“What’s that?” She presses herself into my palm.
“Show, don’t tell,” I murmur, and draw her in for another kiss.
Thirty-Six
Vicky
Aweek after we reach Spain, I’m fully recovered from the cold I had, and the nightmares that have been plaguing me have reduced to every other night.
Alex is certain Van Wyk and Fournier will leave us alone. I’ve messaged Lucy from a throw-away account hidden behind VPNs and firewalls, and her reply was tentative but hopeful. I’ll feel better when that meeting has taken place, because it will be proof they’ve listened.
Alex has been… thoughtful. Caring. It suits him, and he seems happier. He’s even gentle when we make love, like he was the first two months we were together. It’s nice, but… he hasn’t spanked me yet, and he promised. Or tied me up. Or cutmy panties off with a stolen knife. Even though I’ve made it perfectly clear I’m fully recovered.
Each day, he spends a few hours in his ‘study’—this stupidly large house has far too many rooms, and one got claimed as his. His new computer arrived and was set up, and two large monitors dominate the desk. But he always stops what he’s doing whenever I walk in, bringing him a coffee or a glass of wine, or just coming to talk.
We talk a lot. Far more than we ever have before.
“Where do you think we should live?” he asks, one morning, leaning back in the executive leather chair he bought that horribly clashes with the rest of the décor.
I look up from my learn-Spanish app. I’m sitting in the chair I like. It’s wicker, big enough for me to tuck my legs up, and comfortable even without all the throws and cushions that cover it. “I thought we were living here.”
“Oh, we are. But this is just temporary. It’s notours,is it?”
No, it isn’t. And maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel like home. I didn’t say anything because I’m used to that; living in Alex’s house in Westchester. Staying in Alex’s apartment in Manhattan.
“How do we make it ours?” I ask.
He smiles at me. He’s smiling more of late. “I had an idea about that.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll buy it, you choose it.”
As I have no money, the first part of that is a given.I want to get a job—or at least findsomethingto do—but there’s been no rush. This still feels like a holiday. Temporary, indulgent, escapist. Dreamlike, in the way that it must eventually dissolve.
His comment piques my interest, but doesn’t solve the problem. “I don’t want to choose it,” I reply. “I wantusto choose it.”
“Come and have a look, then.”
He’s being deliberately mysterious, smug as he pushes his chair back to make room for me. I get up, walk around his desk. I thought he’d been working, but both screens have a dozen tabs open, and the top one of each is a different house. I lean in to take a closer look, but that’s not enough for him, and he pulls me onto his lap.
His breath tickles my ear. “These short shorts are very distracting.”
“Shh. Concentrating.”
He chuckles softly, slides a hand under my T-shirt, and cups my bare breast.
“You callmedistracting,” I mutter, and take the mouse, beginning to click through what he’s found.
The one on top is a sprawling estate that looks more like a fortress than a house. Endless rooms, staff wings, courtyards for gathering the troops. Far too much. I say nothing but click into the next, and my heart falls a little bit. A white stucco house with square lines, stunning views of the Mediterranean and direct access to a beach, plus its own swimming pool. It looks like the ideal place for a hen party on a top-end budget, and nowhere I could comfortablyspend more than twenty-four hours.
Alex says nothing, his hand not moving on my body, waiting for my verdict.
There are another dozen houses to click through on this browser alone, and more on the other screen too. He’s spent hours at it. I need to find a way to let him down gently. Or do this myself.
“What do you think?” he asks, as I skip over the third one almost entirely. It’s an ultra-modern glass monstrosity, and the $23 million price tag only makes it worse.
“Um… I like aspects of some of them.” They have roofs, for example. Those are useful when it rains.
