EDEN (Eden series Book 2) (9 page)

An inscrutable expression crosses his eyes then is gone as quickly as it came. Then he smiles suddenly, dashing and irresistible. The pull of it is undeniable. I feel my knees weaken.

‘How’s that?’ he asks.

‘Not bad, considering how out of practice you are,’ I tease.

He steps closer and taking my shoulders in his hand, lowers his mouth to mine. The power of the unexpected kiss is shocking. It whips through me, setting fire to my senses. I hear the roaring in my ears as my mouth opens. He draws me closer and my whole body presses into his hard, clear need, and gives without questioning. My body knows what I refuse to acknowledge: I need him. I open my eyes quickly.

‘I’ll make the toast,’ I squeak, and walk unsteadily away to put some slices of bread into the toaster.

We have breakfast on the terrace and I eat with relish. I wipe my plate clean with a piece of toast and grin at him. ‘That was delicious, thank you.’

He leans back in his chair and smiles, beautiful eyes flashing. ‘So, my little wildcat, how would you like to take a tour of the island?’

I let my gaze travel over him, cool. ‘You know all my buttons.’

‘Good. Because I’m trying to impress you here.’

‘You’re doing great so far.’

He rises and holds out his hand.

Putting a sway into my hips, I walk with him through the house into the garage. He hits the button that opens the outside garage door and pulls a plastic cover off an absolutely stunning red and black Ducati Multistrada.

‘Wow! This is some bike,’ I exclaim walking around it, my sway forgotten. It is so spanking new there is not a scratch on it. I look at him, impressed.

He is beaming like a child. ‘Great, isn’t she?’

‘Awesome.’

‘Come on,’ he says, throwing his leg over the machine.

‘What? You’re going to go like that!’ He is wearing the same faded jeans, old sneakers and nothing else.

‘Why not?’

‘No helmet?’

‘Ah, Lily. Do you need the government to be your nanny and tell you what to wear all the fucking time?’

‘What if we meet with an accident?’

He sighs. ‘There’s a helmet in the cupboard.’

He kicks the bike over and it roars dangerously into life the way a really good bike should. The smell of exhaust fumes fills the garage. He turns to look at me as I fit the helmet on my head.

He winks at me and I gingerly swing my leg over the seat of the bike and place my feet on the passenger pegs.

‘Hold me tight,’ he says.

I scoot forward until my body is leaning against his and wrap my arms around his hard midsection.

‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

He takes off and as he leaves the driveway and gets on the road he accelerates and I hold tighter. He rides with precision and skill as if the bike is an extension of him. When he dips I follow. We cruise along the open road, the wind in our faces, my body glued to his. We travel downhill through the labyrinth of cobbled lanes and make for the roads lined with pines, almond trees and juniper bushes that hug the coastline. Ibiza is full of goats, picturesque coves, tall rocky cliffs, lovely beaches and old-fashioned boatsheds made of wood. Contrary to what I believe about the island being the playground of celebrities and fashion models, so much of it is green and undeveloped. We pass a lonely, whitewashed, hilltop church and at the end of it an olive grove starts. I tap Jake’s shoulder and shout over the roar of the bike for him to stop. He slows down and pulls up at the edge of the road then cuts the engine.

‘What?’ he says, turning to me, his hair wind-blown, his cheeks flushed.

The whole time the tips of my breasts encased only in the thin bikini top have been rubbing against his naked back and I am feeling unbelievably horny.

‘I want you,’ I say, and taking my helmet off I get off the bike and walk into the grove.

By the time he comes for me I am lying naked on the hot orange soil, my legs spread. When his hard cock enters me, his eyes raping me, raking over my exposed body like rough hands, I hiss with relief.

THIRTEEN

Jake

F
rom the open door I watch her wash vegetables in the sink. She turns off the tap and reaches for a knife. Her hair falls forward and she flicks it away carelessly. The gesture arrests me. Compels me to stay and watch. It is as if I am watching a movie. She is someone else. I am someone else. The picture of domestic bliss is so foreign. So alluring. It warms my heart.

What is it about her that makes her so magnetic? Even the simplest thing she does becomes a movement of grace and beauty. I have to stop myself from going into the kitchen, lifting her onto the counter and fucking her until she claws at me.

She leaves the tap running and turns to check on a pan of boiling water. As she puts the lid back on it she looks in my direction, sees me, and for an instant loses her concentration. The lid slips from her hand and falls to the ground, catching a ladle resting by the side of the pan on its way. The ladle pings up and falls into the pan of boiling water and splashes boiling water onto her hand.

I hear the ladle clatter to the floor as I rush to her and try to pull her toward the cold water tap, but she shakes her head vehemently.

‘Flour,’ she gasps. ‘Find me some flour.’

I stare at her, confounded; convinced I have heard her wrong. ‘What?’

‘Where’s the flour?’ she barks urgently.

Flour! As if I would know where that is. I start opening cupboards and clumsily rifle through them. Dropping packets on the counter and floor. Cursing. I find an unopened packet in the third cupboard I open. I turn around quickly,

‘Open it,’ she instructs, white with pain.

I open it and pass it to her. She takes a handful of flour and holding it against her burn, closes her eyes. It must have given her some relief because she looks up at me and smiles tremulously.

‘I know it looks weird but it’s an old Chinese trick my grandmother taught me. She actually keeps a packet of corn flour in the fridge so it is cold and ready for use whenever she burns herself.’

I stare at her in shock. This is the first time she has offered a tiny little snippet of herself, without being prompted, and something real!

‘It’s brilliant,’ she adds. ‘It actually helps heal the burn faster and stops the skin from marking.’

I keep my voice casual. ‘Your grandmother is Chinese?’

She smiles. A tender expression comes into her eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘And you love her very much, don’t you?’

‘Yes, yes I do.’

‘And she is still alive?’

Suddenly the expression in her eyes changes, becomes guarded and fearful. And all I want to do is hold her close to me and tell her it doesn’t matter. It does not matter a damn. She has ruined nothing by telling me that.

Lily

I stare at him in horror. Oh! My! God! I have totally slipped out of character. My alter ego doesn’t even remember her grandparents. I can’t believe I have fucked up so bad. What if he wants to know more about her? Or, worse, wants to meet her? I can’t tell him she is dead. I think of her, her head tipped back, roaring with laughter. My grandmother is very superstitious—Chinese believe all mention of death and dying is bad luck, and she would be so hurt if she knew I was telling anyone she was dead. I’ll have to tell Mills and the agency will have to come up with a fake grandmother. But that will be embarrassing, too. Admitting that I slipped up this early in the assignment.

I drop my eyes to my hand.

‘How long do you have to do that for?’ he asks.

I put my head up and see him looking at the flour I am holding against my burn.

‘Ten minutes.’ The flour has helped, but it is still painful.

He switches the fire off. ‘Come on,’ he says, and with his hand on the small of my back leads me toward the living room. ‘We’ll order in tonight.’

To my great relief he loses interest in my grandmother and does not ask anything else about her.

*****

It will be our last night on the island. Some part of me doesn’t want to leave. I have been happy here. Happier than I have ever been in my life. We have watched the sunset over the water and had our takeaway pizza, and now Jake has gone in to have a shower.

I stand on the terrace for a little while longer soaking in the magic of the island. A lizard scampers up a tree. I know a faint tinge of envy. It lives in this paradise. I watch it until it disappears into some bushes. With a sigh I go indoors and pull out a book from my bag. Curling up on the sofa I start to read. Three pages later Jake is standing in the doorway.

‘Hey,’ he says.

I gaze at him. He is wearing a pair of faded jeans. They hug his strong thighs. Something about him always makes my mouth dry. ‘Hey, yourself,’ I reply.

‘What are you reading?’

‘
The Billionaire Banker
.’

‘Any good?’

‘Not bad.’

He comes forward, the muscles of his chest gleaming in the down-lights. Desire floods through me, so hot and fast that my clit aches.

I pat the sofa next to me.

He raises his eyebrows.

‘I want to try something.’

His eyebrows rise. ‘What?’

I turn my book to the appropriate page and hand it over to him. ‘I want to try that.’

He takes the book from me and reads. I watch him, the way the light caresses his cheekbones, the shadows his long eyelashes make, the straight mouth. A beautiful man, a truly beautiful man. When he looks up his eyes are dark and amused. ‘I’ve got whiskey.’

‘I know where I can get some ice,’ I say with a grin.

By the time I come back with a bucket of ice, he has stripped naked. His big thighs are bunched and ready and his decorated, satiny soft cock is erect and magnificent in the soft glow of the lights. He is so hot and so perfect my thighs quiver. In one hand he is holding a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

I lean weakly against a pillar. ‘Already so hard?’

He doesn’t answer. Instead he opens me with his practiced fingers and does to me what the billionaire banker did to his woman.

FOURTEEN

T
he first thing I do at work when I return from our little holiday is go on the Internet and find out about bare knuckle fighting, a sport where the opponents ram their unprotected fists into each other to decide who is the hardest of them. What I discover scares the shit out of me.

The activity is considered to be the ultimate tear-up, no fucking around, no holds barred and with plenty of blood. It could be pouring from a fighter’s ears or even from his groin, bitten by his opponent.

I also learn that the impact of one man’s bare fist on another is equivalent to the force of a four pound lump hammer traveling at twenty miles an hour. The effect could be devastating, even after a bout lasting just a few minutes. There are no official rounds to this blood sport; instead it just goes on until one of them cannot take it anymore, or has sustained so many injuries that he can no longer stand. 

It reminds me of the Chinese proverb my grandmother used to tell us grandchildren:
When two tigers fight, one limps away horribly wounded, the other is dead
.

That evening, profoundly disturbed and unable to wait, I run to the front door as soon as I hear Jake enter and confront him. ‘Is it true that in bare knuckle fighting you could be bitten so hard in the groin that you start bleeding?’ I demand.

He closes the door with a deliberate click. ‘It won’t be like that, Lil. Both Pilkington and I are too proud to bite like wild animals.’

I clasp my hands together nervously. ‘But you could end up with a broken eye socket or a smashed fist?’ The thought makes me tremble.