by Cat Porter
“Your relations with women sound like an objective business transaction.”
I released her arm. “I don’t look at it like that.”
“From how you’ve just described them, they have a non-organic quality—”
I let out a laugh. “Non-organic?”
Her lips pressed together. “More practical and pre-organized. Efficient. Rather like—”
I slanted my head. “Don’t say it.”
“—hiring a prostitute?” She licked at her upper lip. The satisfied cat.
“I do make sure terms are clear and understood, that certain expectations are exposed and deflated before proceeding.”
“And if they’re compliant with your terms, they get rewarded, I imagine? You seem to be a fair sort. An extravagant night out? The theatre? An expensive meal, jewelry on occasion? Good sex?”
“Yes.”
“To all the above?”
“Yes, but most especially the good sex. Always the good sex.”
“Very fair,” she murmured, a grin stealing over her lips. “But you are a…Tefal.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tefal—em, a frying pan that does not stick.”
“You’re comparing me to a non-stick frying pan? That’s a first.”
She let out a small laugh. “Nothing can attach to you. Everything slips over and around you with ease.”
Her words blared their hard light on my winter of discontent. I ground my jaw. Why did that annoy me? Why did I give a fuck?
Because I gave a fuck about her opinion.
The waiter brought us a second round of whipped iced frappé coffees. Adriana’s phone went off. “It all begins,” she murmured, eyeing her screen.
“What’s that?”
“I hired an official planner and PR person from Athens for Alessio’s party tonight, and I’ve been the creative consultant, but ended up managing the entire affair.”
“You know all the right people.”
“I do. I’ve worked with my mother planning events before, but this is the first one on my own, and I feel responsible for Alessio’s success. It was my idea that he open the boutique in Mykonos in the first place, and this party will go a long way in cementing his brand, and getting me back on the horse as it were.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’ve been off the social racetrack for a while now. Tonight feels like my debut as well but on a different stage.”
Her Blackberry buzzed. She answered and, for the next two hours, Adriana was on her phone in a flurry of non-stop Greek and English, answering questions, asking questions, confirming, reminding, disagreeing, re-confirming. Her emphatic tone had me at attention. She knew what she wanted, she knew what she was talking about. She was in charge.
My cock hardened at her firm demands, at the stream of Greek. What a language. It was round and curved and sensual; its sounds more suited to soft endearments and sentiments than orders. Greeks colored their speech with washes of emotion, up and down it went, round and round, so different from the angular practicality of English.
She clicked off her phone and made notes to herself on her keyboard. A steward approached her, and they spoke in Italian. “Turo, they’ll be serving lunch in about fifteen minutes. Should we take a shower before or no?”
“Was that an invitation, darling?”
She grinned, putting down her phone. “For you, to shower in your cabin on your own, darling, and me in my cabin, on my own.”
“Ah. Not if that means you won’t be in a bikini for lunch.”
“Are you objectifying me, Turo?”
“Forgive me, no. I’m admiring your work of art. Because, you, Adriana Lavrentiou, are a work of art for all the senses.”
Her face reddened, her gaze deepened and that odd warmth flared up in me again. We both had our sunglasses on, but they did nothing to hide the crackling that zinged between us. There was something unpredictable about her. She could be soft or brittle, witty and ironic one moment, sad and lost the next.
“The things you say,” she whispered.
“All true.”
I surprised even myself. I was usually very careful and selective about the things I said to women. Not with Adriana. She inspired a fountain of verbiage, thoughts, feeling inside me. My insides tightened with the desire to run my fingers through that mane of long, unruly hair of hers and tug her mouth to mine.
What the hell was going on with my impulses around her? No control whatsoever.
I let out a breath. She already has a lover. Was she freshly fucked? She hadn’t seemed too relaxed this morning.
She sat up straighter, chewing on her bottom lip. “I’ll stay in my bikini for lunch, then. Shower after.”
“How did I convince you?”
“Such a level of appreciation deserves rewarding.”
I bowed my head to her and amusement flickered across her features as she slid on her designer flip-flops. I said, “I’m suddenly quite hungry.”
Letting out a laugh, she rose. “Me too.”
We left the sundeck and headed to the dining area where the long table had been set for two under the welcome shade of a thick canvas canopy that had been rolled out for us. A cold bottle of white wine was uncorked, a basket with different textured breads and rolls was placed to the side, and a dish of ceviche and a caponata of eggplant awaited us. We dug in. Oval plates of black risotto with calamari were placed before us.
“Is this calamari?” I asked.
“No, it’s soupiés…em…a cousin of calamari. Ah—cuttlefish,” Adri said. “Do you not like it? Black food is off-putting for many. Do you not like seafood?”
I slid my fork into the creamy black rice and ate. She watched me. “This is good,” I said. “Excellent, in fact. Squid ink pasta and risottos are a favorite of mine. I’ve never had cuttlefish this way though.”
Adriana blinked.
“I love seafood,” I said. “Food, in general, is very much my thing. Good food.”
“I love good food too.”
“You’re not eating though.”
She only shrugged, pressing her lips together.
The steward brought over the bottle of Vermentino and refilled my glass with the white wine. Pale, liquid sunlight rising in my glass. I put my fork and knife down and leaned back in my chair. A simple thing, that I experienced on a daily basis in Chicago—fine food, a great glass of wine. But here, on the Aegean on a luxury yacht alone with Adri under a bright sun and a blue sky, a phenomenon. A little piece of perfection for us to share.
Adri raised her glass. “Stin iyiá mas.”
“Stin iyiá mas,” I murmured and drank. Light, crisp, and dry. Brightness in my mouth.
“Alessio’s chef is a good friend of his from Milano. He always comes on the boat trips with him.”
“He’s very good. The risotto is cooked perfectly, the texture is just right, and the ink is that perfect salty contrast to the creaminess of the rice.”
“Yes.” She scooped up a bit of risotto on her fork. “I think I’ll enjoy it more now after your precise analysis.”
This sort of quality must have been routine for Adriana, standard. I was raised on a silver spoon too, but Adriana’s spoon had been thicker, heavier with an intricate, baroque filigree. My mother had trained my palate from an early age, and I’d enjoyed the lessons just as much as she had enjoyed giving them. I’d been raised to appreciate unexpected tastes, and the ability to discern, not only between mediocre and good, but between fine and remarkable.
This was very fine.
I swallowed my wine, a refreshing flood washing away the sudden memories of satiny laughter, beaming amber eyes across small tables in hundreds of restaurants.
A platter of seared scallops arrived on a bed of mixed greens along with an aioli sauce for dipping. Using the silver spatula, I served a scallop into Adri’s fresh plate and one onto my own.
Wine glass in hand, she watched me as I ate. “You know food?”
&nbs
p; “I do. I grew up in the food industry in Chicago. My mother owns a company that develops and manages restaurants. She’s done very well.”
“Really? How interesting.”
“It is. Over the years, Chicago has become quite a force in the restaurant business. A foodie capital, they call it.” I drank the wine. “I used to work with her.”
“Used to? You gave it up?”
I stabbed at the arugula. “It was time for a change.”
Adriana squeezed lemon on her scallop. “You don’t get along with your mother?”
“My mother and I are very much alike, actually.” My gaze skittered to the sparkling surface of the water.
“Maybe that’s why you needed time apart.”
My eyes caught on hers. “Maybe.”
“I’ve worked with my parents since I was a teenager, all through university.”
“Are you finished with school now?”
“Yes, graduated and full of all sorts of degrees.” She twisted her lips into a self-deprecating smirk. She wasn’t impressed with herself.
“Your father wants you to go to London but you don’t want to go?”
“It’s quieter there for me, unlike here. But I’d rather be with my family right now, rather than be in England by myself.” She went back to pushing her food around her plate. She’d been picking at her food, not eating. “I’ve been tagging along with Mum on her fundraising projects and the odd job at her real estate development company.”
What Alessio had said about her boyfriend and a possible other violent incident in the past had me wondering if that was the cause for her wanting to stay put at home, instead of living the high life on her own in a big, flashy city like London after finishing college. She certainly had the financial means to do whatever she wanted, to go wherever she wanted.
“What’s in London?” I asked.
“Our headquarters. The plan was for me to go to the London office after uni.” Her fingers played with the stem of her wine glass.
“The weather would be very different, that’s for sure.”
Her lips tipped up and her face relaxed once more. That got a grin out of her. Something was troubling her, and I liked that I had pulled her out of it even for just a moment.
“Real estate is the family business?”
“No. My mother started that company on her own about a decade ago.”
“What is the family business then?”
“Shipping,” she said quietly, straightening her shoulders.
A word. A single word like any other.
“Shipping?”
“Hmm.” She wiped at her mouth with the linen napkin, swallowing hard.
“Shipping as in Onassis, Niarchos—that kind of Greek shipping?”
“Yes, that kind.”
I put my fork down. Adriana was a Greek shipowner’s daughter. An heiress of massive proportions. Fuck millions—a few billion?
“Every man in Greece knows my worth,” she’d remarked. She was right. A stunning, sexy, gorgeous, good girl heiress.
“My mother’s family is the shipping piece actually,” she said. “My father’s family business is petroleum and refineries. Plus a football team, a bank, media. When they married, they combined the companies.”
“Right. That explains the paparazzi liking you so much,” I said.
“Hmm.”
Which explained that house, the artwork, her casual familiarity with all things primo classe. “And it explains you needing a bodyguard,” I added. “But why would someone shoot at you? If that was meant for you, of course.”
Her gaze remained fixed on her dish as she pushed at the salad leaves with her fork. “I don’t know.”
I wanted to know.
Was her family embroiled in some kind of mess that had a gangsta style duo try to shoot at her in a public place? Why Adri and not her father or her mother? Still, I felt the shooting was most probably Aliberti related. Although, from what her mother had hinted at and Alessio, this hadn’t been Adri’s first experience with a violent assault. Maybe this was some crazy, obsessed celebrity stalker after her?
She drank more wine, staring out at the sea, the lines of her face taut. I didn’t like that tension creeping into her beautiful eyes, tightening her body.
My legs found hers under the table, pressing against them. Her eyes darted to mine, her cheeks reddened.
“Do you work at the family business?” I asked.
“I’m spearheading a research project for my father. In between that, my mother has been ferrying me to photo opportunities at galas and fundraisers and opening ceremonies. She and I make a brilliant pair on a magazine cover and tasty fashion fodder for the gossip chat shows on TV. Good publicity for the brand, you know.”
“And what do you want?”
She put the fork down. “Now, with the Olympics coming to Athens next summer, many new things are going on here, so I wanted to stay.”
“And not go back to London.”
“Right.”
“What do you really want, Adri?”
“I used to know, I used to be so sure, but a couple of years ago everything screeched to a halt, and I felt like I didn’t fit anymore. Didn’t fit anywhere. That’s something I’d never questioned before.”
“Fuck fitting in. Fuck what everyone else thinks or expects from you.”
“Turo—”
“You seem to be on top of things today for Alessio’s party. I couldn’t understand a word of what you were saying, but you were in full command of every conversation you had.”
She made a face. “It’s just something I know how to do. It’s fun for me.”
“No, Adri. It’s more than that. I can tell.”
“I believe in Alessio’s jewelry, in his art. That makes it a passion project. I also convinced him to make it a fundraiser for my mother’s charity, so it’s important to me that tonight is a success.”
“That’s the best, to combine your interests like that. To be passionate about your work.”
“Are you?” Those blue gray eyes of hers sharpened suddenly.
“I…certainly like the benefits of what I do.” I tossed my napkin on the table. “You must have lots of experience as a party-goer.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I do.”
“What I mean is, you must know what works and what doesn’t. What might excite a certain type of crowd and what won’t.”
“I know what I like at an event,” she said. “For Alessio’s party I envisioned the way I wanted the space to feel, what kind of emotions or responses I’d like to arouse, the colors, textures. A certain energy I wanted to create that is only enhanced by the people who are there. Every event has a distinct spirit or personality. And Alessio’s work has a distinct character that I want this event to reflect and celebrate.”
I raised my glass at her. “Well said.”
A smile flickered across her lips at my honest compliment.
“What did you study in Switzerland?” I asked. “Something you had a passion for or something your parents made you study?”
Her chin lifted. “Something I wanted to study.”
“Which was?” I waited to hear “Art History” or “French Literature” or “Decorative Arts and Design of the Early Twentieth Century.”
She said, “Economics, with Chinese and Russian languages, and then a Masters Degree in Business.”
A flash of adrenaline spiked through me.
She rolled her eyes. “And a lot of literature so my head wouldn’t explode.”
My fucking dream woman. I refilled her wine glass.
She sipped, her eyes on me. “So, now that you no longer work with your mother, you are a full-time security specialist or was that a little white lie for my parents?” she asked.
My white lies, and they are many, are for everyone and especially for me. I have them stacked up all nice and neat ready to deal them out like cards. I fingered the base of my glass. “I am a security specialist. Among other things.”
“Customer service, human resources. Public relations.”
Our eyes met. There was no concern, worry, or panic. Only amusement. Intrigue.
I raised my wine glass at her. “Stin iyiá mas.”
She raised her glass in return, a small smile brightening her features.
I poured out the last of the wine for us, and we took our glasses and stood at the railing taking in the busy seashore in the distance. Her shoulder brushed my arm, the scent of her perfume mixed with the suntan spray. A concoction of oranges and vanilla, a hint of coconut, maybe cinnamon too. Full of warmth and sunlight, enticing me to touch her, taste her. Be in that warmth with her.
I kept my eyes trained on the busy shoreline. “How long have you and Alessio been seeing each other?”
“Almost two years, off and on.”
“How off? More off than on?” my voice demanded a little more harsher than I’d expected.
She glanced at me. “He lives in Italy, I don’t.” Her tone was casual, her voice drifted off. A verbal shrug.
I knew better, and I wasn’t going to leave it there. “Why did you kiss me last night at the club, Adri?”
She raised herself up from the railing, arms long and stiff. “Should I apologize for it? Did I offend you?”
“No, you didn’t. I liked it. Very much.”
Her lips wavered under my silent scrutiny.
I said, “I don’t want to offend Alessio.”
“You didn’t. You aren’t.”
“Why not?” I shot back.
“Why all the questions?”
“Because I want to fuck you,” I clipped, leaning into her. “But I’d also like to keep my dick intact and all my other limbs. My head, too. That would be my priority no matter the insistence of my lust.”
She burst out into laughter, wine shooting from her mouth, warm wet landing on my skin. I wiped at the side of my face.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Her fingers brushed at my cheek, my chest. I grabbed her hand and pulled her to me. A breath apart, a breath together. Her eyes flared, jaw tightening. She was steeling herself against not kissing me.
“Why did you laugh at me?” I asked.
“I’ve had many men tell me they want to fuck me in many different ways. But you? There’s no art or artifice to your language, no pretentiousness. No bullshit, no pretty words, pretend emotions, or enchanting promises. Just your bloody intensity and that grim honesty of yours.”