Chapter 14
KARINA
I crack one eye open, squint against the blinding morning light, and roll over with a grumble.
“Time to get up, wife,” Dima says. I drag a pillow over my head to block the glare.
His laugh rumbles, deep and almost friendly.
I wriggle farther under the blanket, avoiding the morning sunshine as best I can.
When the room falls silent, I relax and release my death grip on the pillow.
He must have given up, off to jog or do whatever he does at this unholy hour. I let out a long breath of relief.
He whips the blankets away, and I bolt upright with a shout of dismay. Dima stands beside the bed, covers clutched in his hands, grinning. “Come on, princess,” he teases, “no sleeping late today. We have plans.”
“Plans? It’s our honeymoon,” I whine. “I want to relax and sleep in, maybe swim later and have dinner. What kind of honeymoon did you plan?”
“The best kind. Get up and get dressed, you only have ten minutes,” he says crisply.
“Ten minutes? It’s a wonder your brigadiers haven’t shot you outright if this is how you act!” I say.
“I’m sure they’ve considered it. But I’m the man in charge.
Put on some clothes and brush your hair.
Don’t scowl at me; it’s only tangled from last night,” he says.
“You have nine minutes now. We’re leaving whether you’re ready or not.
As your husband, I’d prefer you didn’t take the boat trip to Lady of the Rock totally naked, so hurry. ”
He sounds so smug I want to smack him, but there’s no time for a tantrum. I need to get dressed, slather on sunscreen, and wrestle my hair into submission. I roll out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, muttering.
“Nice language for a bride the morning after her wedding,” he says, amused.
Bleary-eyed, I rummage through my suitcase for something to wear.
I’m sore in places after our athletic wedding night, walking a little stiffly.
I definitely need to wash my thighs, and maybe a few other spots.
Heat flares in my cheeks as images of the positions he folded me into flicker through my mind, the urgency that kept us tangled most of the night.
Dragging me out of bed this early after all that feels cruel.
I’ve never showered faster, and my skin is still damp when I slip into a sundress and sandals. I twist my wet hair up and pin it. I’m in the middle of applying makeup when he opens the bathroom door. “Time to go,” he says.
“Give me a minute,” I insist.
“You have one minute left,” he says. “I knew you’d argue, so I started early.”
I finish my mascara, grab a straw hat and my purse, then shove oversized sunglasses onto my face before we even leave the room.
“Are you afraid of sunlight? You’re not a vampire, are you?” he jokes.
I stay silent. In the palatial marble lobby, a porter glides over with a silver tray of coffee and orange juice. I take the juice, only to discover it’s a mimosa, and I drain it gratefully.
“So was that relaxation courtesy of sugar or champagne?” he asks as the car glides toward the marina.
I expect a guided tour, a sailboat, and maybe a crowd of sunburned tourists. Instead, Dima commandeers a sleek white speedboat and helps me aboard.
“Is this yours?”
“For the day,” he says. “I wanted privacy.”
“Are you going to drive the boat?”
“Unless you want to. I know you have a boating license.”
“I do, but I’m not sure where we’re going,” I say.
“See that island?” He points across the bright azure water to a small isle, the steeple of an old church rising in the distance.
“Yes,” I say.
“That’s where we’re going. A fifteenth-century man-made island with a historic church, a prison, and a few submarine tunnels.”
“A prison? Submarine tunnels? I’ll go look at the church, and I’ll hang out on the beach, but I’m not touring a prison.”
“It’s up to you.”
“What kind of tourist attraction is that?”
“Not my style. I’ve spent decades keeping out of prison,” he says wryly, and I can’t resist smiling at that.
“We agree on that. Will you point out the sights and tell me historical facts?”
“I can, if you like.” He smirks and starts the ignition. “You’d better hold on, I like to go fast.”
I sink into the seat and catch my breath as he guns the engine. Water churns behind us, wind whipping curls loose from my carefully pinned chignon. He handles the controls like a pro, slicing across the bright water.
“In the fifteenth century, legend says a fisherman found an icon of the Madonna on these rocks. After each safe voyage, sailors began leaving stones here, and over time their offerings formed an island. The church was built in honor of Our Lady.”
“It’s beautiful, even from here. I like that story,” I say. He slows the boat and slides into a slip. “Is it a busy tourist attraction? I figure it will be crowded.”
“It’s very popular. The day trips book up months in advance. The top tour gives you twenty minutes at the church and a twenty-minute stop to see the blue cave and take photos.”
“That’s all? Who wants to rush around like that? I mean, besides you with your ten-minute timer,” I say.
“I am a busy man. I don’t like to waste time.” He shrugs expressively.
In casual clothes and bright sunlight, with his windblown hair, he looks younger and more at ease, and almost painfully handsome. Grateful for my sunglasses, I look away before he can see the hunger already on my face.
We step off the boat, and I’m a little unsteady on my feet. He takes my hand, sets it on his arm so he can help me until I have my balance back. I look around the sunbaked island, perplexed.
“Where are the crowds?”
“They’re not here today. I told you, I want privacy.”
“So, you just told everyone to leave the island for an hour?” I chuckle.
“Not everyone. The church’s caretaker stayed behind. Inside hangs a famous tapestry, which the artist spent twenty-five years weaving it while she waited for her husband to return. She went blind during the work and even wove strands of her own hair into it.”
I grimace. “That’s not exactly a charming story. She went blind waiting for her husband to come home. Please don’t expect me to weave a tapestry out of my hair because you think it’s romantic.”
“Not at all,” he says. “There are some beautiful icons and paintings.” He leads me into the church.
The imposing marble altar holds an icon of Mary, and I wonder whether it’s the same one the fisherman found.
The silence is so deep in the shadowy interior that I don’t want to speak.
I kneel, whisper a quick prayer, then step back to light a candle.
My husband, it still feels strange to call him that, prays beside me before joining me.
We study the artwork, and he points out Byzantine details. Outside, I linger to snap a few photos.
“The blue cave isn’t far,” he says, leading me back to the boat.
“Okay, do you need to blow a whistle or anything so all the other tourists can come out of hiding now?” I tease him.
“No, they’ll open it up in another hour or so.” He glances at his watch. “We’ll have plenty of time at the cave, too.”
“No twenty minute limit?” I say. He shakes his head.
“It’s supposed to be very beautiful.”
“You haven’t seen it before? You own the resort and casino.”
“I don’t take time for sightseeing.”
“You’re a busy man,” I reply, thinking it’s sad that he never slows down to appreciate the beautiful places where he does business.
“Yes, but perhaps too busy at times,” he relents as he helps me on the boat.
It feels different to take his hand now, having been together in the somber stillness of the old church and emerged into the unbelievable brightness of the morning.
The bay is so blue it almost hurts to look at it.
He drives the boat to a rocky outcropping.
We slip inside an opening into the dark cavern.
I remove my sunglasses and stand up to move closer to him.
“The Spiva Shaft is the largest cave on Kotor Bay,” he says as he cuts the ignition. “Except at high tide, when it’s inaccessible, this place is packed with watercraft and dozens of tourists all day long.”
“It’s empty now,” I observe, my eyes starting to adjust to the darkness.
“Exactly,” he says with satisfaction.
Within seconds the vibrant water begins to glow, a luminous blue, as if the rugged cave walls and the sand far below emit their own light.
“The water’s so blue because of the minerals, and the sunlight strikes the water in here through those crevices just so, and it makes this otherworldly glow,” Dima explains.
“Can we swim?” I ask.
He strips off his shirt. I look around, realizing I didn’t bring a bathing suit.
Moving toward me, he begins unbuttoning my white sundress.
“It’s okay. You don’t need a suit,” he says, his smile predatory enough to make my heart pound.
I help with the buttons, and soon my dress and sandals are off.
He hooks his fingers under my panties and drags them down my legs.
I step out of them, keenly aware of his heat and closeness.
He drops his shorts and climbs to the side of the boat, poised for an instant, all lean, bronzed muscle, god-like, before diving into the water.
I gasp at the sight, moved by how gorgeous and strong he is, how his athletic dive splits the water without a splash.
I’m more cautious getting to the edge, but I dive after him.
The water is surprisingly warm, the salinity buoying me upward.