Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 167759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
‘Kissing you goodbye isn’t what I want,’ I’d told her, brushing away the fallen strands of her hair. ‘I want to be able to kiss you good night every night.’
‘So you give me a house?’ Her voice held more than a note of cynicism, but her gaze was soft. ‘Maybe you should get a tent and pitch it in the garden.’ Her laughter vibrated through my chest, and I wanted nothing more than to keep her there. To take her upstairs, fall into the bed. Fall into her.
It will happen. Just not tonight. Tonight, I gave her a lot to think about, and I hope she climbs into bed tonight and dreams of our future.
The caterers leave, and the housekeeper retires for the evening while I top up my glass and wander out into the garden. Below, the lights of Monaco glint and gleam like fireflies, the sea beyond as motionless as dark-coloured glass. I wonder when exactly I should mention to Rose that her house comes with staff. That should be an interesting conversation. Maybe one that ends with a little more fulfillment than a fumble in the kitchen.
Perhaps I should see it as delayed gratification. But she was so hot under my fingertips, and she’d watched with the kind of intensity that made my vision go hazy with need. There will be other times, I tell myself. A lifetime of moments; happy ones, angry ones, years spent in bed making it up to her. Because I envisage I’ll be the one at fault. As I am now. Because I can’t help myself.
À chaque jour suffit sa peine. Trouble for another day.
For now, I go to the marina.
The night is still mild as Hénri drives me to Port Hércules with instructions to collect me in the morning. On the quayside, I find myself whistling as I weave my way between the parked Ferraris and Aston Martins as I head to the pontoon where Le Bon Loup, the three-hundred-and-fifty-foot super yacht registered to Wolf Industries, is moored. I’d grown up on boats, or rather yachts, and owned quite a few of them myself. If you want to live the life of the profligate rich, you have to have the toys. Meaning yachts to party on, high-powered motorcycles to race, and cars to cruise in. An apartment in every uber-cool city and the girl on your arm. It’s a life you bore of before long. That’s when I sold up and bought a piece of an island, where I learned to sail and to build instead of destroy. I tell myself I could have those days back, but the lure of business is still too great.
But still, I enjoy owning the toys, even if this one is more a tax break, and Le Loup is the largest boat I’ve ever owned. So much so that she’s not the kind of vessel I could operate myself, requiring both crew and captain. She’s a status symbol; an indicator of wealth and power, rather than something you can take out on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Polished oak floors and designer bedrooms. A saltwater swimming pool, a jacuzzi, and space to lounge until your heart is content all on one deck. She has a formal dining room large enough to seat twenty and space to entertain, whether that be dancing or gathering around the baby grand piano or seated at the cocktail bar. Sleek, yet grand and imposing, she really is ridiculous but a good way to fox the taxman. And the place I’ll be sleeping for the next few nights.
The vessel is moored at the very end of the wharf, stern to, which is reversed in, I suppose, with the port side almost parallel with the pier wall. I approach the passerelle, the gangway, and though I don’t have the prerequisite footwear, I don’t intend to go barefoot once on board. Boat rules are barefoot or boat shoes, but as I’m heading directly for the master cabin, my bespoke Berluti’s will have to do.
I take a moment to watch the moon riding high as I contemplate how much more open Rose was this evening. It’s taken almost a month to get her to see how much I regret hurting her. A month for us both to realise how much I love her. I suppose the old adage is right; absence does make the heart grow fonder. Not that, strictly speaking, she’s been physically absent from my life, but I’ve felt the loss of her in my bed each and every night. Lord knows, or perhaps I should rather invoke Everett’s name, I’ve tormented her with my presence enough to drive her over the edge. But my plan is about to come full circle because tonight she looked at me with such a softness that I can believe she truly loves me, though she might not yet have said so.