Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Isla
More relaxed than I can ever remember being, I sprawl on a cushioned chaise by the hot tub at the spa of the luxurious retreat that Dorian booked for our honeymoon. The massage I just had was amazing, leaving me loose and languid, and now warm, humid air curls around me.
Eucalyptus and lavender linger in the air, seeping into my bones, unraveling stress I didn’t even know I’d been carrying.
My white robe has an embroidered live oak on the lapel, and as I settle in, the amazingly soft material slips open across my thighs.
I blow out a small sigh, tip my head back and allow my eyes to drift shut. The gentle lap of water against tile lulls me into a rare calm.
After the whirlwind visit to le Coin Secret de Giselle, the luxury SUV whisked us to a sprawling estate that Dorian called the Parthenon that’s about an hour outside of New Orleans and nestled along the Mississippi’s lazy curve.
Once on the property, I’d had to show ID and get approved for a special badge. I was informed that I needed to be accompanied by someone while on site.
The whole thing feels a little restrictive to me.
I didn’t know what to expect for our so-called honeymoon, but it wasn’t this, being on maybe hundreds of acres of land that are graced by an incredible Grecian mansion fronted by towering columns and surrounded by manicured grounds that are baking beneath the Southern summer sun.
I’m not sure what this place really is. It’s obviously not a hotel or private residence, but I do know it’s an exclusive monument to wealth, a playground for men like Dorian who wield power as naturally as they wear their tailored suits.
We were shown to the Jasmine Cottage, a beautiful, private lodging on the estate.
Dorian thought of everything, and Calypso has access to a screened porch.
I have no idea how he managed it, but she also has a climbing post with a perch up top, a litter box hidden inside a table, and crystal bowls.
A bottle of very fancy imported still water was left for her.
In the bedroom, I discover a closet and drawers filled with clothes, from T-shirts and shorts, from summer dresses to evening wear, and tennis shoes to stilettos. In the bathroom was a gift basket filled with all kinds of high-end lotions and bath oils, along with shampoo and conditioner.
There’s also a set of luggage, apparently for me, that matches Dorian’s.
My mother has the same, exclusive brand. As if a label matters.
By the time I rejoined the men, a magnificent charcuterie board had been delivered. It was sitting next to a chilling bottle of luxury champagne.
And then Dorian had looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Ready to start your honeymoon, darling? ”
I’d tensed, expecting a prelude to his lingerie parade. Instead, he informed me that he booked a spa day for me.
When I arrived, I was handed a menu of services—not a single price listed. I started with a mani-pedi and moved on to a facial and massage. Before heading back, I have a hair appointment. I want to get all these remaining pins out and maybe pull the length into a more familiar ponytail.
I’m not sure where Dorian or Brennan are or what they’re doing, and I’m happy with that. For the first time since I was summoned to my parents’ house, I can unwind. No one is watching me, and I have no expectations to meet.
But the silence lets my mind spiral in on itself.
This isn’t my life—lounging in decadence, tethered to two men who’ve upended everything. I enjoy working, sharing my love of literature.
At some point, I need to inform both of them that I won’t go along with their whims, no matter how hard they try to make me.
“Your Frozé, ma’am.”
Brennan’s voice slices through my reverie, low and gravel rough, and I instantly blink my eyes open.
My breath catches, hard.
He’s there, six-foot-something of quiet menace, holding a glass of pale pink slush, with strawberries glistening in the chilled glass.
His dark hair’s wind tousled, and his sleeves are rolled up, baring the scarred forearms that snag my gaze every time.
Stubble has carved his jaw into appealing, rugged angles.
His intense, icy-blue eyes meet mine. And his lips are curled upward in a disarming smile, making my pulse rate soar.
“What are you doing here?” I sit up too fast, and my robe parts, flashing bare skin. Even though it’s too late, I grab hold of my lapels as heat chases up my face. “Is Calypso all right?”
“She’s fine.” He sets the Frozé on the table beside me, ice glinting like cut glass. “Ruling the cottage last I saw—perched like a queen.”
I exhale, and my tension eases some, but he’s stayed where he was, too close, and the scent of leather and spice cuts through the spa’s floral haze, stirring my senses. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m checking on you.” He crouches, bringing his face level with mine, his voice dipping low, intimate. “This has been a lot. And I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
My throat tightens, a soft ache blooming behind my ribs. It’s him—the way he sees me, not just a piece in their game but something real. “Does Dorian know you’re here?”
“He suggested it.”
I blink. “Seriously? Or are you trying to make him look good?”
“Swear, on my honor.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“Hey, I have some honor.”
“Of course you do.” I reach for the Frozé, and our fingers brush. “What is in this?” The drink looks as inviting as it does refreshing. But I’m scared it might be lethal.
“A dry rosé and strawberries.”
I wait for him to go on.
“And peach schnapps.”
Apparently I was right in thinking that the innocent-looking beverage might be lethal. But I can’t resist temptation.
I taste a hint of tart rosé that’s followed by a refreshing, fruity sweetness. “This is wonderful.” I meet his eyes. “Did you pick it?”
“I asked for a recommendation from the bartender. Thought it would suit you—sweet, but with an unexpected bite.”
I shake my head and laugh quietly. Because it’s potent, my second sip is smaller. In this hot, humid place, the drink’s chill is appreciated. “You’re absurd.”
“Maybe.” He stays put, eyes tracing my mouth, my throat, the damp strands clinging to my neck. “But you’re smiling.”
The air thickens, charged with a pulsating energy I can’t shake—raw, unspoken, tugging at me.
They both have a talent for doing this, peeling me open with gestures, glances, until I’m bare and wanting.
The shopping, the spa, the Frozé, the way they’ve taken care of Calypso, it’s all part of a velvet trap, and I hate how tempting it is just to give in.
“Thank you,” I murmur, softer than I mean to, honest despite myself.
He places his hand on my knee through the robe, and a shiver races up my leg. “Anything for you, Isla.” He sweeps his thumb across my skin, once, then again before rising, all lean strength and coiled grace. “We’re looking forward to tonight.”
My stomach flips a somersault. The evening looms before me, sharp and inevitable.
Before I have a chance to say anything, he leans in, kissing me, swift and deep, his tongue stealing the Frozé’s edge.
Then he pulls back before tracing the shell of my ear and turning away to stride off.
I stare after him, my lips tingling, my heart thundering.
The calm I’d been feeling has been shattered, replaced by a restless spark deep inside.
Trying to settle myself, I take another drink of my Frozé. This time, it’s a big one. But it doesn’t help. Nothing will be able to douse the heat he’s left behind. Once again, I’m sinking, and I don’t know if I have the strength to fight the current.
A few minutes later, the receptionist seeks me out and tells me the stylist is ready for me .
Since that means my time alone is almost over, I’m not sure I’m ready for her.
An hour later, she’s given me an amazing blowout. Even though I don’t have a ponytail, I can pull it back into one, and I feel a little more like myself.
A makeup artist pops over and offers to help me finish my look. How can I refuse?
When she’s done, I study myself in the mirror.
“Amazing.” Even though another professional had ensured I was ready to walk down the aisle, I hadn’t looked this good. “I imagine your products are pricey.”
She grins. “Very.”
Good. Wondering where that stray, wicked thought came from, I ask, “Do you sell them?”
“Most definitely.”
I worry my lower lip. “I don’t have my wallet with me.” Or a credit card inside it that would allow me to pay for this kind of extravagance.
“We’re happy to add it to Mr. Vale’s account.”
“Perfect.” I grin. Since Dorian seems to have no trouble spending his money, I won’t be bothered by it either. I mean, after all, I wouldn’t need any of these things if I hadn’t been forced to marry him. “I’ll take everything you just used. Brushes as well if you have them.”
“Absolutely. And how about a beauty blender?” She holds up the small sponge that’s shaped a little like an egg, but with a flat edge on the bottom.
“If you think I need one.”
“Honey, you need a couple.”
We exchange grins. “In that case, yes.”
I also add a variety of hair clips and accessories. By the time I’m done shopping, we’re both grinning.
I head back into the changing room to slip back into my dress and heels, and when I emerge, she’s packed everything into a gorgeous, shiny white handle bag adorned with a live oak.
A golf cart is waiting for me. As the female driver drives me back to the Jasmine Cottage, she asks how the spa services were. I tell her she simply has to try them.
When she responds that she hasn’t had a pedi in forever, I clamp my mouth shut. How could I have been so thoughtless? Until I was forced down the aisle, my budget couldn’t be stretched to afford one. My life has radically changed in only a couple of days.
And in a way, I’m kind of envious of the driver. She probably has more freedom over her decisions than I do.
Still, because the silence feels uncomfortable to me, I turn toward her slightly. “In the real world, I teach a little.”