Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
TAMSYN
I can’t scramble up the ladder fast enough and discover, way too late, that it’s a lot higher than I first thought. I’m no fan of heights, but I’m not afraid with Lucien right behind me. There’s no way I’m missing out on a treehouse like this. A flat surface eventually appears above me, and I climb through its circular opening, which reminds me of a fireman’s pole. Then I step onto the planked floor, and there it is.
Quite possibly the coolest place I’ve ever seen.
“Oh my God.” There’s no containing my girlish delight as I clap my hands and turn in a loose circle to take it all in. The hewn walls, railings and ceiling. The rugs. The fully stocked bar area with a white neon light—of course there’s electricity up here!—that says memento vivere . “What is that? Remember…something, right?”
He eyes me with new respect. “Remember to live.”
“I love that. Is it your personal motto? Does that explain why you drive fast cars, adventure travel and play polo and probably other dangerous sports that I don’t know about?”
Those dimples make another fleeting appearance. “It is and it does.”
“Hmm.” I return to my survey of my surroundings. The dark leather furniture is as masculine as Lucien himself. An old-school life preserver, ropes, lanterns, compasses, oars and other nautical decorations line the walls. There are stacks of books on sailing, gardening and architecture, plus a TV, a couple of chess sets and a mini fridge that’s not all that mini. The screens and awnings keep the sun and bugs out. The hefty telescope points out over the glittering bay, which provides a stunning view down below. Sailboats bob gently at the dock. “This is heaven. It’s like the people from HGTV came and flipped the treehouse from The Swiss Family Robinson to make it the perfect man cave. I’m surprised you ever leave.”
Lucien does one of those things where he doesn’t quite smile, but his entire face seems to glow as he looks at me. There’s so much warmth. It takes my breath away every time it happens.
“I thought you’d like it. You know The Swiss Family Robinson ?”
“Know it? Dad and I used to read chapters to each other at bedtime. And we watched the old Disney movie, of course.”
“Of course.” He heads to the bar. “Champagne?”
I just sat on the sofa, but now I twist at the waist to face him. “You stock champagne in your treehouse?”
One of those heavy brows shoots up. “Of course. We’re not heathens.”
We laugh together. It feels wonderfully normal. Except for the part about not punctuating the laugh with a kiss. That feels like amputating one of my arms.
I clear my throat, my cheeks heating. “So am I looking at the original treehouse, or have you made upgrades?”
“There have definitely been upgrades.” He pops the cork and pours. “The original treehouse was a bit more rustic.”
“Yeah? How long has it been here?”
“Let’s see,” he says, now pouring himself a scotch. “Twenty years, I guess. I’d seen a TV show about do-it-yourself projects. I mentioned it to my dad. I thought we could do it together. But the next weekend, Roman and I came home from visiting our grandparents in Connecticut and here it was.”
My jaw hits the floor. “You’re joking, right?” I watch as he comes over, hands me my fizzing flute and sits next to me. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” he says, raising his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” I take a leisurely sip and feel myself relax another thirty percent. “An overnight treehouse, eh? That kind of took the sails out of your do-it-yourself project, didn’t it?”
He laughs and takes his own sip. “It did.”
“You Winter men have a long history of waving magic wands and getting stuff done, don’t you?” I think about how he engineered a weeklong series of private tours at every port of call for Mrs. Hooper so that he and I were free to spend time together alone on our cruise. “Maybe it’s genetic.”
“I don’t know,” he says, stretching out and propping his feet on the coffee table. “I like to call it efficient.”
“If you say so,” I say, laughing. “Were you disappointed you couldn’t do the project with your dad?”
He hesitates, his smile fading. “I was, yeah. I didn’t really expect him to do something like that with me, though. Let’s just say it wasn’t his wheelhouse.”
“I think that may be the first time you’ve ever mentioned your parents to me,” I say gently. By now, I’ve done enough online reading about him to know that they both died years ago. “That’s something we have in common. But I talk about mine, and you never talk about yours.”
He shrugs, a muscle working in his jaw. “It hurts. I miss them.”
“Indeed.” I already regret mentioning it. I hate the quiet desolation on his face and know what it cost Mr. Strong and Silent to admit to a difficult feeling. “They must have been good parents.”
A sad nod. “Indeed.”
“Quick. Think of a happy thought before you let me ruin the evening with my poor selection of conversation topics.”
“A happy thought? Like what?”
“I don’t know. What did you do with your dad as a kid?”
He sips again, taking his time about thinking it over before a smile creeps across his face. “Swim. Sail. Play chess. Ride horses.”
“That sounds amazing. The only animals I saw were at the Brooklyn Zoo. And the subway rats, of course. What about your mother? What did you do with her?”
“Gardening. I can grow a mean orchid.”
“Get the hell out of here.”
“I’m dead serious.” Laughing, he points to a ten-foot potted plant in the corner. “I’ve been growing that Monstera for about fifteen years.”
“Well done. You’re quite the renaissance man, aren’t you? And wait till you get to teach all that cool stuff to your own kids. They’re going to love it. And you’ll have to make sure to do the work yourself if your kid wants you to build another treehouse or a birdhouse or some such.”
He gets the funniest look on his face, probably because he didn’t expect this kind of inane chatter from me when he’s never said one word about wanting kids.
“Sorry,” I say, my ears burning. “I just picture you as a really good dad.”
His funny look deepens. It’s not so much a frown as it is absolute consternation. I don’t know what it’s about, but I know this entire conversation will dry up soon if I don’t change the subject. “So, anyway.” I clear my throat. “Will you show me the greenhouse sometime so I can grow some plants? I love orchids.”
He blinks and clears his throat. “Ah, yeah. Sure.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Tamsyn.” There’s a new resonance in his voice. Almost a hum of pleasure. “You can do and have anything you want.”
The steady warmth of his gaze triggers the familiar sparkling sensation deep inside me and makes my cheeks hot. “You seem more relaxed. That drink is doing you good.”
“It’s not the drink. It’s your smile.” Self-deprecating laugh. “I’m living for it. I have been since I met you. More so now.”
I give myself a silent but stern reminder that he’s a married man in a messy situation. That the two of us are cooling it while he extricates himself from his wife. That I’m not the kind of woman who could live with herself if she had sex with a married man. But when he looks at me like that , there’s only one possible response. And that’s what comes out when I open my mouth.
“Same.”
He drops his feet and sits up straight, setting his drink down and reaching for me. I reach for him, my breath hitching as our palms slide across each other. As our fingers lace and unlace, the heat builds between us.
“You think it’s easy, Ms. Scott? Keeping my hands to myself?”
As always, all that blazing intensity does a number on me. “You’re not very good at it, are you?” I say with a pointed glance at our hands.
“No. So why are you forcing me to do it?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do for now?”
“Fuck that.”
Have you ever been attacked by the sexiest man alive before? Ever had him make a growling sound as he swoops in on you with relentless hands, glittering eyes and a face that’s set with determination? Ever had him lick his way so deep into your welcoming mouth that you lose track of where you end and he begins? That you don’t care?
I have.
It’s the experience of a lifetime.
I’m ashamed of how much I want him and how little I care about his wife in that overheated moment. I want to tell him no , but in what world would that happen? It’s so much easier to have a strong moral compass when his touch isn’t making my equilibrium spin.
We grapple for each other as he eases me back a little. I palm his face. He palms my breasts. I reach for his hard shoulders to pull him closer. He reaches for the hem of my skirt and breaks the kiss so he can watch me melt down as he runs his hand up my inner thigh.
“Are you going to lie and tell me you want me to stop?” he says, his skilled fingers inching under my panties and grazing my pussy as he nips my lower lip. “Huh?”
“We should stop,” I say, struggling to get the words out around my rising moans.
“You fucking hypocrite,” he says as he strokes my slick cleft before sucking his wet fingers into his mouth. “That’s not what I asked you, is it?”
“No,” I say, gasping as he reaches down again and zeroes in on my clit.
“Did you forget that I own this hot little pussy? Did you think I forgot?”
I’d laugh at the absurdity of the questions if only he’d let me breathe. Just for one second. But there’s no room for breath. Not with all the spiraling sensations high up between my thighs and this overwhelming pleasure streaking toward me on greased rails. “No.”
“Nothing changes between us. No matter what. Nothing .”
He punctuates that final nothing by pressing his fingers down hard against my sweet spot and keeping them there. The orgasm zigzags through me, making my hips pump and my toes curl as my body arches for him.
There’s a soft but triumphant laugh. At least, I think there is. Hard to know for sure with my world fading to black as I ride it out. He presses a kiss to my forehead then slips away, leaving me to wallow in the ecstasy and shame as I hastily sit up and adjust my clothes. My eyes open and refocus just in time to see him shoot me a pointed and don’t forget it look over his shoulder as he helps himself to some hand sanitizer on the bar. He’s got an enormous erection tenting the front of his pants.
I focus on smoothing my skirt, cheeks burning?—
The muffled sound of a buzzing phone makes everything worse. But the timing is perfect because I need this reminder of the outside world, and not a moment too soon. “Oh my God. I don’t know what I’m doing. This is so wrong.”
He stiffens and runs his hands over the top of his head as his phone buzzes again, frustration radiating off him in waves. “Tamsyn…”
“Answer it,” I say.
He mutters a curse then hits the button. “What is it, Daniel? This is a bad time.” He listens. “Fuck . No, it’s fine. I’ll be right there.”
My heart sinks. I don’t like the sound of that any more than I like his scowl as he hangs up. “What is it? Ravenna?”
He shakes his head. “The police. They’re here to talk to me.”