Page 63 of Wanting Mr Black
I nod hopefully even though I lost count of how many times we had sex last night. “We might not be,” I repeat, clinging on to the mantra.
He cradles my face in his hands and kisses me languidly. Then, he pulls away and rests his forehead against mine. “But if we are, I’ll be the happiest guy in the world.”
Thirty-Two
The heat of the blazing sun beats down on the sandstone promenade of the marina, overlooking the cobalt-blue waters of the Mediterranean. I can’t deny I’m a little impressed that Art’s been here five minutes and he already knows more about the area than I do. The all-inclusive bar has proven too much of a temptation for Lucy and me, meaning we haven’t even ventured out of the hotel until now.
He leads me by the hand across a wooden jetty, surrounded by shiny white boats of all different sizes.
“Aren’t Lucy and Big Steve meant to be coming?”
We come to a stop at a gleaming white boat, and a familiar female laugh ripples through the air. Big Steve appears from below deck with Lucy hanging off his arm, dressed in a bottle-green halter-neck bikini, her hair piled on top of her head.
“He sorted the boat for me,” Art says, turning to me. “Ladies first.”
This isn’t a boat. It’s a yacht. The type you see in movies, owned by millionaires or members of the Mafia, usually with a very pretty woman sunning herself on the deck.
He places a hand on my back as he guides me onto the step, and I grab the metal handrail and hop aboard.
“This place is fantastic! Come on, Soph. I’ll show you.” Lucy beckons and ducks below deck.
I follow her down a couple of steps into the cabin and through a polished light-oak door. An integrated kitchen is off to the right, and there’s a modern, small but perfectly formed bathroom to the left and an open plan cream-and-grey seating area with steps leading up to a double bed. It looks very swish and expensive.
“This is how the other half lives,” she enthuses, flinging herself backwards onto the mountain of decorative cushions placed strategically on the bed.
I tug at the black kimono I’ve worn over the top of my bikini, not entirely sharing my friend’s enthusiasm. I glance around. This is flash. “Why has Art hired a yacht? It must have cost a fortune.”
Lucy pushes herself up onto her elbows. “He’s loaded. When I just said about how the other half lives, I was referring to Art.”
“Yeah, but …” I frown.
I know Art’s wealthy, of course. He – we – live in an amazing apartment in the most expensive part of London. He owns the very large hotel I work in – and he didn’t have to buy it. He let me live nearly rent-free in another of his apartments. He drivesan Aston Martin, wears designer clothes, bought me a dress that cost more than I earn in a month. He hired a private jet to fly to Ibiza to see me. It sounds silly to say, but I don’t think about it.
“Yeah, but what?”
“I just never think about any of that when I’m with him.”
“Well, you’d better get used to it.”
“Why?”
Lucy chews her lip and glances about the cabin. “Well, this is fab, isn’t it?” she says, changing the subject.
She’s acting odd again.
“How are you and Big Steve getting on?”
Lucy gives me a coy smile. “Good.”
She’s got to do better than that.
“What happened last night then?”
“Nothing.”
I roll my eyes in disbelief. “Oh, come on, Luce. Pull the other one.”
She looks me straight in the eye. “Honestly, we just talked. He ordered room service and a bottle of wine, and we chatted about our childhoods, our relationships. We got to know each other. It was nice. I fell asleep on the bed, and he took the chair.”