Page 4
Tom found a plush robe and slippers hanging in his lavishly appointed room, so he followed the unobtrusive signage to the spa facilities. And what facilities they were! The flight had been amazing, and a personal driver! He’d never been to a spa in his life, so he didn’t know what to expect, but Archimedes said it was all available for use, so why not? He had a few hours to kill before his meeting with the director of Elixir Wellness, and he needed some time to unwind.
One robe already hung outside the wet sauna, but there were half a dozen other hooks, all empty, implying that it was a shared facility. Tom shed his robe, retrieved a towel from the stack by the door, and pushed through the door. As Archimedes had suggested, this was exactly what he needed after a long day of travel. In the wet warmth, both the stormy day and his jangling nerves immediately began to melt away.
The other robe belonged to a gorgeous man, barely visible through the fragrant clouds of steam. He was completely nude, seated cross-legged with his eyes closed on the upper tier of the wooden benches. Tom quickly took his lead from this and spread his towel near the door, giving this handsome fellow his space.
Discreetly, so as not to disturb a paying guest, Tom let his eyes wander. Damn, was everybody in this place stunningly handsome? He was comfortable with his own looks—his body was trim-ish and healthy, and he’d even been called cute on occasion, although he didn’t have much time to make use of it. His few attempts at a social life had been banished to oblivion by his dedication to chemistry. Not that he’d ever stand a chance with a guy like this, so deliciously compact, with a wiry athleticism, and that face! All sculpted chin and high cheekbones, arched brow and immaculately groomed beard. If this is what spa life could do, he was all in. After a few moments of admiration, the fellow opened his eyes, sensing either Tom’s gaze or the simple presence of another person, giving him a companionable nod before returning to his quiet meditation.
Tom let himself explore this young man’s narrow waist and tight stomach, wondering who he was and what he did. His shoulders and chest and legs were rich brown, glistening in the steamy heat, sweat forming meandering tracks through his inky black chest hair. Was he a yogi, here for a retreat? Or maybe taking a break between teaching classes? He tried to imagine being that calm and focused. He wouldn’t know where to start, it was so far from his experience, but perhaps this was the place to give it a try. There was something about this yogi that made him feel peaceful.
Tom planted his feet firmly on the wood slats, feeling the warmth, and placed his hands on his thighs, running his fingers over the dusting of blond hairs and trying to let his shoulders relax. He closed his eyes and took a few deep, steamy breaths. All on its own, his analytical mind immediately took control, classifying the essential oils the spa added to the steam. Definitely lavender, but not enough to be overpowering, and some citrus notes. Maybe sage, and other traces, undefinable, but adding complexity.
He suddenly realized what he was doing—letting the scientist take over when he should be relaxing—and had to laugh at himself. Once a scientist, always a scientist. He opened his eyes and found the yogi watching him with the barest hint of a smile. There was something in his gaze, some kind of connection in those dark eyes, but Tom couldn’t quite parse what it meant. Humor? Derision? Attraction? He certainly didn’t have the natural beauty of this handsome man, but he’d also never had any complaints when he got naked in the bedroom.
They shared a moment, looking at one another through the scented steam, then the yogi blinked and the connection dissolved. He smoothly uncrossed his legs and glided up to standing, graceful, turning and neatly folding his towel and providing a full tour of his deliciously perky butt in the process. His physique was a vision, a body used to being physical, tight and functional, gleaming in the heat. The yogi nodded to Tom again, and without a word, walked out, letting in a momentary gust of cold air as he pushed through the door.
Damn it all, now he was going to be horny the entire trip.
A gentle rap at his door told Tom it was showtime, the moment he’d been dreading and anticipating for the duration of the long flight from Denver.
In the weeks after he opened that envelope, he did his research, digging up everything he could find about Giles Fortescue. Unfortunately, the file was remarkably thin. The Elixir brand enjoyed a huge internet presence, encompassing the chain of uber-exclusive private resorts, a burgeoning product line, and rumors about expansions into more affordable markets. The website detailed the menu of services offered at the spa (although after much frustration, he couldn’t locate a single price), but Fortescue himself remained a complete mystery. Tom went into the search expecting some mention of him, some random paparazzi shot, something…but the internet was scrubbed clean of anything related to the mysterious Giles Fortescue. Apart from that first letter, which was probably drafted by assistants, Tom knew nothing about him.
It all had a rather exciting cloak-and-dagger feel, with the limo and the opulent room and the sauna, far different from the low-level professional intrigue of academic life. He allowed himself the fancy of imagining he was in a spy thriller or a murder mystery, whisked off to rub shoulders with the upper crust on some dangerous mission. It was all foolish, of course, but just in case, everybody at the lab knew about this interview, so it wasn’t likely he’d be disappeared by some shadowy organization.
As Tom left his room and closed his door, Archimedes rapped on the door directly across the hall, and after a moment, the yogi from the sauna emerged, looking irresistible in a loose, comfortable silk shirt and some rather flattering slacks. He gave the barest double take when he spotted Tom standing in the hallway.
“Thomas Dalton, please meet Zayan Sarim. You’ll be dining together with Giles this evening.”
When Tom shook Zayan’s hand, a small spark snapped between their fingers, probably static built up from the densely patterned rug…but maybe not, given the humid weather. Zayan’s hand was soft, with long thin fingers that gripped Tom’s hand lightly, without the slightest trace of competition. Tom immediately quashed his instinct to grip tightly, to compare their strength in the American manner, choosing instead to hide his indecision with an equally friendly shake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Tom said, remembering with pleasure exactly what was hidden under Zayan’s fetching shirt, but still with no idea who he was. His competition? Were they both vying for the same position? Time would tell.
“The pleasure is mine,” Zayan replied with a full smile, completely genuine, crinkling his eyes. Already, after a moment, there was an openness, building on the look he gave Tom earlier, naked in the clouds of steam. He’d have to watch himself, especially if Zayan was indeed his competition. He could get lost in that smile.
“Shall we?” Archimedes coaxed, waving his hand toward the stairs at the end of the hall. “We don’t want to keep Giles waiting.”
The stairs opened onto a large, open gallery extending the entire width of the facility, lined with picture windows that looked out over the open space behind the house. The rain was back with a vengeance, pounding the windows. A flash illuminated the clouds, followed by a low roll of thunder.
A massive man stood at the windows, facing away from them and surveying the scene, as Archimedes announced, “Giles, your guests have arrived.”
He turned and Tom struggled hard not to stare. He towered over all of them and seemed twice the width, with bulky arms straining the sleeves of his tailored shirt, but his beard was the most arresting feature. It was blue, brilliant blue, but not the blue of artificially dyed hair. His sideburns were deep cobalt blue, almost black where they met his dark hair, and the whiskers on his chin and moustache dazzled in an ombre of cerulean and turquoise, a thousand shades of blue grading into one another. If his beard was dyed, his stylist had some serious talent.
His face, on the other hand, could not be called handsome. The skin was pocked with scars, small and large, and forceful brow ridges cast deep shadows highlighting a prominent nose. Perhaps the most arresting feature were the eyes—even hidden in shadow, they glittered a crystalline blue, bluer than the Caribbean, bluer than lapis lazuli, bluer than the purest clear blue summer sky.
A blue beard…Tom’s mind couldn’t let it go. What could possibly cause that? This man’s skin was richly tanned, so he was obviously not albino. So, the dark hair and dark shading in the sideburns must be the typical melanins…but the blues? Copper ions? Surely not, given the toxicity. Organic chromophores? But what? His mind refused to let it go.
“Thomas?” he heard, coming back to his senses. He realized he’d been gawking, and his host was right in front of him, extending his thick hand. Quick, he needed to think of something, something complimentary to cover up this rude staring.
“I apologize,” Tom said, hoping he hadn’t destroyed his chances for the position before the interview even started. “I’m not used to any of this. The, um, opulence of your establishment has me distracted.”
CHAPTER 4
Bluebeard smiled. He wasn’t normally one for physical displays of emotion, but he simply couldn’t have asked for better. The thunderstorm added a gravitas that fit his needs perfectly, and his arrangements for the visit had already thrown Thomas off his guard, as he expected. Zayan was another matter—he seemed unflappable—but that was also exactly what he needed. His scheme was already proceeding precisely according to plan.
He engulfed Tom’s smaller hand with a powerful grip, and said with his most affable voice, “I’m glad you like it.”
“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Fortescue.”
A small flurry of annoyance cooled his smile by a few degrees. He was well and truly ready to shed that ridiculous surname—why he ever chose it, he’d never know, but he’d be forced to keep it for the foreseeable future, at least until the plan came to fruition and he could reinvent himself, yet again. He pasted the smile back on his face and cast a frosty look at Archimedes. “Archimedes didn’t tell you? I prefer Giles.” The name his father gave him those many years ago, which he would never change. Naturally, he used the French pronunciation, rhyming with the English word zeal.
