Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
12
RAIF
“Regret your choice of bride yet?”
“It’s barely been twelve hours.”
I follow her out of the house and watch as she wobbles her way across the terrace, her laughter floating on the fragrant night air.
She’s a little buzzed, true, but not roofied. Self-medicated against nervousness would be my guess as she navigates the furniture, pausing to peel off one unlaced boot, then the other. Socks follow, all thrown haphazardly behind her. She makes for the pool and, when I think she might jump in, traverses the edge like a circus tightrope walker instead.
She veers off to the right, in the direction of the glass fence, tipping onto her toes to look down at the rock face. Limestone graveling underfoot, chickweed, bitter orange trees, and buckthorn bushes I’d tear my shirts on. It’s a land that’s familiar to me.
I grew up not far from here, in a neighborhood much less salubrious, running through the scrub and generally getting up to no good. When I was a kid, this area was the pinnacle of wealth to me. I’d sworn that, when I was older, I’d buy my mother the biggest house on the hill.
She just didn’t live long enough.
As she lowers to her heels, I realize I’d checked out while staring at her ass. There are worse things to look at.
She leans back against the glass, her elbows hooked over the edge. The scent of neroli and jasmine perfumes the air, the night sky twinkling behind her, the sea a shining oil slick in the distance.
All this beauty and her at the center of it.
My wife. That shouldn’t make me feel good, but the things that aren’t good for you usually do.
“You know, it bugs me how some people only count their relationship from the point of marriage,” she announces, picking up where she’d left off. “Like that’s the pinnacle—the be-all and end-all. As though what came before wasn’t also a significant commitment.”
“I stand corrected, but given that our commitment to each other hasn’t yet reached the twenty-four-hour mark, the answer is still no. I don’t regret you.” After stubbing my cigarette out on the wall, I flick the butt into a nearby plant pot.
“Much better.” Her eyes fall over me as I cross the terrace and pull out a chair from the dining setting. Turning it to face her, I take a seat, propping my heel on my opposite knee.
“I should imagine that’s long enough to decide whether it’s worth putting up with me.” She crosses her legs at her ankles. Fuck, those legs. Those toned, tan legs. I want them wrapped around my head again, even if tonight isn’t that night.
She’ll say when. She’ll say where. And I won’t give her space for regrets.
“Comfortable, princess?” My voice sounds husky as she arches her back a little, her thighs pushed tight together.
“Yes.” In the low light, her cheeks take on a pink tinge. “Why?”
“No reason.” I glance down to hide my smile, picking an invisible piece of lint from my shirt.
“I swear the shirt you went out in was white.”
“I don’t regret you, and this shirt wasn’t white.”
“Yet. You don’t regret me yet.”
“You’re hoping to drive me to the edge of my sanity?”
“It’ll be too late for you to change your mind, then. Your darling wife will have emptied your bank accounts and shoved you in a lunatic asylum as quick as that.” She clicks her middle finger and thumb together. “One with barbed wire fences and doors with padlocks.”
“Gothic. You like to read?”
“Mostly romance novels.”
She seems almost to dare me into commenting, but we just stare at each other instead.
“It’s beautiful here,” she says after that pleasant pause. “So peaceful.” Her chest rises as she inhales a deep breath.
“That’s because I bought the neighboring properties and knocked them down.”
“Really?” She sounds amused. “Do you always just… do what you want?”
“Not always. Sometimes I do the right thing, and other times…”
“You do the wrong thing?”
I nod.
“For the right reason?”
“Not often,” I say, reaching back to link my fingers behind my head.
She angles her gaze away. “Do you spend much time here?”
“Not these days.” It is beautiful. The view. The house. The stark ruggedness of the peninsula. But the country is small. Too small. And the memories are not so good. I have other bases in far lovelier places.
“Is Gibraltar a tax haven?”
“Why, are you looking for one?”
“Maybe I’m thinking ahead,” she replies.
“I think you’d prefer Monaco.”
She laughs softly as her gaze falls. “You’re funny. And you can dance,” she says as though these make her unhappy.
“I’m good at other stuff too, princess.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“So much truth. Maybe you’ve had too much to drink.”
“I hope not. Drinking for twelve months straight seems like a poor fall-back plan.”
“I guess so,” I answer with a chuckle.
“I’m sure I’ll find some other way.” Her gaze flicks over me. Critically or with consternation? Probably both. But there’s interest in those blue eyes, too.