27. Jetmir
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
JETMIR
I’d expected resistance. More questions. Instead, I got an easy surrender and that made me suspicious. Or maybe paranoid.
This was my wife we were talking about.
People didn’t simply make decisions that defied logic. I ran a successful empire by assuming they were driven by their motivations. The day I stopped believing that was the day someone would put a bullet in my head.
So I watched Anya, convinced she had an agenda.
“I cooked breakfast,” I said. “How about we eat and then do the tour?”
“Ah, that’s what that delicious smell is,” she remarked cheerily. Again: suspicious.
I sighed and led her toward the kitchen, pulling out a chair.
“Sit.” She did wordlessly and so did Dozer, who had followed us back into the house. He took the spot next to her, patiently waiting to be served. “I’ll have food on the table in a couple of minutes.”
Her gaze drifted across the kitchen and I allowed mine to do the same, cataloging it from her perspective.
The space looked less like part of a home and rather the private domain of a Michelin-starred chef.
Polished stone countertops stretched beneath sleek walnut cabinetry, their clean lines interrupted only by gleaming copper pans suspended above a vast marble island.
The air carried the faint scent of sea salt through the open glass doors, where the dining area flowed seamlessly onto a broad terrace bathed in Caribbean sunlight.
Beyond the terrace, the land fell away into rugged cliffs, and the sea unfurled in endless shades of turquoise and sapphire.
Whitecaps curled lazily against the rocks below, their rhythmic crash rising faintly on the warm breeze that wandered inside.
It was the kind of view that belonged on the cover of a luxury travel magazine—so breathtaking it almost made the room’s state-of-the-art features seem secondary.
She took it all in without a word. This was a kitchen built for artistry, capable of satisfying the exacting standards of a well-traveled palate, never mind that of a woman whose culinary résumé consisted of questionable baking abilities.
We ate breakfast in silence.
When we were finished, I gathered the plates and we washed them by the double-basin sink in tandem.
Afterward, I led her through to the back of the house and onto the ivy-covered terrace.
She stopped for a second and turned to glance at Dozer who hadn’t moved from his spot. “Hey, buddy. How about a little walk?” The Frenchie opened his eyes and promptly closed them. Anya’s shoulders slumped. “I guess that’s a no.”
“I think so,” I agreed. “He’s incredibly lazy, even for his breed.” I held up my palms in surrender when she narrowed her eyes on me. “No offense,” I added, then nodded toward the doors. “Are we ready?”
“Lead the way,” she muttered.
The island gave way to dramatic limestone cliffs, the sea stretching beyond them in an endless expanse of impossible blues. A warm breeze carried the scent of salt and tropical flowers, stirring the palms that framed the edge of the property.
Hidden within the cliff face was a narrow stone staircase. It had been carved into the rock to disappear from view unless you knew exactly where to look. From above, it was little more than shadow and stone.
She wrapped her fingers around the rail, and we began our slow descent. I stayed half a step behind, watching her footing more than the scenery. The steps were uneven in places, polished smooth by years of salt spray, and one careless misstep could send you tumbling onto the rocks below.
“How big is the island?” she asked once we reached the base of the stairs. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the glare, her gaze sweeping across the coastline as though trying to measure its boundaries herself.
“Big enough,” I replied vaguely.
She gave a small nod, unsurprised by the evasive answer.
I walked ahead, leading her around a rocky outcrop until the cove opened before us.
A secluded crescent of white sand lay between the cliffs, and the water was so clear the seabed shimmered beneath the surface.
At one end of the beach, a private dock extended into the bay, where two jet skis bobbed lazily beside a pair of speedboats and a sleek white yacht.
She lingered for a moment, taking it all in. “It’s really beautiful.”
“Yes,” I agreed, unable to peel my eyes away from the silvery-blonde hair that framed her face and her ocean-blue eyes. God, her beauty took my breath away every time.
“And those are all yours?” She turned to look at me.
I nodded and said, “They’re under lock and key. In case you were wondering.” She rolled her eyes but said nothing. “If you’re up for a jet ski ride later, we’ll head out. Together.”
She answered with a quiet scoff.
We continued to the docks and then climbed a stone path, white limestone rising above the sea as though it had grown from the cliffs themselves. The villa came into view, its glass reflecting the Caribbean sun.
She stopped walking and soaked it all in.
“You like it?” I asked hopefully. Every renovation had been done with Anya’s tastes in mind and I wanted her to love it.
She tore her eyes away from the view. “It’s… nice.”
But her eyes shimmered, telling me the truth. She thought it was more than nice. We continued through to the front door and I entered first, stepping aside to let her in.
Inside, sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating polished travertine and dark walnut, all clean lines and open sleek edges.
I showed her the living room first, then the cinema, the gym, and the wine cellar beneath the house. She barely acknowledged what everything was worth.
Until we entered the library. She gasped as she scanned the walls.
“It was you,” she murmured, her fingers coming up to rest against her plump lips. “You’ve been buying my photographs.”
“Yes, the ones I could get a hold of. Your work sells fast.”
She looked at me over her shoulder. “But why?”
I shrugged. “Those photos are a part of you.”
Slowly, she studied every piece, shaking her head every so often, then walked over to the bookshelves and stopped.
“This… oh my gosh… This is…” She traced the spines of Jane Austen’s second editions of Mansfield Park, Persuasion, and Emma, and then more modern books by her favorite romance authors. “Why do you have these?” she breathed, soaking in all the titles.
“They’re your favorite books, and I want to make you happy.”
“They are.”
Her fingers drifted to the desk where I usually worked.
She pulled open the top drawer—the one that held every letter I’d written to her while we were apart.
Unless she turned them over and inspected them, she’d have no way of knowing they were addressed to her.
Tucked beneath the stack was the wedding ring she’d left behind.
She closed the drawer with deliberate care, then slid open the next.
Her eyebrows shot up as she lifted a pair of handcuffs. “Are these”—she jiggled the cuffs in the air—“for your incarceration?”
I scoffed. “You wish.”
She smiled sweetly and warning bells went off. “Then foreplay?”
Oh, fuck yeah!
“If you want them to be,” I answered coolly. “And yes, it’s a joke.”
“It didn’t sound like one.”
Of course, it didn’t.
What man who hadn’t had sex in over three years could joke about foreplay and handcuffs? I wasn’t a goddamn monk; I’d dreamt about my wife every night, but I was dying a slow death without her.
She turned, her gaze turning hooded. I waited with bated breath as she took a small step toward me, then another, craning her neck to watch me with those eyes that could make my soul shudder.
Maybe I’d done something right because my wife was looking at me like she used to.
Before it all went to hell.