Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Vicky
Aweek after we reach Spain, I’m fully recovered from the cold I had, and the nightmares that have been plaguing me have reduced to every other night.
Alex is certain Van Wyk and Fournier will leave us alone. I’ve messaged Lucy from a throw-away account hidden behind VPNs and firewalls, and her reply was tentative but hopeful. I’ll feel better when that meeting has taken place, because it will be proof they’ve listened.
Alex has been… thoughtful. Caring. It suits him, and he seems happier.
He’s even gentle when we make love, like he was the first two months we were together.
It’s nice, but… he hasn’t spanked me yet, and he promised.
Or tied me up. Or cut my panties off with a stolen knife.
Even though I’ve made it perfectly clear I’m fully recovered.
Each day, he spends a few hours in his ‘study’—this stupidly large house has far too many rooms, and one got claimed as his.
His new computer arrived and was set up, and two large monitors dominate the desk.
But he always stops what he’s doing whenever I walk in, bringing him a coffee or a glass of wine, or just coming to talk.
We talk a lot. Far more than we ever have before.
“Where do you think we should live?” he asks, one morning, leaning back in the executive leather chair he bought that horribly clashes with the rest of the décor.
I look up from my learn-Spanish app. I’m sitting in the chair I like. It’s wicker, big enough for me to tuck my legs up, and comfortable even without all the throws and cushions that cover it. “I thought we were living here.”
“Oh, we are. But this is just temporary. It’s not ours, is it?”
No, it isn’t. And maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel like home. I didn’t say anything because I’m used to that; living in Alex’s house in Westchester. Staying in Alex’s apartment in Manhattan.
“How do we make it ours?” I ask.
He smiles at me. He’s smiling more of late. “I had an idea about that.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll buy it, you choose it.”
As I have no money, the first part of that is a given. I want to get a job—or at least find something to do—but there’s been no rush. This still feels like a holiday. Temporary, indulgent, escapist. Dreamlike, in the way that it must eventually dissolve.
His comment piques my interest, but doesn’t solve the problem. “I don’t want to choose it,” I reply. “I want us to choose it.”
“Come and have a look, then.”
He’s being deliberately mysterious, smug as he pushes his chair back to make room for me.
I get up, walk around his desk. I thought he’d been working, but both screens have a dozen tabs open, and the top one of each is a different house.
I lean in to take a closer look, but that’s not enough for him, and he pulls me onto his lap.
His breath tickles my ear. “These short shorts are very distracting.”
“Shh. Concentrating.”
He chuckles softly, slides a hand under my T-shirt, and cups my bare breast.
“You call me distracting,” I mutter, and take the mouse, beginning to click through what he’s found.
The one on top is a sprawling estate that looks more like a fortress than a house.
Endless rooms, staff wings, courtyards for gathering the troops.
Far too much. I say nothing but click into the next, and my heart falls a little bit.
A white stucco house with square lines, stunning views of the Mediterranean and direct access to a beach, plus its own swimming pool.
It looks like the ideal place for a hen party on a top-end budget, and nowhere I could comfortably spend more than twenty-four hours.
Alex says nothing, his hand not moving on my body, waiting for my verdict.
There are another dozen houses to click through on this browser alone, and more on the other screen too. He’s spent hours at it. I need to find a way to let him down gently. Or do this myself.
“What do you think?” he asks, as I skip over the third one almost entirely. It’s an ultra-modern glass monstrosity, and the $23 million price tag only makes it worse.
“Um… I like aspects of some of them.” They have roofs, for example. Those are useful when it rains.
“You started with the ones I was less sure of.” He nods past me to the other screen. “That’s my main monitor.”
I turn enough to stare at him. “First, you could’ve mentioned that. Second, who puts their main monitor on the left?”
“I do?” He shrugs against my back. “Left-handed.”
“Freak,” I mutter, moving the mouse over.
The first house is an immediate improvement. A sprawling vineyard estate halfway between a manor and a boutique hotel. It’s lovely, but I’m not sure who’ll be picking the grapes from the vines, and move on.
The next has promise. Honey stone with green shutters and wide terraces facing the hills. A mix of old and new, with modern comfort merged quite successfully into the facade. I thoughtfully chew my lip, and move on.
As soon as I see the next, my heart flutters.
It’s a restored hillside cortijo with thick whitewashed walls, terracotta tiles, beams darkened by a century of summer heat, stone floors worn smooth with age.
The house wraps around a shaded courtyard with vines and an elegant fountain, and beyond the land falls away into olive groves.
The pool is cut into the slope rather than designed for a magazine shoot.
A handful of buildings nearby suggest a guest casita, maybe a staff cottage, another that looks like a stables.
It feels private. Not grand or performative, just a house that wants to be lived in, that will be there for a long time, that we could leave our children.
“You like that one?” Alex murmurs.
“I do.”
“It’s only fifteen million.”
Which of course he sees as a detractor. “Um… I think that’s enough for a house.”
“Would you like to see it?”
Part of me says no. It’s too much, too extravagant. But we have to live somewhere, and this one calls to my soul. I turn back to the pictures, clicking through slowly one more time.
He doesn’t rush me.
I flick onto the next house, and it’s fine, but I come back to this one. It’s in Andalusia, in the hills above the coast, near enough to Málaga for access, far enough to feel sealed off from the world.
“Yes,” I say at last. “I think we should go and see it.”
“Good.” He lifts me off his lap and slaps my ass. “Get dressed, then. We need to leave within half an hour.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You booked viewings at every one, didn’t you?”
“So suspicious, Tink,” he says playfully. “No, I just thought you’d like this one, and I wanted to see it. This is the only booking I’ve made, but we can look at others, too. In fact, we should,” he adds with a serious note. “That way we know this one’s the right decision.”
“You really only booked this one?”
“I really only booked this one.”
I slip my arms around his neck and kiss him. “What do you want me to wear?”
“Whatever you like.”
“What do you want me to wear?”
His lips curl at one corner, and I know that expression. My stomach flips, my nipples tighten. “A summer dress, then. The day is warm. Maybe that silk-linen yellow one?”
“It’s short.”
“It is.”
“Underwear?”
“Surprise me.”
That wasn’t a no, but I’m still not going to wear any. I know what he likes.
Half an hour later, we drive into the hills.
It’s a stunning day, the sun beating down like summer has arrived early.
Alex has changed into a lightweight shirt, a casual blazer, and faded designer jeans.
Some of the new clothes that arrived two days ago.
He spends money freely, but it’s a drop in the ocean against his bank balance.
“You have a lot of money,” I said, when he showed me what was in his accounts.
“We have a lot of money,” he corrected. “Buy a car. Whatever clothes you want. Get a yacht.”
“I don’t want a yacht. I just want you.”
“You only like me because I’m free.” He gave me that cheeky grin that comes out more and more.
“Senor Reyes,” I replied, “the one thing you are not is free.”
I took him to our bed and proved it.
The memory makes me smile as Alex drives us into the courtyard of the house, pulling up near the weathered fountain.
It’s all more beautiful in reality, and the sun helps, reflecting off the walls.
A man waits for us, middle aged with a kindly face, dressed in a casual suit with a folder against his arm.
He makes no attempt to approach the car, but waits until we’re ready. Spain is more relaxed than New York.
Alex gets out, but I haven’t moved. I’m gazing at the house through the window, picturing us living here. I haven’t even seen inside, but I already know it’s the one I want. It calls to me.
My door opens, Alex standing there, expectant. “All right?”
“Very all right.”
The seats of his Audi R8 are low, and my dress is short. I climb out slowly, making no attempt at modesty, and his eyes flick down.
When I’m out of the car, he pulls me roughly against his chest, his hand at my back, fingers spread over the top of my ass. “Minx,” he murmurs, voice husky. “How am I supposed to concentrate now?”
I love that I can distract him so easily.
“That man is waiting.”
“And he can wait a moment longer.” Alex kisses me, taking his time, hands cupping my face as his tongue plays with mine. I’m blushing and flushed by the time he’s finished, and cling to his hand as we walk up to the real estate agent.
“Senor, senorita.” He smiles. “Donde hay amor, hay vida.”
I’ve been studying my Spanish, but I’m still at the level of asking where the train station is. I look at Alex for a translation.
“Where there is love, there is life,” he murmurs, sliding his arm around my waist and pulling me close. My blush intensifies, but I smile back at the man.
“My name is Javier.” The real estate agent gives me a slight bow. “May I show you around?”
He’s charming, a bit of a rogue, and his eyes twinkle. “Please do.”
The house is just as beautiful inside, and I walk around it thoughtfully. The rooms are empty, unfurnished, a blank canvas, and I prefer it like that. It lets me make plans for what I would change, and what each room needs.
Javier keeps to English for my benefit, but says little, not trying to push the property, just commenting on the area.
“The valley is cooler than the coast,” he says as we step onto the terrace. “Days like this it’s hot, but the air moves here in the evenings. People come to this area to sleep.”
He shows us the outbuildings, and the stables are grand. “These were built later. Not part of the original cortijo. More substantial than you usually see with these houses.”
Alex is looking thoughtful. I wonder if he likes it too, but his face is impassive. Even now he’s watching me as much as the building.
At the courtyard, Javier gestures at the walls. “It’s all older than it looks. It used to be a working farm, probably nineteenth-century. It’s been restored a few times, but the bones are original.”
The kitchen is enormous, rustic with a large oak table the previous occupants left, and a large range set into a stone alcove. Javier sees the direction of my gaze. “Enough to feed a large family, sí?”
The idea holds appeal. “It is.”
“Most of the houses around here have someone from the village who comes in to help a few days a week,” he continues. “Cleaning, cooking, looking after the garden. It’s a small place; people know each other.”
“How long has it been on the market?” Alex asks. It’s the first thing he’s said.
“Not long, senor.” Javier opens his folder and runs his finger down a page. “Since March 7.”
My birthday. I catch my breath.
Alex turns to me, taking my hand. “I don’t think we need to see other houses, do we?”
“No,” I say. “We don’t.”
“I never bought you a birthday present, and this is a birthday house,” he says, letting me know he remembered. “Shall we?”
I nod, gazing up at him, tears in my eyes and not trusting my voice.
He turns to Javier. “Is the sale contingent on the seller buying another home?”
“No, senor, está libre.” Javier smiles at me in apology. “That means it’s free.”
“I’ll be in touch when we’ve discussed it,” Alex says.
Javier bends over my hand and brushes his lips across my knuckles. “A pleasure, senorita.”
I glance at Alex, wondering if I’ll need to restrain him, but he’s watching with amusement, perfectly relaxed.
We drive away, and I have to stop myself turning to look out of the back window.
“Better in reality than the pictures,” he says, as we follow the winding road through the hills.
“It’s beautiful. It’s stunning. It’s everything I want.”
He glances across at me. “That’s what I feel about you.” There’s no playfulness, it’s no quip. He means it.
He pulls off the road, his foot on the brake, and turns to me. His expression is as neutral as ever, no emotion, his control absolute. “I only have one question.”
“What’s that?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. He’s hiding something, and it makes me nervous.
“Can you be happy here?”
The last thing I expect him to ask me. I take my time, not wanting to rush the answer to something so important, asked with so much weight.
“Because if you can’t,” he says, “we’ll go somewhere else. Italy. England, perhaps—they understand American there.”
He hasn’t suggested going back to New York, or anywhere else in the states. I know why, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve left nothing behind.
But he has. “And what of you, Senor Reyes? Can you be happy here?”
He nods slowly. “If we stay, I think I’m going to take up riding again. It’s been a few years. There’s an active horse trade around here. I’m thinking of breeding some. Make full use of those stables.”
“Would that really keep you busy?”
“No… but there’s the olive grove, some trading on the side…” He trails off with a shrug. “I’ve decided I don’t want to work anymore. My energy could be put to use elsewhere.” He tilts his head. “But I was asking after you. What will you do? Is happiness possible?”
I think of the house. The peace and quiet around. Filling the rooms with children and noise. “Yes, I could be happy here.”
“Good.” Alex releases the brake, and drives back onto the road. “Then I will let Javier know to proceed.”
“Will it take long?”
“Cash purchase, with properly incentivized attorneys… four weeks.”
I can wait four weeks.
“It feels permanent,” Alex murmurs, half to himself.
“Is that all right?”
He glances at me, then pulls off the road again. We’ve driven barely a mile. This time, he takes a hand. It’s my left hand, and his fingers find my engagement ring. “I know we don’t know anyone here, but do you think we should get married on the veranda of that house?”
The tears I blinked back earlier now return with a vengeance, spilling down my cheeks, and I’m across the center console, wrapping him in my arms, his mouth finding mine.
It’s only later when I consider Carol won’t be there, and the tears come again.