Chapter Seventeen
Scarlett
“I should get up. I’ve got a class at ten.” My words are reluctant. It’s warm in the room, and Orson is stroking my back, his fingers moving seductively up and down my spine. But I need to get back, shower, and prepare myself for the inevitable questions that are going to come my way.
“Yeah,” he says, although he doesn’t move.
I rest my chin on his chest and look up at him. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed. He has a touch of stubble this morning. Fascinated, I lift a hand and trace a finger along his jaw, feeling the scrape of the hairs beneath my fingernail. He opens one eye to look at me, and the corner of his mouth quirks up.
It was a fantastic meal and an amazing evening. And it was super to go to sleep with him and be woken up by the touch of his fingers and the feel of his mouth on me. Mmm.
But nothing lasts forever. Buddhists say that pain comes from trying to resist suffering, and suffering happens when we become attached to things that are fleeting. So if we can detach from our attachments and cravings, we are able to reduce our suffering.
This thing with Orson is fleeting. I know that. Even though I told him I’m not your girlfriend , and he replied Not yet , I refuse to think of this as anything other than a bubble floating on the wind. I’m going to accept it for what it is, and go back to my life a better person for the experience.
I wonder whether he has time for breakfast, and I’m just about to ask when I hear a sound somewhere in the apartment.
I sit up, clutching the duvet to my breasts.
“What?” he asks .
“There’s someone outside.” For a moment I have the horrific thought that it’s an old girlfriend who’s let herself in. She’s going to come into the bedroom with an axe and chop me up into a black bin bag when she finds out he’s with me.
But he just yawns, stretches, and says, “It’s okay, it’s only Gina.”
“Gina?”
“My housekeeper.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You have a housekeeper?”
“Well, yeah. I’m not going to pick up my own socks.” He grins at the look on my face. “I’m joking.”
“I don’t think you are.”
He tips his head to the side. “Why are you shocked?”
“I don’t know. How many other people work for you?”
“Well, I might not be Scrooge McDuck, but Kingi and I run quite an empire. We know a lot about finances, but we still have financial advisors, bankers, and tax advisers. Twenty or so other staff at Te Aranui, including security, secretarial, HR, that kind of thing. A hundred staff at the Midnight Club and the resort, but they don’t work directly for me—secretarial again, waiters, maintenance, cleaning, gardeners. I had an interior designer when I first moved in here who decorated it for me. I have a chauffeur sometimes.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, on longer journeys when I’m not flying, so I can work rather than have to concentrate on the road.” He smiles. “It’s not unusual in the world I come from.”
“It is in mine.”
“I can see that.” He rolls over and gets up. “Come on. We’ll ask Gina to make us some breakfast.”
My jaw drops at the thought of asking someone to make breakfast for me. I’ve never done that, and the notion feels incredibly selfish and decadent. Still, when in Rome… I shouldn’t criticize his lifestyle if I don’t want him to criticize mine. No judgement, Scarlett.
Somewhat disappointed that our snuggling time is over, I get up and tug my dress on, Orson opens a door and goes into another room, and I follow him over and stick my head in. Holy shit, it’s a walk-in wardrobe. It’s as big as my bedroom at home. Wardrobes line three walls, with the fourth once again full of windows that look out over the city .
He slides open one of the wardrobe doors, revealing shelves of T-shirts all neatly folded in every color, jeans of various shades, track pants, cargo trousers on hangers, shorts, and a rail of casual shirts, also in lots of colors. While he pulls on a pair of black track pants, I open the next wardrobe. This contains his suits. I brush a hand along them. “So many,” I say. “You’re a real clothes horse, aren’t you?”
“A bit,” he admits, coming over to join me.
“These are a slightly different cut,” I comment, realizing the rail is divided into two. On the left, the jackets that hang over the folded trousers are longer, the shoulders are lightly padded, and there’s a small pocket above the normal one. The ones on the right are slim and tailored, with no flaps over the pockets.
“British, from Savile Row,” he says, gesturing to the left. “Smarter and more formal for work.” He indicates the ones on the right. “Italian, from Milan. Evening suits, more flamboyant. I’ve got more of them at the Club.”
“Do you have them tailor made?”
“I do. My English tailor is called Alastair. My Italian one is Elio.”
“Have you met them?”
He tugs on a T-shirt. “Of course. You have to, to be measured.”
My eyebrows shoot up again. “You mean you actually go to London and Milan to get your suits.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t everyone?” He gives me an amused look.
Taken aback, I walk along the rail of shirts. Some are plain, others feature stripes, and the last dozen are fancier paisley-patterned ones. There are also two hangers, each holding about thirty ties.
I stop by the last wardrobe. “Can I look?”
“Sure.”
I open it. This contains every other piece of clothing a man could ever need—sweaters, non-suit jackets, coats, and racks of shoes—from smart leather Oxford lace ups to Converses to running shoes.
He slides his arms around me from behind, hugs me, and presses a kiss on my shoulder. “Would you like your own one of these?”
“One of what?”
“Rooms.”
I laugh. “My clothes would take up about a third of one of those wardrobes, if that.”
“I’d buy you clothes to fill them up.” He kisses my neck, then my ear. “Dresses and jeans and tees and blouses and sexy underwear, although you probably wouldn’t wear any of it.” Chuckling, he moves away. “Come on.” Taking my hand, he leads me out of the room, across the bedroom, and along the corridor.
My mind is spinning a little. It was a throwaway comment, but for the first time I wonder what it would be like to be married to a guy like this. To have your own wardrobe, full of pretty things. To live in a penthouse apartment, or maybe to buy a house somewhere out of the city, on the beach, with a garden that your kids could play in. To wake up every morning next to a man you wanted to make love to, and who wanted to make love to you.
“Gina!” Orson leads me across the living room toward the kitchen. A woman is putting groceries away in the cupboards, but she turns as we approach. She’s probably in her early forties, pretty, with blonde hair dyed pink at the ends, lots of black eyeliner, and a stud on the side of her nose.
“Oh,” she says, eyebrows rising as she sees us. “Good morning!”
“This is Scarlett,” Orson says. “Scarlett, this is Gina.”
“Hi,” I say shyly.
“Lovely to meet you, Scarlett.” She comes forward and shakes my hand. “I’m so sorry,” she says to Orson, “you should have texted me to say you had company. You’re always alone, so I didn’t think.”
Her words warm me through. He wasn’t lying, then, when he said he hasn’t dated anyone recently.
“It’s okay.” He gestures for me to sit on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “I was wondering whether you could make us some pancakes.”
“Oh.” My face flushes. “That’s okay, I don’t expect—”
“Of course.” She smiles. “Banana?”
Orson looks at me expectantly. “Er… um… that would be great,” I mumble.
“I’ll make the coffee,” Orson says, switching on the machine, a huge thing with all kinds of buttons and dials. “How’s Jackie?”
“She’s good, thanks. It was our anniversary yesterday. Five years.”
“Oh, honey, congratulations.” He hugs her briefly and kisses her cheek. “Wow, that’s gone quick.”
“I know. Talk about an old married couple. She’s talking about us going to Fiji for a couple of weeks in June. Would that be okay with you?”
“What? Absolutely not. ”
She ignores him. “Thanks, sweetie.”
He chuckles and starts the espresso pouring while she begins making the pancake batter.
I watch them, liking their casual attitude and the fact that they’ve obviously known each other for a while. What did he call her? His housekeeper. So she buys his groceries, occasionally cooks for him… what else? Cleans, I guess. Well, I suppose if I was a billionaire I wouldn’t want to dust and vacuum my own house, either.
Before long, the pancakes and coffee are ready, and Orson sits next to me while we eat, while Gina washes the pans, then continues putting away the groceries.
“These are really good,” I say, enjoying the sweet, fluffy pancakes.
“Next time we’ll get Gina to add a few of the chocolate truffles,” Orson says.
“Naughty boy,” she says, putting some packets of pasta in the cupboard. “You can’t add chocolate to everything.”
“Says who?” He has a sip of coffee, then realizes I’ve stopped with my fork halfway to my mouth. “What?”
I shake my head.
“What?” he presses.
“You said… next time…”
He has another mouthful of coffee, giving me an amused look. “Yeah…”
“I thought this was… you know…”
“A one-night stand?”
Embarrassed, I glance at Gina. She doesn’t look around, but I think she’s trying to hide a smile.
Orson just laughs and has another mouthful of pancake as he picks up his phone and brings up a calendar. “I’ve got a meeting this evening with some investors. And the day after that it’s Kingi’s birthday and we’re having a party at the club in the evening… Oh! Would you like to come?” His eyes light up.
I stare at him. “Go with you, you mean?”
“Yes, Scarlett. Come with me to a party. Be my date.”
My jaw sags. My brain has gone blank. “What… what would your father say?”
He gives me an impatient look. “I don’t give a fuck. The sooner he gets used to us dating, the better.”
“Dating? ”
Gina gives him an amused look. He meets her gaze and rolls his eyes. “Help me, for the love of God.”
She grins and winks at me. “He’s very stubborn,” she informs me. “I wouldn’t bother trying to fight him.”
“I want you to be my girlfriend,” he says.
“What if I don’t want that?” I say sassily, while my heart bangs on my ribs.
He shrugs. “I’ll just kidnap you and handcuff you to the bed.” He eats a forkful of pancake, then chuckles as Gina snorts.
My face flames. “Orson!”
He laughs, hooks a foot under my stool, and pulls it toward him. Then he slides a hand to the back of my neck and holds me there while he kisses me. Our lips are all sticky from the maple syrup, but he refuses to let me go, and in the end I have no choice but to give in and let him kiss me.
When he finally lets me go, I sit there, stunned, while he sips his coffee. “Finish your pancakes,” he instructs.
“I can’t date you,” I tell him.
Gina pulls an eek face at him, then says, “I’m going to put some washing on,” and leaves the room.
Orson watches her go, then looks at me. “Why not?”
“Seriously? We’re from completely different worlds. Our lifestyles, our views, our principles… everything is diametrically opposed.”
“We both like sex,” he points out.
“There’s more to a successful relationship than sex. And no, don’t give me that look, you know I’m right. You believe that money is king, and I believe that being part of a community is more important than anything.”
“So do I,” he protests. “Sort of. The club is a kind of community.”
“You said you despise humanity.”
“Yeah, okay, I did say that… But I was joking.”
“Really?”
“Well, no, but I don’t mean my friends and family. I was referring to the man on the street.”
“People who aren’t part of your elite inner circle, you mean?”
“Yes! Oh, you were being sarcastic.”
I glare at him. “Don’t tease me.”
“But it’s such fun.” He pulls me into his arms and nuzzles my neck. “You smell so good. ”
But I push him away. “I’m serious.” Tears prick my eyes. “There’s no point in us dating. It would never work out.”
“You don’t know that.” He looks puzzled. I bet it’s the first time he’s ever had a girl refuse to date him. I guess most would say yes because of the money, if nothing else.
“Look, I’m sure the last thing guys want to talk about is Where This is Going on the first date. But honestly, what do you envisage happening if things go well? Would you come and live on the commune with me?” He lifts an eyebrow, and I say, “I didn’t think so. So you’d expect me to leave Kahukura and live in the city? Wear a suit, work in an office, eat at fancy restaurants, have my hair styled, my nails done?”
His smile fades slowly, and he looks down at his coffee cup.
I sigh. “What’s the point in setting sail on a life raft with no hope of reaching the mainland? I like you. And I know you have the potential to break my heart.”
He looks up then and meets my eyes. There’s surprise in them, and something else. A kind of steely determination.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
He shakes his head and checks the time on his phone. “We should get going. I’ll fly us back to Waiheke and then drive you to the commune. You want to have a shower with me?” His eyes gleam.
“Um, no thank you,” I say, panicking. For a start, Gina is here. What will she think? “I’ll have one when I get home.”
“Okay. I won’t be long.”
I watch him get up and walk away, puzzled by his comment, You shouldn’t have said that . What did he mean? Which bit was he referring to?
Well, I can’t force him to talk to me, so I put it to the back of my mind.
I sit there and chew my bottom lip for about five minutes.
Then eventually I get up and walk through to the bedroom.
The door to the en suite bathroom is open. I wander over to it and lean against the door jamb.
He has already had a shower—wow, that was quick—and he’s standing in front of the mirror with a towel around his waist, running a basin of hot water. He glances in the mirror, sees me, and smiles.
“Sorry,” I say awkwardly .
He gestures with his head for me to come into the room, so I walk in. He wets his face. “Just gonna have a quick shave.” He squirts some foam onto his hand, then spreads it across his cheeks and chin.
My dad had a beard, so I’ve never seen a guy do this in real life. Fascinated, I lean a hip on the unit and watch him.
He wets the razor, then starts drawing it up his throat. I can feel my face growing warm. This is such a masculine act, and there’s something incredibly sexy about it. Everything in this bathroom is masculine, in fact. Ana and I have homemade rose petal bath salts, avocado face masks, kawakawa soap, makeup made from coconut oil and natural ingredients, tampons, and other girly items, and all the jars and tins are bright orange and pink and yellow.
Everything on Orson’s shelf is black: his tin of male antiperspirant, his razors, his electric toothbrush. The only thing that isn’t is the bottle of cologne—Penhaligon’s The Tragedy Of Lord George is a dark yellow with a stag’s head on the top. I take it down, remove the top, and sniff it. I love the sweet brandy smell.
“I Googled this,” I tell him, putting it back. “It says it’s ‘for the gentleman of distinction,’ and ‘the perfume notes inspire aristocratic manners.’”
He gives a short laugh as he draws the razor up his cheek. “Sounds like me.”
It does, a bit. I don’t say it out loud, but I let my gaze drift over him while he rinses his razor in the water, then draws it up his cheek again, accompanied by the scrape of stubble being removed. His biceps are mouthwatering. His chest has just the right amount of hair. Even his back is attractive, not too hairy, and well-muscled. I study the short hair at the nape of his neck and trail my gaze down his spine to the dip just above the towel.
When I look back at him in the mirror, he’s watching me.
“Just turning myself on, sorry,” I say.
His lips curve up, but he doesn’t say anything. He rinses his razor, then washes around the sink.
“What did you mean?” I ask. “When you said ‘You shouldn’t have said that’?”
He dries his face on a towel. Oh man, the smoothness of that jaw…
“You said I had the potential to break your heart,” he says.
“Yeah… I would have thought that was obvious. ”
“No, it wasn’t.” He hangs the towel over the rail. Then he walks back to me. He turns me so my butt is against the cabinet, moves even closer, and cups my face. “And now I know that’s how you feel, I’m not going to let you go.”
My eyes widen. “That’s very arrogant.”
“Yep.” He kisses me. “I want you, Scarlett Stone. And I always get what I want.” He kisses me again.
My face warms beneath his hands. I’m half flattered and half furious at his assumption that I’ll just fall into his lap. “Stop it,” I say when he lifts his head.
He ignores me and kisses me again. I rest both hands on his naked chest, wanting to push him away, but I can’t. His skin is warm, and he smells so good, and I keep thinking about how it felt when he made me come with his tongue this morning, and how it felt last night to have him inside me. I want him again. I’m cross with myself for it, but I can’t help it.
He lifts his head and looks at me, his eyelids at half-mast. “I’m tempted to drag you into the shower.”
I force myself to push him away and turn to put my hair up into a bun. “You need to stop acting as if I don’t have a say in this.”
He moves up behind me, and I wait for him to grab my breasts where my arms are raised. But he doesn’t. He leans on the cabinet on either side of my hips, then presses his lips to my neck, my throat, my jaw, then behind my ear. I shiver, and he moves his arms around me and gives me a hug.
I lower my arms on top of his, and our eyes meet in the mirror.
“You’re stunning,” he murmurs.
There seems to be no end to the ways this man can surprise me. “Thank you.”
He kisses my cheek. “I’m not going to break your heart. I’m going to worship the ground you walk on, until you realize you can’t bear to be without me.”
I have no idea how a relationship with him could possibly work without one of us completely changing our view of the world and the way we live. And I don’t think either of us is prepared to do that.
But it’s obvious that he’s not used to taking no for an answer. The thought sends a shiver all the way through me.