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With a nod from me, he leads me out of the small room.
The “house” Freddie leased is a freaking villa situated on a cliff overlooking the bay separating Tortola from St. John, the smallest of the U.S. Virgin Islands. It has five bedrooms and five and a half bathrooms. The entire thing is at least ten thousand square feet.
Stepping out onto the wooden balcony surrounding the second floor, I clasp my hands at my chest releasing a little “Oh!” at the panoramic view of the shimmering turquoise waters with the green, rolling hills of St. John in the distance.
While I would never take back my statement that our worlds are vastly different, I could very, very easily get used to this part of Cal’s life—the ability to run away to a villa on an island far from the trappings of royalty.
He joins me on the balcony, and I long for the days when I could melt into his embrace. “I’d say this is better than the other place.”
“It’s so beautiful,” I confess. I’d be an idiot to say otherwise, and I won’t lie to him again.
“We can stay here a day or two, but then we have to get back. It’s not secure here, and Rowan needs me at home.” I study the buttons of his shirt until he ducks down to catch my eyes. “Are you listening?”
“Are you?” My voice is soft, not attacking, but he’s not listening to me. “I can’t go back with you, Cal.”
“And I’m not leaving you here, so you’ve got forty-eight hours to figure it out.” He reaches out to lift my chin, and our eyes meet—his still flinty. “Don’t make me have to arrest you.”
Jerking my chin away, I stomp inside the gorgeous home. The floors are covered in wide Spanish tiles and the walls are a mixture of white plaster and huge French doors, half of which are open to allow the sea breeze to fill the room. An enormous king-sized bed is against one wall, and assorted pieces of leather furniture are positioned in front of it in a small sitting area. Two ceiling fans hang from the ceiling—two!
With a little frown, I shake my head. “Look at this place,” I mutter.
“I’m thinking of buying it,” he says, following me. “It’s for sale, and you won’t always be in danger. At least I hope not.”
His voice has changed, his anger diminished, and I use the one argument I think might work. “Your people won’t approve of me.”
“I think the citizens of Monagasco will be more accepting than you believe. I’m not as much of a figurehead as Ro, and you’re actually quite charming when you’re not robbing casinos.”
My chest burns with shame. “That’s exactly what I mean.” I walk to a wooden armchair and run my finger over the bright yellow pillow positioned on it. “I’ve met your mother. I’ve met Lara Westingroot. I’ve seen the disgusted glares from the nobility. They’ll never approve of me.”
“They’ve never approved of me.” He walks slowly to the bed and leans against it. He’s listening to me, and I kind of love him more for it. “I’ve done things that would make your little casino heist look like catechism—and it’s all been captured on film and plastered across social media.”
That makes me grin. “Yes, but they’re stuck with you.”
When I look up, he’s allowed the tiniest smile. “Thanks.”
I still need clothes, and it gives me an idea. “Tell you what. I’ll show you what my life is like, and then you can decide how it fits into your pampered existence.”
?
??I’m not so pampered, but I’m not staying at that shit hole again.”
A little eye roll, and I exhale heavily. “Other than where we stay, everything else is my call. I set the agenda, and that way you can see what I’m really like.”
“Does it include eating pizza, drinking champagne, and criticizing bad movies?”
I can’t help a grin. “Substitute cheap beer for champagne, and yes. That part of my life was pretty authentic. Outside of the sex marathons.”
A naughty light is in his eyes. “Don’t peasants have sex marathons?”
“Peasants are typically too busy trying to stay alive.” I walk past him into the hallway and down the expansive stairway.
He’s right behind me. “I plan to correct that part of the equation.”
Stopping in the ginormous kitchen, I examine two sets of keys waiting on the bar. “Jeep or Mercedes?” he asks.
Shaking my head, I take the keys to the Jeep off the counter and start for the door. Looks like we’re headed to Waterfront Drive.
I’m wearing faded cutoffs and a white shirt with navy horizontal stripes across it as I drive us to lunch at Smuggler’s Cove. I could never afford a car, but a Jeep is far closer to what I might drive than a Mercedes.
