Closer

by Aria Hawthorne

  Naturally, what man wouldn’t try to seduce her?

  He had consciously chosen not to make another advance this afternoon—not because they were expected at the gala—but because he wasn’t certain she would have him. He had already put her in the awkward position of refusing him; he wasn’t about to do it again. His pride still stung from her rejection and he knew her limits. She had expressed them very clearly. Although he wasn’t sure why she needed the money, she wouldn’t allow him to compromise the limits of their arrangement, and he respected her for it.

  He respected her for it.

  But it wasn’t only his respect for her that intrigued him. It was also that edge of resentment in her voice, simmering just beneath her sassy comebacks and wry sarcasm. He recognized it because it was the same bitterness and animosity that threatened to ruin him.

  She was a woman who had been betrayed by her boyfriend—the man she thought she loved. But there was more than just schoolgirl heartbreak fueling her cynical exterior. What was it? He knew very little about her, other than she was orphaned at a young age and had been forced to attend a mediocre local university when she clearly was smart enough to attend a better one. But he was certain of one thing: her sarcasm wasn’t a symbol of her strength; it was an armor of protection. Rather than willingly submit to the helplessness within her life—the injustice—she resorted to mocking it. He recognized her cynicism because it consumed her the same way his consumed him.

  “You’re staring the wrong way.”

  Her comment cut through his thoughts. He lifted his gaze from her fleshy thigh and settled onto her glare. She had caught him.

  “Please don’t tell me that’s our next ride.”

  Inez leaned over him to peer out his window, the top of her breasts passing below his sightline while the fragrance in her hair relaxed the tension in his shoulders. Honeysuckle and ginger? He wasn’t sure exactly, but it definitely promised a sweet aftertaste underneath all that spice.

  “Yes, it is,” he confirmed, focusing on the way her wrist was touching his outer thigh as it supported her weight. “The Modern Architecture Foundation has chartered a yacht for tonight.”

  He followed her gaze out the window, unable to make out the sleek black yacht that he knew was docked there. She turned her face towards him. “You never said anything about a yacht.”

  “Well, of course. We’re going to sail out to Navy Pier so we can see the cityscape, including a fully illuminated view of The Spire. Is there a problem?”

  “I hate boats and I can’t swim.”

  He noted the uncharacteristic vulnerability in her voice and his instinct told him not to make a joke out of something betrayed so earnestly. “It’s a big boat, Inez. I doubt there’s much chance you’ll end up in the water.”

  “What if your ex-girlfriend succeeds in throwing me overboard?”

  “I’ll promptly dive in and rescue you,” he countered automatically. “Then, I’ll offer to marry you in front of her.”

  He waited for her reaction, but his comeback silenced her—a rarity.

  He had said it partly in jest and partly just to push the invisible boundaries between them. She stared directly at him. Her luscious red lips were directly in front of him, and if he wanted to, he could pull her into his lap and overwhelm her with a kiss. The same way he had done at the art gallery. The taste of her kiss still lingered in his mouth, and it had aroused him all evening. But what taunted him even more was the fact that she had kissed him back. He had bought her for four nights to pretend to be his girlfriend. She had made it very clear that she was only there for the money. And so he hadn’t expected to feel her body—and tongue—submit to him so willingly. She was not the type of woman who easily surrendered herself, especially not to him. But she had kissed him back, and it flamed his forbidden desires.

  “I think I prefer for you to just let me drown.” She pulled back into her seat, widening the physical gap between them.

  He laughed aloud. It was exactly the kind of response he expected from her. “You would prefer that, wouldn’t you?” He contained his smile, but delight seeped out of his reply. “Well, no drowning until you’ve helped me tonight. Remember the promise you made me?”

  “Never leave your side,” she repeated with a sincerity that affirmed his trust in her.

  “Yes. Good.”

  “Just make sure your ex-girlfriend doesn’t get all up into my grill.”

  He looked at her. Her face was blurry, and he barely made out her dark, challenging eyes. “I’m not even going to ask you to clarify what that means.”

  The passenger side whisked open and the driver extended his hand to Inez.

  “It means I’ve got your back,” she clarified. “Just make sure you’ve got mine.”

  She accepted James’ hand and he pulled her from the car and out of sight. For the few brief seconds they were apart, Sven acutely felt her absence. A restless void. He smoothed down his slate gray silk tie and waited for his driver to open his own door.

  Five thousand dollars. What sort of a woman would agree to pretend to be his girlfriend for five thousand dollars a day? He wasn’t sure, and her black searing eyes revealed nothing more than a warning: don’t assume he could guess. He knew he couldn’t guess; he only knew when he looked at her he no longer felt completely overwhelmed by helplessness and rage because he no longer felt completely alone.

  The door flung open. He pushed himself out of the limousine and braced his hand against its sleek black surface. The wind from the lakefront whipped across the lapels of his suit and rushed across his cheekbones like a slap.

  “Back by eleven, James,” he instructed his driver and started to move away from the curb. Then, he hesitated. Which way was his destination? He made out the white spiraling lights from the Grand Ferris Wheel, rotating above Navy Pier’s boardwalk. But the dark sloshing waters of the marina and black fiberglass of the yacht’s hull blended together against the canvas of night, making everything else indistinguishable to him.

  “You do realize you’re following me, don’t you?” Her voice rang out like a rescue bell.

  He squinted directly ahead of him and seized on her petite silhouette. Despite her assertive tone, she shivered from the autumn chill in the air. Her chic black mink wrap barely offered her protection from the wind invading her sultry gown.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He sauntered forward, enveloping her body into his arms to shield her from the breeze. His palm covered the lower half of her exposed back and he noticed how she leaned into him and accepted his touch.

  “Good. I just want to make sure we understand who’s in charge tonight.”

  “You are,” he conceded, heeling to her pace as she led them forward along the Navy Pier boardwalk towards what he assumed was the docking ramp. “You most definitely are.”

  “Good evening, sir,” a friendly voice greeted them from afar.

  “Who is that?” Sven murmured under his breath. It was a moonless night and the distance was too great; he could barely make out the unfamiliar form shrouded by shadows.

  “A hottie wearing an über tight sailor’s uniform.”

  “You mean the captain of the yacht?” he clarified in a low, even tone. That time, he understood her slang.

  “Yep. And his friend is even hotter.”

  Sven felt a swell of petty jealousy expand his chest. She had that juvenile effect on him.

  “His first officer,” Sven corrected her.

  “Glad to have you aboard, sir.” The captain greeted him. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Handshake, six o’clock,” Inez warned.

  Sven nodded and extended his hand. “Thank you, gentlemen. My date is especially glad to see you both. Apparently she’s quite fond of men in uniforms.”

  Juvenile and petty, Sven thought after he had said it. But she deserved it.

  The first officer offered his hand to Inez as her escort. For a moment, Sven wondered if she would accept it, abandoni
ng him—and her promise. But to his surprise and pleasure, she declined the offer and stayed by his side.

  “I prefer to stay with the guest of honor,” she said, overtly flirtatious. “I can’t swim and Mr. van der Meer has promised to rescue me if I fall overboard.”

  She took possession of Sven’s hand and guided him up the apex of the steep incline. “There’s a gap of about two feet at the end of the ramp,” she whispered.

  “You mean between the ramp and the deck?” he whispered back.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Without warning, he swiftly lifted her into his arms. “I offered to rescue her and to marry her,” he bragged to the captain and the first officer as he swung her over the threshold and onto the yacht’s deck—just for show.

  She gripped the railing to steady her balance and peered down into the undulating waves.

  When they were out of earshot, she turned towards him. “I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be the one in charge.” Her dark eyelashes fluttered with fury. Clearly, she was unnerved.

  “You still are,” he said, confidently stepping over the gap and boarding the ship’s promenade deck. “I just happen to know more about yachts.” He cupped her elbow and encouraged her towards the sound of live music drifting out from the belly of the yacht. “Shall we?”

  He guided her deeper into the interior of the ship where they met a man dressed in a black maître d’ uniform.

  “Sir, please this way,” he said, ushering them towards the white sliding double doors leading into the ballroom. But as they moved past the maître d’ and into the yacht’s main foyer, Sven’s confidence suddenly deserted him.

  “Inez,” he whispered, tugging her hand and pulling her back. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. Whoever decorated the ballroom clearly has a black velvet fetish,” she replied, straining to catch a peek into the ballroom as the sliding doors pumped opened for the catering waitstaff to dart in and out of it. “And the corridors of this yacht look like the villain’s lair in a James Bond flick. Tinted windows, ebony wall paneling, and pinstripe blue neon lighting. I mean, really…is this a respectable gala or Dr. Evil’s bachelor party?”

  “No…” Sven stammered as his vision faded away into disorienting darkness. He surveyed his surroundings, attempting to capture a flare from a wall lamp or the glow of an overhead chandelier—any bit of light that would produce an image. But the yacht’s dim lighting and dark paneling cloaked everything in darkness. For the first time since the aftermath of the accident when his eyes were bandaged for weeks, he was completely sightless.

  Distress raced through his veins. “Inez, I can’t see anything. Not even your face.” He reached out and cupped her cheek in his palm, struggling to focus on her lips and profile.

  Abruptly, the sound of the revving engines and spinning propellers caused the cabin to vibrate, and the deck rocked away from the dock.

  As panic set in, he turned, then hesitated, uncertain which direction they had entered. “We need to get off this ship.”

  Stubbornly, Inez pulled back on his hand. “Whoa…no way,” she protested. “No way are we leaving now. I just spent the entire car ride over here, psyching myself up to show my ruffled panty ass to all your fancy high-class friends, and now you want to leave before I even get a glass of champagne?”

  He raised his head higher, like he was treading water through invisible waves, fighting to capture a wisp of light. But everything around him had disappeared into a uniform veil of murky shadows.

  “Inez—” He seized her chin, turning her face towards him, needing to ensure that she was looking at him and registering the severity of the situation. “I cannot see anything,” he insisted, his voice wavering. “Nothing at all.”

  She lowered his hand and crowded him into a corner, away from the blaring music filtering from the ballroom and the foot traffic of the catering staff.

  “It’s a moonless night, Sven. Not even vampires are finding the pretty girls tonight.”

  The live jazz music swelled to its climax before ending with the festive blare of trombones. She turned towards the direction of the applause.

  “And just for the record…if I have to muster up the confidence to get on a yacht despite my ridiculous fear of water and wear ruffled panties tonight in front of that entire ballroom of people, you’re going to have to find a way to muster up the confidence to get up on that stage and accept your freaking genius award.” She paused, as if she wanted to make certain he was listening. “And maybe even sing some bad karaoke.”

  The edge in her voice kept him calm and focused. He slowly exhaled through his nostrils, quelling the adrenaline pounding through his chest.

  “Metallica?”

  “No way. More like Cyndi Lauper.”

  He exhaled again, realizing he was completely trapped. The sliding doors pumped open. He squinted in their direction, attempting to discern anything beyond them, but he could see nothing except obscuring shadows. He adjusted his eyepatch and cleared his throat, calculating the odds of navigating all the challenges that lay ahead of them. A hush invaded his soul. She was right. She had her own fears to conquer and she was willing to do it for him. He didn’t want to fail her.

  “How many people are in the ballroom?” he asked.

  “Do you want me to lie or tell the truth?”

  “The truth.”

  “The truth is…” she paused, wavering. “The truth is you’re one of the most influential architects of the twenty-first century. How many people do you think are in there?”

  He clenched his jaw. “More than I can possibly fool.”

  “People are easy to fool, Sven. The hard part is believing we can do it.”

  She touched his cheek. He covered her hand with his own.

  “How?” Dread dampened his tone. The odds were completely against them.

  “With the help of loads of alcohol,” she asserted, as if it had been the plan all along. “So how many drinks does it normally take to get you plastered?”

  “To get me what?”

  “Plastered,” she insisted louder, like he simply didn’t hear her. “I want to make sure we stop right before you get so staggering drunk that you won’t be able to walk yourself back to the limousine.”

  “Inez, I’ve never been that drunk in my life.”

  He heard her cluck, like she was supremely disappointed or annoyed—or both.

  “Oh…right. I forgot. You’re European. You’ve probably never been wasted, just for the pure sake of being wasted, right? Okay, fine. I’ll use my best judgment.” She paused and pulled away, checking him out from head to toe. “Over six feet tall and a little more than two-hundred pounds, mostly muscle, but no dinner…okay, so probably six shots over the course of a few hours, maybe eight, if we’re mixing up vodka with a few of your precious Belgium ales.”

  “You cannot possibly want to get me plastered tonight. I cannot think of a worse plan.”

  “It’s the perfect plan, Sven. And it’s the only way we’re going to get through this reception. Excuse me?” she abruptly called out to someone.

  “Yes, ma’am?” The waiter slowed his pace and doubled back towards them.

  “I’ll take three of those…thanks.” She swooped up two shots from the waiter’s tray while leaving the third one behind. “Sven…tip him, please.”

  Without a beat, he obeyed, reaching into his pocket, unfolding his handkerchief, and withdrawing a single bill between his fingers.

  “Dang,” the water drawled. “Thank you very much, sir.”

  “He’s the guest of honor, and there’s more where that came from,” Inez replied.

  “For real? The guest of honor?” The waiter sounded young, eager, and easily impressed.

  “Yep,” Inez confirmed. “So please let your manager know that Mr. Sven van der Meer has arrived, and he would like the band to play ‘So What’ by Miles Davis to announce his entrance.”

  “No, Inez,” Sven cut
in. The last thing they needed was an obscene amount of attention drawn to them when they entered the room.

  “Shhh,” she ordered, handing over the first shot and watching him down it. “You just focus on drinking. Nothing distracts people more than good music and there’s nothing better than masterful jazz like Miles Davis. It’s your night. You’re the guest of honor. You deserve a grand entrance.”

  “Damn straight,” the waiter agreed, like they were on the same team. “Plus, if I may say so, Mr. van der Meer...that’s one fierce eyepatch. Definitely worthy of a cool jazz serenade.”

  “Wait until you see him on the dance floor after he’s had a few shots,” Inez added, swapping out his empty glass for a fresh one.

  The waiter snapped his fingers and pointed at Sven. “Dawg.”

  Sven threw back the second shot—premium Russian vodka. Oh, God… what horrible mistake had he made? Allowing Inez to be in charge?

  “Inez—” Sven cautioned her and returned the empty shot onto the tray.

  But she ignored him. “Okay, good. So that’s the plan. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Devin,” the waiter replied.

  “Good, Devin. Now, go tell your manager that Mr. van der Meer has arrived and make sure that the band plays his request. Got it?”

  “You got it, Ms. van der Meer.”

  “Oh, and make sure you check back in with us every half an hour to refresh Mr. van der Meer’s drink. I don’t want to ever see his glass empty.” Inez nudged Sven in the ribs. “Tip him again, please.”

  Sven sighed and held up the bill between two fingers.

  “Pheeeeeww,” Devin whistled, accepting the second hundred dollar bill. “Endless rounds of primo Stoli and some Miles Davis. Coming right up.”

  Sven heard the waiter rush away, certain he had just wasted two hundred dollars.

  “I could get used to this,” Inez said.