on. I don’t want you to feel obligated—”

  “I don’t feel obligated, Tilda. I thought you’d be happy that I showed you last night that it doesn’t have to be all about the kinky sex for me. Is it so terrible that I wanted to give you a little romance? I want to take you to see our ruins. Can’t we do something like a normal couple?”

  She took a bite of some really delicious seafood Eggs Benedict and savored it, trying to process what he’d just thrown at her. A spectacularly unfair list of her supposed demands. When one of her customers accused her of some preposterous expectation, it nearly always served to cover some inadequacy of theirs. Like asserting that she’d moved up the billing dates, when in fact they couldn’t afford to pay.

  What was Miguel so worried about?

  “You’re right,” she agreed in a pleasant tone. “I’d love to see the ruins. Let’s not give it another thought.”

  That mollified him, but the day continued as it had begun. Miguel remained prickly, though he tried to smooth things with his charm, and she felt on edge, being careful to accommodate him, so as not to set him off.

  Though the ruins were fascinating, the day played as it would have if she’d spent it with Greg. They’d planned to come to this exact place, because all the guide books said to and Greg had followed that sort of advice religiously. And Tilda would have gone along, to make him happy and because it wouldn’t make her unhappy. They’d planned this entire trip around his preferences, which she hadn’t minded at the time—compromise was the heart of any successful relationship, after all. Today, however, it all seemed so clear.

  She’d been compromising. She’d never had a successful relationship.

  Clearly something wasn’t working.

  But this. This thing with Miguel, up until today had been working. She’d submitted freely to the sexual demands, yes. That hadn’t been compromise. It had been all the way to his side and it had worked. However, it had also been something she had totally wanted. No balancing of her wants against his.

  Now she wasn’t getting what she wanted and, dammit, she missed it.

  Maybe the heart of a good relationship lay somewhere else. Not in compromising, but in finding a place where you could both fit, where both people got what they wanted and needed. She turned over the thought as they flew back to the harbor near the resort, refining what her resolution for the new year could be.

  “You’re quiet,” Miguel observed.

  “Just thinking.” She smiled at him, to make sure it didn’t sound like a brush off.

  “You’re not supposed to be thinking—you’re on vacation.”

  The refrain was getting a bit old. “I like thinking. The point of a vacation is to give yourself the mental space to think about things in a considered way. I’m pondering what kinds of changes I want to make to my life in the next year. I’ve loved the sun and sea so much—maybe I’ll leave Philadelphia.”

  “Aha.” He nodded sagely as he taxied the seaplane in, talking over the engine. “That’s vacation-brain, right there. You’ll get home and realize that you won’t move.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He shrugged with one shoulder. “People don’t change. Not fundamentally.”

  She contemplated arguing, but that wasn’t their deal, was it? The driver picked them up and they rode back to the resort in silence, each absorbed in their thoughts. Walking into the gorgeous open-air lobby, with its splashing fountains, Tilda asked herself what she would demand for herself.

  “What do you have planned for tonight?” she asked Miguel. “Do you need to deal with the problems with your work?”

  She asked it deliberately, setting a little spark to the wick
.

  Irritation passed over his face like a cloud. He whisked it away and settled a hand on the small of her back. Possessive. Demanding. That was better. “Would you like to come up?”

  “It’s nearly sunset—that sounds wonderful.”

  They rode up in the glass elevator and, though he seethed beneath the surface, he didn’t play any of his games. He called down to have tapas and drinks served, but made no move to dress—or undress—her. The collar and cuffs he’d taken off her the night before when they slept, unused to attach her to anything, remained tucked away wherever he’d put them.

  She shifted in her chair, as if she’d absorbed some of his restless energy. She’d had enough of whatever was eating at him.

  “So why did you lose?”

  His dark brows lowered. “I beg your pardon.”

  So prickly. She shrugged. “The other day, you said Miramoto went home because you lost. I didn’t think you ever lost.”

  He gazed out at the sunset, jaw clenched. “Every lawyer loses from time to time. There are many variables you don’t understand at play here.”

  “Only because you haven’t told me. I am an intelligent, educated woman. I think you’d find that—”

  He swiveled in his seat to glare at her. “I didn’t invite you into this relationship so we could have conversations.”

  “So it’s all about the fucking? You’re truly not interested in knowing me as a person at all?”

  He ground his teeth. “You know it’s not like that. I did my best to show you that it’s not only about that. I treated you with romance and respect and—”

  “And no fucking.” She pointed out.

  “It doesn’t behoove you to use that word.”

  She laughed. “Really? After all the seriously dirty things we’ve done, you’re bothered by me saying a word?”

  “It’s about context.”

  “Sometimes I think people seize on context as an excuse. ‘You took my words out of context,’ as if that changes the meaning.”

  “What’s gotten into you? You’re not being yourself, Roo.”

  “I’m Tilda, too. And this is also me.” Someone who might be tired of going for less than exactly what she wanted.