Chapter 11 Fin
Chapter 11
Fin
“You didn’t tell me this walk was in fancy dress,” I say as Mila appears from the bedroom, because apparently, a walk along the beach required a change of outfit.
I threw on a pair of board shorts, hoping she’d join me similarly. Swimwear, I mean. Purely for aesthetic reasons. Nothing to do with a perv.
Sadly, Mila’s beachwear is a little more ... full coverage. She is a quirky bird, and I find that shit endearing.
“Are you even under there?” I tease, crooking a finger under the straw hat she’s wearing. The brim is so wide, it’s like its own fucking orbit.
“Har-har.”
“Jesus!” I jump back theatrically and grin. Maybe it’s because she makes you laugh. “I thought I was looking at a giant fly.” Because, under the hat, Mila is wearing a pair of huge fuck-off sunglasses.
“Stop that,” she retorts, slapping my hand away to tug her monstrous head covering back into place. “I’m going incognito. The hat hides my hair, and the sunglasses—”
“Half your face.”
“Exactly. I might be Evie under all this,” she adds, plucking at the decidedly unsexy striped garment she wears over her swimsuit. One-piece, I’ll bet. Some ugly travesty, when a body like hers should be poured into a tiny bikini.
“Be Evie? For all I know, you might have Evie under this,” I say, pulling the neckline. Did living with a guy who didn’t appreciate what he had make her feel like she should hide in baggy clothes and fucking shapeless dresses?
“Stop it!” She issues another reprimanding slap.
“Where’d you get the tent? I didn’t know the circus was in town.”
Mila inhales a sharp breath, yanks off her sunglasses, and uses them to point at me. “That is a horrible thing to say.”
“And that is a horrible ... whatever it is. Why would you cover up all this beauty?”
She stills, her head tilting ever so slightly to one side, like she’s trying to make sense of what I just said. Stunned? Confused? Whatever that is, it’s better than a kick in the balls, which is what I thought she’d choose.
“It’s just a beach cover-up,” she says, her tone modulated somewhat.
“I’ll bet it’ll cover the whole thing too. Sea and sand. It might even eclipse the sun.”
“Rude!” she explodes, slapping my hand away as I inch the hem up.
“I’m just making sure you don’t have Victorian-style knickerbockers on underneath.”
“In-cog-ni-to.” She punctuates the syllables with a poke to my chest.
“Ug-ly hat.” I tug three times on the brim.
“Hey!”
As I whip it away, the thing sails across the room like a straw Frisbee. “That’s much better.”
“But I don’t look like Evie!”
“No, you look like Mila. And that’s the way I like it. I’d just like to see a little more of her.”
Something like surprise flickers across her face as the compliment hits.
“That cannot be news to you.”
“But we’re supposed to be them,” she says, disregarding the question as she slides the dark sunglasses to the top of her head. “And Evie is ...” She rolls her lips together and swallows. “We’re just built differently.” Her words fall in a rush. “And if there are cameras out there, we want them to think we’re them—that we’re Evie and Oliver.”
“You’re really committed to this.”
“Of course I am. I take my job very seriously. Even the unorthodox bits.”
I feel myself frown. “But what happened last night wasn’t part of your job description.”
“No.” Her gaze flickers away, then back. “Not last night. But Evie and Oliver can’t ever know what happened. And even if we don’t tell them, there’s still a chance they might find out,” she adds, pointing to the window. “They put their trust in me, and I can’t have them think I’m some kind of—”
“Mila.” Her name on my lips sounds like an ache as I press my hands to her upper arms, ducking my gaze to meet hers. “They won’t hear a word of this.”
“You don’t know that. I don’t think you understand this would reflect badly on us both.”
“They’d blame me. You can, too, if it helps. Or Sarai.”
“I’m to blame too,” she says with a sigh. “I was doing fine until the photographer arrived. Next thing, I’m allowing her to administer narcotics with barely a blink.”
“How about I thank you instead?”
“Please try to remember I’m getting paid for this.”
There she goes, fooling herself again.
“And you pride yourself on overdelivering,” I say without a hint of irony.
“Exactly. Which is why I thought you could wear this.” She turns from the waist, turning back with a pink straw fedora in her hands.
I stare at the piece of hideousness.
“To hide your face,” she adds.
“You don’t like my face?” I know that’s not true. Just like I know she wasn’t getting paid to ride it last night. An observation I’ll keep to myself. “Oh, you’re serious.” I glance at the hideous hat between her hands.
“Of course I’m serious. You don’t look a thing like Oliver.” Her eyes dip and slide over me in a way that isn’t complimentary.
Does she have a thing for Oliver? I kinda thought she was intimidated by him, like most people. But then my mind jumps to the things she said last night. The compliments she purred while sprawled across my chest. And then the morning came, and with it, her denials.
“ Something happened to make me that way ,” she said. And then she found self-protection in the shrooms, along with the comfort of telling herself that a little vodka stole her inhibitions.
And some of that is the truth, but the rest she pulled deep from her dreams. I know because she confessed she’d been conjuring me in them.
“ When I’m alone and I think of you, I touch myself. ”
Me too. Mila. Me fucking too.
No, she’s not into Oliver. Which my skin corroborates as her eyes skate over me a second time.
“You’ll wear the hat.” She thrusts the fedora into my hands. “And I’ll wear this. Then no one will be any the wiser. What are you smiling about?” she demands, suddenly narrow eyed with suspicion.
“The hopefully not-too-grainy images of Oliver Deubel wearing a hot-pink fedora on the City Chronicle ’s website,” I say, feeding the brim between my fingers. He’ll blow a gasket. Maybe sue. God, I hope there are photos. “I’ll tell you what.” I throw the hat into the air, catch it, then flip it onto the top of my head. “I’ll wear the hat if you lose the circus tent.”
“But they’ll know I’m not Evie,” she protests, flustered. Or frustrated. Or maybe just plain annoyed.
“They’ll probably just print that you—she—had a breast augmentation.”
Her hands move to her chest, as though her breasts have delicate ears, and the action immediately conjures an image from my memories. Dark hair and pale sheets, her expression sated, and her eyes heavy lidded. Her hands over her breasts, nipples pebbled and peeking from between her spread fingers.
Fuck. Maybe board shorts were the wrong choice. They don’t leave a lot to the imagination. Can’t go to the beach half-cocked.
Dick cancer. Prostate exam. The baby’s yours. Erection be gone!
I can’t go to the beach half-cocked ... but maybe Oliver could.
“I’m sure that will be super helpful!”
At Mila’s retort, my thoughts snap back.
“Right alongside the story of her recent Brazilian butt lift.”
“You don’t need one?”
“I know that! It’s more that I need lipo.” Her lips clamp together, becoming thin, pale lines.
“You leave that ass alone.”
“What are you even—”
“That ass is a work of art. Don’t you know a man likes a little jiggle when he spanks it.”
“Dream on.” She snorts. “Because that is never going to happen.”
At least until you remember it already has.
“And it’s very ungentlemanly of you to mention such things.” She bristles, her movements jerky and her retort staccato.
“Dammit, you’ve guessed my secret. I’m no gentleman,” I say, dropping my head to roll the ridiculous fedora down my arm and into my hand.
She tsks. “It’s no secret, because a gentleman doesn’t accuse his companion of wearing a tent.”
“Looks like a—”
“My cover-up might look like a circus tent, but at least I’m not a clown.”
I grin but don’t bite, rolling the hat in the opposite direction. Palm to arm, arm to head. A trick my grandfather taught me, back when he was alive and our relationship extended to tricks and lighthearted moments.
“You’d prefer me to lie to you? Just let me know, because I don’t want to get it wrong when you ask me ‘Does my arse look big in this?’” I intone in Brit-speak and an octave or two higher.
“You are delusional if you think—”
“And you have a glorious ass. I want to squeeze it. Bite it. Ride it.”
“I think you’re managing that last one quite well already. Talk about reversal of stereotypes, because you’re a nag.”
“You know that’s not what I mean. Let the record show, if it doesn’t already, that I’m a fan of your ass. Its number one fan, in fact.”
“Delusional and ridiculous. Look, are we going to go to the beach or not?” she demands.
“Is the hat staying?” I point to it.
Mila inhales and pushes the breath forcefully from her nose. “Fine. I’ll go and change.”
The next time Mila leaves the bedroom, it’s in a sarong that’s knotted at the back of her neck. It’s dark, flowing, and pretty, but still conceals all that goodness beneath. Same goes for the wide-brimmed hat, which she grabs as we leave.
The sunglasses she doesn’t take. Mainly because I’ve hidden them.
I lead her out through the private garden, lush with palm trees and bright tropical plants; citrus-colored gingers, vividly pink hibiscus, and birdlike heliconia sway in the mild breeze.
“The steps are pretty steep,” I warn as I pull the heavy wooden door closed behind us. “And there are a lot.”
“But the view makes it worthwhile,” she answers, gathering the sarong away from her knees.
“Yeah, it does,” I say, staring at her ass. “Maybe you should take that off. For safety.”
“Good try.” That smile, or half of it in profile, twists something deep in my gut. I watch as she holds the rail and begins to descend, to move away, when I’m hit by a wave of sorrow. The sensation is fleeting, the reason not fully formed, as I begin to jog down the steps to reach her.
“I meant to ask,” I say, once alongside her again. “Do you think Elton John will want his sunglasses back?”
“You would try the patience of a saint,” she murmurs serenely. “Six days. I can cope for six days.”
That melancholy tightens in my chest, the unformed thought taking root in my head. One day soon I’ll watch as she walks out of my life.
“Six days,” I repeat, banishing the thought. “What are we going to do with six whole days?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to enjoy a little sun, sea, and—”
“Sex?”
Her lovely lips twist. “I was going to say serenity , but I realize that’s not possible where you are.”
“And you can’t have a honeymoon without a groom.”
She makes an unhappy sound, and we both fall quiet until we reach the bottom step. Mila hops from it like an excited kid, beaming at the stretch of golden sand.
“It’s deserted,” she says, a tiny bit breathless. Which makes me think about sex. Who am I kidding? After last night, everything about her makes me think about sex. Her hair smells like night jasmine and her skin is so smooth, it’s like I can’t get enough of her.
“It’s a private beach.”
“Really?” She turns quickly, and her expression steals my breath, her dark eyes sparkling with wonder and delight. Then, “Oh!” Her foot sinks into the fine sand, twisting in her sandal and making her almost topple. I reach out and grab her arm.
“Careful.” Electricity shoots through me at the touch. Our eyes meet, hers umber in the afternoon light as I suffer the strangest sensation. I want her to look at me with that kind of wonder. I want to be the source of her delight.
“A private beach.” The tiniest tip of her tongue darts out to wet her lips as her eyes drop to my mouth.
It would be easy to lean in, press my lips to hers, but I won’t. I can make myself open to the prospect, but the first move has to be hers. A chance encounter with a stranger in a dark closet is one thing. Getting to know her, feeling something for her—connection, attraction, and more—that all changes things.
“Private. Perfect for a honeymoon.”
She begins to pull away. “Pretend honeymoon, so don’t get any ideas.”
Ah, Mila. It’s too late for that. “Wait.”
She turns back, her brows pulled in. But I’m already taking her smooth calf in my palm.
“Oh.” Her palm is warm on my back as I pull off her pink flip-flops. One. Two. I throw them in the direction of the stairs.
“Can’t do that on Southend.” Her words sound a little shaky, and she shoots me a hesitant smile. “Someone’s dog would run off with them.”
How easily she makes me laugh.
We walk in a companionable silence along the shoreline. When I reach for her hand, she allows it, but just for the benefit of those who might be watching, she insists. The surf gently rolls in, warm and inviting over our toes as we head toward a dark rocky outcrop. The world is quiet but for the sound of the water and the press of our feet into wet sand.
It’s pretty perfect.
“It’s so beautiful here.” Her attention flits my way. “I can see why they’d travel halfway around the world to get married here.”
“It is special.” I’ve always loved the island, though I don’t get to spend nearly enough time here. Work keeps me busy. But also, that sixteen-hour flight plus a helicopter flight is a lot. But it’s mainly work that keeps me away.
“Do all the suites have access to this beach?”
“Nope. This stretch is totally private to our suite.”
“I can’t imagine what it must cost to stay here.” Her murmur seems a little awe filled. It seems to immediately embarrass her as her lips purse, her attention sliding out over the water. “Not that they have to consider that sort of thing, I suppose,” she adds eventually.
“You should come again. On me.”
From under her hat, she mutters something that sounds unpleasant.
“I’m serious.”
“Seriously smutty.”
“I’m serious. And smutty. But I hadn’t meant it like that. Although ...” As she reaches over and playfully punches me in the arm, I react in kind. “ Oof! ”
“It comes as second nature to you.”
“Let me rephrase. You can visit here anytime. Mi casa es tu casa. ”
“That’s kind of you.”
And that was a very polite English brush-off.
“Hell, if we don’t get an annulment, you might be entitled to half the place.”
Her hand slides from mine, and it takes me a couple of steps to realize she’s no longer walking with me. I glance back.
“Please stop saying things like that. It’s not funny,” she adds, obviously deciding I’m not taking this seriously enough. “If other people hear you—”
“Who?” I hold my arms wide and glance around the deserted beach. “Who would hear?”
“I don’t have a lot going for me right now, but I do have my professional reputation.”
“Mila, it was a joke.” What hasn’t she got in her life? Other than money, which I guess is obvious now.
“ I know it probably looks like I’ll do anything for money ,” she said. But if that were the case, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. She’d be doing cartwheels along the beach after googling my net worth. So what am I missing here? And what can I do to help? Is it weird that’s what I want to do? Help her. Be useful. Be by her side. Be fucking hers.
“Just knock it off. Please.”
“Okay.” I give a short shrug and walk back, taking her hand again. “Promise.” We begin to walk again.
Women. They usually maintain they’re interested in my pretty face, my cock, and my cash, in that order. Though I am aware that, for some—for a lot—the order is reversed. It’s not always as mercenary as all that. Sometimes it’s my profile, my status, that they’re looking to benefit from. I’ve dated a lot of women, and I’ve never made a big deal of my background, but when the topic of money inevitably comes up, I’ve never found a woman repulsed by my wealth.
I guess Mila is a two-out-of-three kind of woman.
And I am undeterred.
“Holding the wedding here was my gift to them,” I admit. “It wasn’t supposed to cost them a dime.”
She lifts her head, her gaze almost apologetic. “That’s generous.”
“I wish it had worked,” I say, shrugging off the compliment. “It’s my suite.” I glance up at the volcanic rock face, not sure why I feel uncomfortable saying so. I don’t normally feel bad for being rich. “The one we’re staying in, I mean.”
“Wow. Lucky you.”
Simply by virtue of my birth, that’s true. But I’ve worked hard my whole life and grown the money I was born to. My share of my grandfather’s estate has doubled since he passed, but that’s not to say I don’t realize how lucky I am compared to most folks.
“And also unlucky, as it turns out,” she adds with a hint of malicious glee.
Fuck me, I love that look on her. It seems to say Look at what I’m about to do to you. Well, bring it on, bunny, because I want the full experience. “How so?”
“Because I’ll be kicking you out of your own bed tonight. That seems so much worse than being banished from a random hotel bed to me.”
“You think you’re kicking me out of my own bed?” The thoughts that flash behind my eyes aren’t exactly PG. Just a husk of a man, discarded after she’s had her wicked way with me.
A man can hope. And this man hopes for a lot of things.
“The good news is you have a lot of other beds to choose from.”
“How do you mean?” Is she needling me? Fucking Oliver.
“Well, you do own the place,” she says, glancing behind us.
“But I only have one bed of my own.”
“Pity.”
“That didn’t sound pitying.” I begin to swing her hand, when she slows and turns to me with a small but wicked grin.
“Oh. I do pity you, and I feel bad now, because I’ve just realized you can’t really sleep in another room. Not unless you want to run the risk of ruining Evie and Oliver’s actual honeymoon.”
“And that would happen how?”
“You don’t want to be responsible for a rumor suggesting their marriage is already in trouble, do you?” She cups a thoughtful hand to her chin. “Though I suppose you could get Sarai to dress up as housekeeping and she could roll you out in one of those industrial laundry hampers.”
“I see you’ve put some thought into this.”
Her dark eyes wide, she gives a pleased nod.
“But if we’re gonna sneak anyone out, why not you?” My eyes slide over her form. “You’d fit into a hamper much easier than I would.”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” she says, cocking her hip and pressing her fist to it.
“I figure I’d better do it now while I’m still cute. In another few years I’ll just be labeled a lecherous old goat.”
Her laughter echoes inside me. “Oh, I think you’ll get away with it for a few more years yet.”
“You mean I might grow into my handsomeness?”
“No, your big head. Anyway, I’m not being smuggled out in a laundry hamper, because I’m far too conscientious to risk my client’s future happiness. If you say I can’t sleep in the bed, then I’ll just woman up and sleep on the sofa.” She gives a flick of one shoulder.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t sleep in the bed. You can. With me.”
“Sofa it is, then,” she adds with a martyrish sniff.
“Want to step this relationship up a notch?”
“Are your ears pinned on? I’m not sleeping with you!”
“I meant we could have an iconic frolic in the waves,” I say. “Fool around in the surf for the benefit of our potential audience, kind of From Here to Eternity style.”
Her mouth flattens, but her eyes dance.
“Not for the media, the ’Gram, or the grope,” she retorts, watching as I pull the ridiculous pink hat from my head. “What are you doing?” Suddenly, she’s disconcerted, her attention moving to the ocean and the boats on the horizon.
“Going for a dip.” I drop the hat and reach back to the neck of my T-shirt.
“But ... but the journalists might see.”
“Oliver got a haircut, remember?” I rub my palm over the bristles. “And Evie’s hair goes really dark when it’s wet,” I say, whipping the straw monstrosity from her head.
“Hey!” She makes a grab for it. Too late, as I throw it into the air and it’s carried from her reach by a sudden breeze.
“Last one in gets the couch!” Sand fills the spaces between my spread toes as I pivot.
“What? No!” she yells. “Fin DeWitt, you are a cheating shithead!”