Page 57 of Lair

What do I say? To the blood singing in me, to the happiness exploding in my veins? To the warmth of Mrs. Colding’s glowing approval behind me?

“Yes,” I say, the only thing I can say. “Yes. I’d like that.”

That. This. Us.

All of it, Adrian. I like all of it.

THIRTY

At dusk I consider myself in the mirror, the flirty bodycon dress clinging to my every curve, the earrings shining like stars out of my wavy black hair. I have no idea where we’re going or what I’m in for, but I’m all but hovering on my tiptoes with excitement. I’m pursing my lips to apply my signature red lipstick when Mrs. Colding appears like a specter in the mirror behind me.

I jump, but Mrs. Colding merely takes the tube of lipstick from me. I realize she’s waiting for me and pucker up.

“Hard to do with shaky hands,” she acknowledges.

I laugh. “Yeah.” Then, after she traces my upper lip, “Sometimes I still can’t believe I’m here. That this is my life now. With Adrian.”

The corner of Mrs. Colding’s mouth purses in a restrained smile. “I can.”

My brow furrows, and she lifts her own in dead-faced seriousness. “Who do you think slipped your résumé to the captain, hmm? Do you think a farm girl like you just happens to get into the running at Lair Yachting, Incorporated?”

I open my mouth, but she tsks. “Lips.”

I purse.

“We do a thorough background check on our hires, my dear. And we have our resources. So we wouldn’t miss, for instance, any domestic abuse reports you’d filed against an ex.” My stomach clenches, but Mrs. Colding looks strangely pleased. “You’re a fighter if I’ve ever seen one. Do you know how long I’ve waited for someone like you to come along? For someone who had what it took to crack him open?” She studies her work like an art critic, smacks her lips.

I smack.

She nods, satisfied, looks me in the eyes. “You’re stronger than you know, Miss Strand. Never forget that.”

My throat bobs. “I won’t.”

After what seems like an eternity she smiles, and my heart leaps. “Have fun, darling.”

Mrs. Colding’s words are replaying in my head as I emerge barefoot onto the aft main deck, a pair of four-inch heels dangling from one hand. The sun has dropped below the Andalusian Gothic buildings of a Spanish port, and I smell old stone, and palm trees, and hear snatches of Spanish on the cool air. Something whirs, a flash of color gleams in the sky, and I watch with jaw ajar as a crane lowers a flame-orange Lamborghini onto a cobbled street beside a dashing figure in a laid-back blazer. Is that... Adrian?

His brilliant smile greets me as I descend the passerelle and goggle at the sleek, sexy lines of the sportscar. “What”—I arch a brow—“are you up to?”

But his smile only widens, and he lifts one of the vertical doors open and gestures at the leather-upholstered luxury within. He may as well be ushering me into another world. “Please,” he purrs, offering a hand, and I fight back a smile as I lower myself inside and scissor my long bare legs, feeling like a pampered goddess. Holy shit.

When he gets in beside me, he levels a look at me. “Ready?”

I nod, heart in throat, and he grins.

When he revs the Lamborghini’s V12 engine, the aggressive power of it reverberates down into my bones, taking my breath away. All the needles on the dash leap, and before I know it I’m sucked back into my seat and we’ve left the Lair behind, zooming low along the street cobbles and out into the Andalusian countryside.

Jesus, Arie, try not to get wet already.

We do not speak for a long time. I let his eyes flick over, again and again, to my bare legs, and my chest glows with exultation when I glance over at his lap and see a hard, heavy angle in his pants. He wants me. Now. In this car. His desire for me fills the Lamborghini like a cologne, heavy and possessive. I squirm and squeeze my legs together. I can barely breathe, barely concentrate on the headlights rushing over the strip of blacktop winding through the rolling hills. We must be breaking all kinds of speed limits, for it seems only moments before we’re gliding through a high-security gate and a maze of hedge row gardens groomed to perfection. Ahead of us rises a traditional, yellow stucco clifftop villa blasting light and music out over the sea, a fleet of twinkling Ferraris, Porsches and other Lamborghinis nosed into the shade of magnificent cypress trees off the driveway. At our approach, white-gloved valets float out of the shadows as if the night were coming alive.

There’s a smile in Adrian’s voice when he turns to me. “A friend of mine was throwing a party. I thought you’d enjoy the experience.”

I find my voice. “He isn’t—”

“No.” More serious now. “He’s not one of my kind.”

I nod and turn to him, trying a smile. “Okay.”

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