[Invitation to Eden 24.0] How to Tempt a Tycoon (17 page)

But it all feels so good, so fucking marvelous that I’m done playing. Now I give in to the all-consuming sensation of Christophe filling me again and again and again. I know he said something about too much friction desensitizing a person, but goddamn, it also feels fucking good and I do everything in my power to increase the friction, to tilt my hips to give him better access, to lift them when he plunges to meet him thrust for thrust, cry for cry, curse for curse.

Until we’re both chanting together,
fuck, fuck, fuck...

***

“A
dmit it, you lost.” I try not to be too over the top smug, but it’s hard when you win a bet as controversial as our sex bet against someone as arrogant and sure of himself as Christophe.

“I didn’t lose. You cheated.”

“How?” I ask, putting my hands on my hips. “How did I cheat?”

“You promised you would try. Instead you sabotaged.”

“How, exactly, did I sabotage you?”

“You excited me too much.”

I’m pretty sure that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. After I finally get my laughter under control, I come up closer, put my hands on Christophe’s chest and look innocently into his vibrant blue eyes. “Sorry dude, but you lost fair and square.”

“Siren.” He smacks my ass.

“Where was that last night?” I ask, rubbing my butt suggestively as I make my way into the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, “Should we order room service for breakfast or do you want to help me make an omelet?”

He comes up behind me and rests his hands on my hips, ducking his head to whisper in my ear, he says, “We’ll have breakfast on the boat.”

“What?”

“Get you things. We’re going diving.”

So the man may not have persuaded me that Tantra was all it’s cracked up to be, but he did quite easily persuade me to go diving. We’re suited up with gear and after we check our equipment and its functionality, the captain of the boat gives us a brief history of this area. His name is Irish...by his accent, I’m guessing it’s a nickname based on his country of origin. He’s quite the storyteller, though I only understand half of what he’s saying, as he relates the history of shipwrecks in the area. We’re on the boat for less than an hour and he must have told us about twenty stories. That’s a lot of wrecks.

“We’re smack in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle,” he says as if that explains everything. “You’ve got to watch out for one another.”

I nod. I love diving and was certified years ago, but I don’t go as often as I could because as much as I love it, it actually freaks me out a little bit. The breathing through the mouth, the pressure in the ears, the silence. It’s not until I stop focusing on those things and start focusing on the pretty, colorful fish and coral that I start to relax. I’ve only done deep water dives a handful of times, so to say I’m more than a little freaked when Christophe announced we were doing one is an understatement. He must read my apprehension because he grabs my hands and squeezes.

“It’s going to be fun.”

Before I know it, we’re falling back into the water and descending. Slowly. There are three shipwrecks all in close proximity, and we’re going down a hundred feet. That means this will be the deepest dive I’ve ever done. As we adjust our buoyancy control devices so that we continue to descend, less and less light filters through the water. I find myself breathing too quickly and stopping my descent. Christophe is in front of me immediately, using his fingers to point from my eyes to his, telling me to keep watching him. He gives me the thumbs up sign. I give it back.

Deeper we go until suddenly I can see the mast of a ship poking up beside me. The depths are eerily silent and all I hear is the sound of my own labored breathing. Christophe takes my hand in his and points. The hull of a wreck is right below us. We descend a bit more until we can touch the hull. The pressure on my ears is intense and I have to keep stopping to clear my ears, but now that we’re near the wreck, I’m able to stop concentrating on the pressure. A large pleasure sailboat by the looks of things, this boat has been here for at least twenty years, according to Irish.

We start by exploring together, but when we get to a narrow open hatch and Christophe indicates we go down with the motion of his hand, I shake my head. Then I give him the thumbs down signal. He points to himself, asking if it’s okay if he goes. I hesitate before giving him the thumbs up and after a burst of bubbles, he disappears headfirst down the hatch.

I swim close to the point where he disappeared, not wanting to stray too far, knowing how easy it is to get disorientated underwater. The surface of the boat is covered in coral and barnacles but there are a few parts that give some indication of what this boat must have looked like in its day. I touch the deck rail, no longer iron, pretty much completely coral and I wonder what happened on that fateful voyage. Did the ship get lost? Were they on their way to Eden? Did anyone die?

At that thought, I turn around slowly, feeling suddenly extremely cold. While the water near the beach is warm, at this depth it’s cold and even though I’m wearing a wetsuit, I shiver. The silence seems deafening now, or maybe that’s the pressure building in my ears. I check my underwater watch and notice that Christophe has been gone for fifteen minutes. Our tanks are only good for about forty-five, so given it took us ten minutes to descend, we’ve been down here close to half an hour and should be heading back up soon.

I swim over to the hatch and stop, looking around. Did I miss Christophe? Is he right now looking for me? I consider swimming around to see if I can see him or his light, but then decide that we’re like two needles in a haystack looking for one another. The other possibility is that he came up, missed me and started to ascend, thinking I’d gone up to the top.

Stay together. That’s the name of the game down below
, Irish had said. We didn’t listen very well, did we?

I wait, checking my watch every twenty seconds. They seem like hours.

Of course the other possibility is that something happened to Christophe.

Shit.

Now that the thought has crossed my mind, I can’t get it out of my head. The problem is, if I resurface without him and he’s not up top, he’s screwed. It’ll take twenty minutes for me or anyone else to get back down. So, after a few deep breaths and a little mantra to reassure myself, I hover above the hatch and adjust my BCD so that I can descend into the belly of the ship. If I thought the hull and outside of the boat was creepy, the inside is ten times creepier. It’s dark and narrow and large fish swim by creating weird shadows beyond my light.

I do not like it. I do not like it one bit. A phrase from a favorite childhood story rings between my ears,
I do not like it Sam I am. I do not like green eggs and ham
. I know I’m on the verge of panic when weird, random shit like that pops into my head and I’m tempted to turn right back around and head straight for the surface.

Five minutes, Tess. Look around for five minutes, then go up.

So that’s what I do, cursing Christophe the entire time. Why did I let him talk me into this dive? I like bright fish and fancy coral. Not weird, scary skeletal ships that might still house dead bodies.

Fuck! Why did I have to think about dead bodies? The mere thought puts me on the verge of hyperventilation. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

You can’t do that down here. Slow your breathing. You’re okay.

I cuss out the calm voice in my head and in the process of getting annoyed with myself I actually find myself calming down.

That’s when I see Christophe.

He isn’t moving. His body is limp and swaying with the gentle underwater current.

No. No, no, no, no!

I swim up to him and see that his tank is caught on some chain and it looks like his regulator tube is pinched. I try to unhook it quickly but it’s stuck.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!!!

Moving around to the front of Christophe, I can see his eyes are rolled back. I take the regulator out of his mouth and I shove mine into his.

Breathe, dammit. Breathe!

At first nothing happens and I have to snatch it out of his mouth so that I can suck air into my lungs. I try it again and this time, I think I see his eyes flutter.

Oh God. Please, please let him be alive. Please, please, please!

His body moves, his hand comes up to the regulator and bubbles appear around him as he takes the regulator from his mouth and passes it back to me.

Thank God!

We share air for a couple of minutes until I know that he’s okay. Then I point to his back, indicating where he’s stuck. He nods, gives me the thumbs up and hands me the regulator. I try to move quickly and calmly. I don’t know how much air is left but it can’t be much. This time when I check him out, I can see where the tank is caught. I lift the heavy debris off his tank while pushing him down and past the obstruction. The second I do this, the regulator hose becomes clear and Christophe’s air begins to flow again, bubbles masking his face.

He takes my hand and squeezes it before leading me back up the hatch. The ascent seems to take so long that by the time we reach the boat and climb aboard, I’m fighting hyperventilation. I struggle to get my gear off, feeling claustrophobic. It’s not until I’ve peeled my wetsuit off my torso that I can breathe again.

Christophe takes my hand and pulls me into his arms, holding me gently as I take long swallows of air. “I have no words.”

“I am just so thankful you’re alive.”

He pulls back, looks me square in the eyes and says, “The sentiment is shared. I owe you my life.”

***

T
hat night we order room service and have a delicious dinner on the veranda, though neither of us have much appetite. The air temperature is perfect with a light breeze blowing in off the water, yet I go inside to grab a sweater because I’m feeling chilled. I find one in my suitcase and am slipping it on when I turn and find Christophe at the door. He’s watching me in a way that reminds me of something or someone but I can’t quite place who or what it is.

“Did I ever tell you about the woman who taught me about Tantra?”

“No,” I say softly, standing where I am, not moving.

“I was at a point in my life where nothing mattered.” He goes to the desk, finds matches and starts lighting the various candles spread around the room. “I had everything I could ever want. Wealth. Women. A family name.” With his back to me he continues. “I had just won my third Formula One championship race. I had it all.” He blows out the match after lighting the last candle and turns to me. “Yet I still wanted more. Still found myself searching.”

“For what?”

“Happiness. Fulfillment. I don’t think I even knew.”  He holds out his hands and I walk slowly to him, taking his outstretched hands.

I listen without any desire to tease or joke. Not now. Not today. He is sharing a rare gift with me, maybe this is his way of thanking me, by baring his soul to me.

“What was she like?”

His gaze softens as he looks down at me. “She was amazing. We were very much alike, though we grew up in completely different worlds.”

“How did you meet?”

“Here. On Eden. Theo introduced us.”

“Wow. He really is a matchmaker, isn’t he?”

“He has a way...of knowing.” Christophe leads me to the bed and we sit together, side by side, hands clasped. "Ever since he bought this island he has become...I don’t know how to describe it. A bigger man.”

“I see.” Though really, I don’t. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not Theo I’m interested in. “So tell me more about this woman.”

He does that French head tilt thing I’m beginning to love though have given up copying. “Are you jealous?”

I pat his hand. “No.”

“Then why do you want to hear about her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I just enjoy hearing stories about other people’s lives, who they’ve loved and why. It’s fascinating to think about all of the experiences and people who helped to shape you into the man you are today.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me carefully, his facial expression changing and his mouth moving like he wants to say something but can’t. Or, at the very least, can’t decide whether he should say it or not.

“What is it?”

“You are remarkable.”

I smile because those are words he used to describe me before, but tonight they carry so much more weight. He releases my hand so that he can touch my face, gently smoothing my hair off my forehead and around the side of my ear. His hand is so large and capable yet can be so amazingly soft and tender.

“You are so very much like her.”

“Really?”

“More than you know.”

As he caresses my cheek and jaw, I watch his eyes, the way they soften, the way he watches his hand move across my skin like I’m a rare jewel, a priceless piece of art, a marvel. His touch spreads warmth from my face down my neck to my chest and while I stare into his eyes, I press my hand against his pec, not knowing why at first until I feel the steady beat of his heart beneath my hand.

He almost died today.

The fact his heart is beating right now is a miracle. How many more minutes could he have lasted down there? Two? Three? The thought of how close this fiercely beating organ came to never beating again...ever...takes my breath away.

Christophe’s breath responds accordingly. Like his heart, his lungs are in sync with mine. He slides his hand from my cheek to cover the hand I’ve got pressed against his heart. I don’t know how long we sit, feeling his heartbeat together. Seconds? Minutes? It doesn’t matter. Time has no meaning as we listen to each other breathe while we stare into each other’s eyes. There is no awkwardness, no shyness. It is so natural. There is nowhere else I’d rather be except gazing into Christophe Chevalier’s magnetic blue eyes and feeling his heart continue to pump blood to his body.

After a time—I have no idea how long—Christophe takes my free hand and places it against my chest, against my heart. Unless it’s an illusion of touch, our hearts beat in unison, like a duet, our voices matched perfectly.