Page 135 of The Stranger

PRIMROSE

I sit back in my chair and stare at the doorway long after Luc has disappeared through it. What the heck was that all about? And I really did only come back down to get my shoes. But also because a tiny part of me wanted to see how Luc handled the Felix situation.

So why am I sitting here like the queen of Sheba at his say-so? This is not my job, though it’s nice to be waited on. And I did see appreciation in his blue gaze. A warmth even. An understanding. Perhaps we’ve reached a truce of sorts.

Except… I reach for my wine. No. There wasn’t an ounce of surrender on that handsome face of his. And then there was the roofies comment. I wouldn’t rob either of us of the experience. I shiver, despite the evening still bearing the sun’s warmth.

The wine is cool in my hand and the glass condensation-slick, and liquid turns from pink to gold thanks to how the terrace lights strike it. As I swirl the glass, I’m hit by a sudden notion; Luc might be watching from an upstairs window. I adjust my posture hoping to look relaxed yet alluring.

Looks like he’s not the only one ready to give up.

Only he’s still actively fighting for the experience and I’m still fighting myself.

My mouth curls against the glass’s fine rim as I watch a breeze lightly ruffle the pool’s surface, disturbing the moon’s reflection. The wine is cool and tart and delicious as I swallow it down. It’s strange how nothing makes you want something like putting it out of reach.

As I’m finding out for myself.

Head and body at war, sense and sensibilities no longer friends. It’s a whole thing, I think with a sigh. He was super hard to resist being hot and bossy, but this sweet side of him is sort of—what was that?

My head jerks up as, overhead—like, directly above me—comes a noise I dread. The clack-clack-clackity sound that is the reason I’ll never live somewhere warm or tropical. A frickin’ gecko. I hate geckos with all that I am worth, and the thought that one is currently loose and dancing on the arbor above my head is a nightmare. They are the stuff of nightmares with their rubbery bodies and suction cup fingery things.

I shrink into myself and will it elsewhere as I gingerly slide my glass back onto the table. It’s not going to fall, I silently soothe. Those things stick like snot on a stick. But I know that’s not true. Ask me how I know. Only, make it a time I’m sufficiently medicated to tell the tale.

Above me, I swear I hear the faintest pop. Another then another then another, almost like four microscopic suction cups just relinquished their hold. I look up just in time to see sometime pale and small become subject to gravity.

The something lands in my cleavage, and I freeze. This is a sign from the universe—a warning. Stop thinking perve-y thoughts about your boss or it’ll rain a plague down on me. A plague of…

I look down, and the worst thing I can imagine stares back at me from, nested where no lizard should ever be. For one long second, neither the gecko nor I react until, like a climber dangling perilously from a rocky crevice, he drops a little more.

FML. The devil’s minion just disappeared down the front of my dress.

I scream. Boy, do I scream. It’s not a little scream—or even a human sounding one—as I launch out of the chair, sending my wine glass flying across the table. I begin yanking at my dress, leaping around like a leprechaun on a bad trip thanks to the distress of a million suction cup feet plodding all over me.

“Get it out—get it out!” I shriek, praying for the telltale slap of lizard against tile.

But it doesn’t come, and I don’t consciously make my next decision. I just know that one minute I’m wearing a cute sundress and, the next, I’m shedding it and my dignity. Which leaves me standing at the pool’s edge in nothing but a pair of pink knickers, performing what I’m sure must look like a full-body exorcism as its phantom sucker feet continue to Irish dance all over me.

There’s nothing else for it: I hurl myself into the pool to rid myself of the sensation. The water slows everything down, cutting off sound and sight and calming my farm, my tits, and my skin. My feet touch the pool’s bottom before I push upward, jackknifing through the surface again. I cough and push the wet hair from my eyes… only to be faced by a pair of dark suede loafers at the pool’s edge. My gaze travels upwards. Bare ankles. Linen trousers.

No prizes for guessing who.

“What the hell happened?”

There’s no amusement in his voice—none—as he drops immediately into a crouch. His eyes move over my face, then the water around me before he gives his head a shake, probably discarding any theories he might’ve had. “Are you hurt?”

Was he scanning the water for blood?

“There aren’t any crocs in Mallorca.” Unless Manu took my shoes already and left his in their place. Crocs, I mean.

“Croc—did you bump your head?”

“No,” I say to the tune of a Homer Simpson, Doh, mainly because I’ve just noticed how free boobs react like flotation devices. Who knew? I hunch forward a touch as I continue to tread water, but the traitorous fun bags keep rising to the top, all sort of: Look at me, Luc! Luc at me!

“What happened? I heard you scream and⁠—”

“I was startled by something,” I say, hunching more. I think I’m mostly okay. It’s dark now, and the pool lights aren’t set so bright where I am. Also, the way his shadow falls over me helps. I might just get away with this, I decide, sliding my arm across my chest to hug my shoulder. I can tread water one-handed, no probs, see!

“Primrose, that was not the scream of a startled woman. It was the scream of someone being murdered.”