It’s no good; I have to say something. “Mars, I want to apologize for last night.”
He tips his head to the side. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.”
“Oh come on… the rose petals? The champagne? I know what you were expecting, and I’m sorry I didn’t fulfill my end of the bargain.”
He fixes me with a direct gaze. “I’ve waited ten years. I can wait one more night. It wasn’t a problem.”
I remove a flake of croissant from my lip with my tongue. His gaze drops to watch before returning to mine, a fraction hotter.
My pulse picks up a little. It’s odd, having this strange power over a man. I’ve never experienced it before. I’m only now beginning to realize how lackluster my relationship with Cory truly was. He never looked at me the way Marcus does—with a gaze like a blowtorch, searing through me. With eyes that suggest he’s thinking about me naked, his mind running through options of what he wants to do to me, discarding some, and adding new ones to the list.
I suppose the fact that I turned him down is like catnip to a man who negotiates international business deals for a living. He’s not used to being told no, and it’s created a ten-year-long obsession that he’s determined to see through to the end.
And then what? I tear my gaze away from his and look out at the view. Nothing’s changed. I still need to think of this as an arrangement. When I get what I came for, I can decide then what I want to do going forward.
He changes the subject, asking me whether I’ve been to Cambridge before, and I tell him that I haven’t, as when I’vevisited Clare in Wellington I’ve always flown, so I haven’t had the chance to explore much of the area.
He leans back, chatting about the journey, and my tension gradually dissipates as I realize he’s trying to help me relax. Last night might have been a mistake on my part, but he doesn’t seem angry about it.
“When do you want to leave?” I ask, finishing off my coffee.
“As soon as we’re ready. I think you might feel better once we’re at the farm. It’s less…” He thinks about what word to use. “Intimidating, maybe.”
I nod. “You’re probably right. My uncle—my mum’s brother—has a farm, and Clare and I used to go there as kids.”
“Great,” he says, “so you know what to expect. Well, shall we?”
Part of me had wondered whether he was going to suggest we return to the bedroom, and I feel a rush of relief at the thought that he wants to wait.
He says he has a quick phone call to make, so I take the opportunity to collect my case and backpack, carefully fold my wedding dress and pack it, brush my teeth, and pull on my sandals, and then he joins me, sliding his feet into his Converse sneakers. We collect our bags, and head out of the apartment and down in the elevator to the car park.
To my surprise, Marcus loads our cases into the boot—not of the dark-gray Bentley, but into a silver Bentley Continental GTC.
“The second love of my life,” he states, putting my backpack on the back seat.
“After the other Bentley?” I confirm as we get in.
He just laughs, starts it, and presses a button to lower the soft top, giving me an impish smile that suggests he still isn’t immune to the delights of owning a convertible. Within a few minutes, we’re on the road, heading toward State Highway 1.
It’s a beautiful summer day, and the breeze is warm, if a little stiff, tugging at my hair and making it snap around my face. I fish out an elastic band and scoop it back into a ponytail, then lower my sunglasses. My headache has faded and the croissant has settled my stomach, and I lean back to enjoy the ride.
Marcus asks Siri to play a playlist, and Taylor Swift starts singingCruel Summer. It makes me laugh because it’s so not a song he would pick. He knows I like her, and he’s put it on for me. He grins and starts singing.
“Oh my God,” I say, “you know the words.”
“I learned them for my little Swiftie.” He chuckles as he goes into the chorus.
I join in, my heart lifting a little. He’s making an effort for me, which I can’t help but find incredibly sweet.
We stop after half an hour or so at a petrol station, and he gets out to fill the car and goes in to pay. I watch him stride across the forecourt. He oozes wealth and confidence, and as he passes two young women, they both turn to look at him as he enters the shop. He doesn’t even glance at them, though, so he doesn’t see them nudge each other and giggle.
They’re looking at my husband. I surprise myself by feeling a little tug of jealousy. Wow, that’s odd. I look down at my left hand, at the gold band sitting beneath the beautiful diamond ring. Yesterday, I wasn’t sure how I felt about wearing a wedding ring. It felt like a brand, as if he was trying to tell every guy I meet that they can’t touch me because I belong to him. Knowing Marcus, that thought did go through his mind.
I look up as he gets back in the car, and smile as he holds out a KitKat. “How did you know I was in the mood for chocolate?” I tease.
“You’re awake,” he says, and laughs, slotting a bottle of water in the cup holder. “Keep drinking. You’ll be dehydrated after last night.”
He looks happy as he starts the car and rejoins the traffic. I glance at his left hand where it rests on the steering wheel. He’s wearing a ring, too. Other women can’t touch him because he belongs to me.
