Chapter 38
Gen
I’m having one of those experiences where my emotions are all over the place and I’m overthinking every single thing and I can’t decide if I’m in heaven or hell.
Case in point: this insane jet of his. It’s fucking enormous and more luxurious than my apartment, with huge cream leather armchairs whose headrests are monogrammed with a bronze-coloured embroidered W.
Max told me with a wink as we waited in the terminal that there was also a “private stateroom” at the rear.
I want to hate it. Part of me feels like all this is the human equivalent of Anton fanning his peacock feathers in a display of wealth and power and superiority and opulence, all of which I despise myself for finding attractive. But I’d be a miserable bitch if I allowed that to be my reaction.
Because, if I take all this at face value, it’s seriously generous of him to fly us all out to France like this, as well as being practical and time-efficient.
Besides, it’s not like he commissioned this jet for me.
It’s clearly a corporate jet, albeit one that Anton has first dibs on.
And making it all about me is icky and immature.
Still, I can’t help but feel like it’s a mating ritual of sorts. Neither can I help but feel wrongfooted by it. Because I can’t compete with this sort of thing, and it pisses me off that he gets to showcase his revolting wealth so openly and that I’m a sitting duck who has to suck it up.
I know.
I’m an ungrateful, ungracious bitch.
I feel a bit like Catherine in The Thomas Crown Affair, when she wakes up in Crown’s house the next morning after having angry hate sex on every marble surface of his palatial home.
She’s all you live very well and I hate being a foregone conclusion, and he’s gracious with a dash of smugness.
But I always feel her intense sheepishness in that scene. Her vulnerability.
Because, damn it, she let her guard down and she let him ravage her in a way they can never go back from, and she’s squarely on his turf.
And he’s hot as sin and rich as Croesus, and he most definitely has the upper hand there. And even though he’s been wonderfully hospitable and utterly charming, she feels laid bare.
That’s how I feel.
I comfort myself with the knowledge that I haven’t actually fucked Anton as I accept a glass of vintage Krug from a very poised, very attractive, very blonde flight attendant. I have some dignity left, at least.
The trappings may be borderline overwhelming—the plane, the impeccable interior, the monogramming, the Krug, the hot female staff—but the man himself is the biggest problem of all.
He has, predictably enough, taken the seat opposite me, and here, in his natural habitat, he looks even more gorgeous than usual.
He’s in a white linen shirt, its sleeves rolled up, and light beige chinos.
Brown suede loafers. No socks. Very Euro.
Head resting against the seatback bearing his initial, hair a little tousled, skin tanned.
Brown eyes watching me, taking me in as I in turn take in our surroundings.
When my glass is filled, he lifts his in salute, and it strikes me that his smile is slightly more unsure than his usual smug style.
The ninety-minute flight goes far too quickly, thanks to the free-flowing champagne, delicious canapés, and the conversation.
There’s no time for awkwardness and even less for ruminating about what’s going on in the brain of the man sitting opposite me or, worse, what’s going on in my brain that I’m refusing to give oxygen to.
Anton’s quieter than usual, but Max is on hilarious form.
One of their events team members, Lara, is a loud redhead with a broad Essex accent and a relentless desire to rip the piss out of Max, to everyone else’s amusement.
Before I know it, we’ve buckled up for landing at Nice. Below us is one of my favourite sights: the Mediterranean, azure and sparkling and spectacular and dotted with white boats, its coastline looking glamorous. Even from here, it’s obvious it’s the perfect playground for the rich and famous.
‘Where are we staying?’ I ask Anton. I’ve had such an enjoyable time on the flight that I haven’t thought to ask until now.
He surveys me. ‘Well,’ he says after a pause,’ these guys are staying in Cannes, and Max is going to visit his special friend in Mougins.’
‘My special friend whose husband is away this week,’ Max interjects with a cocky smirk, and I smile.
‘How predictable,’ I tell him before turning back to Anton, my smile wavering. ‘And… you and me?’ I ask hesitantly, because I can’t quite bear to say us.
‘You’re staying at Anton’s fat pad on Cap d’Antibes,’ Max says before he can answer.
My jaw falls open. ‘Excuse me?’ I manage.
‘I have a house here,’ Anton tells me, his dark eyes fixed on me. He shrugs. ‘No need to bother with hotels.’
I know he’s purposely used the word hotels to remind me of what I made him promise.
Buggery shit.
I’ve been fucking ambushed.
Again.
‘I see,’ I say through gritted teeth. I don’t want to make a fuss in front of his colleagues, but Anton Wolff knows damn well that he’s played dirty, and I’ll make sure he knows how fucked off I am. ‘That’s really not necessary,’ I continue. ‘I’d rather book myself into the Carlton.’
‘You really wouldn’t,’ Max says. ‘I promise, Anton’s place makes the Carlton look like a fucking airport Ibis. And it’s a lot more, ahem, peaceful, too.’ He coughs pointedly.
I glare at him and Anton in turn.
‘I’d be honoured if you’d let me host you,’ Anton murmurs quietly enough that the others can’t hear. His face is impassive, but that dark gaze burns into me.
I roll my eyes. ‘Fine,’ I say ungraciously, before letting my head sink back against my plush leather seat.
Jesus Christ. What the fuck have I got myself into this time?