Chambers of Desire: Opus 1 (13 page)

“Absolutely,” he answered, filling a large mug with coffee and a goblet with juice. “Anything to eat?”

“I can’t believe there’s a chef on board,” I said. “Well, actually, I guess I can.” I laughed. Why
wouldn’t
there be a private chef? “I’m not starving; maybe just a pastry. Whatever he has available is fine!”

“Coming right up, Ms. Clarke,” he said, still smiling.

I shot him a grateful smile and settled into the lounge chair, basking in the morning sun.

Within minutes, he returned with a heaping tray of breakfast. “I thought I remembered saying I wasn’t starving,” I said, laughing.

“Sorry,” Rob said with an apologetic grin. “The chef wanted to make sure you were taken care of if you changed your mind.” He uncovered a bowl of freshly sliced pineapples, mangos, and oranges and a mountain of croissants, muffins, and bagels. Last, I saw a perfectly fluffy omelet with melted cheese peeking out between fresh cut vegetables. “Are we planning to spend a month on this boat?” I asked. “Do I need to prepare for hibernation?”

Rob laughed. “When you said, ‘
whatever is available
,’ the chef took it literally. Enjoy!”

As I sipped my coffee and nibbled on a croissant, I tried to read a magazine, but I became entirely distracted watching Calvin direct the boat. It was exhilarating to see how passionate he was about sailing and how completely content he was onboard.

“Want a tour?” Calvin reappeared on the deck, his broad body a silhouette in the bright sun. I was dying for one, excited to see how big the world’s biggest yacht was.

He led me down the stairs, calling to Caleb on the way. “Bear off! Trim the jib sheet if you see the wind shift any more than fifteen degrees.”

Caleb nodded, saluting Calvin again. He looked as if he was born to sail, wind-tousled hair and sun-kissed face. There was something so manly about watching him direct the crew, taking charge and giving orders. I couldn’t hide how impressed I was. “That sounded like French to me. How long have you been boating?”

He thought for a moment before answering. “About five years,” he said. “I was twenty-three before I ever set foot on a boat. Now, I can’t stay away. Something about being on the water calms me.”

Nodding, I agreed. “I know exactly what you mean. It’s humbling, isn’t it? I feel so small, when I lean over the railing and look out over all that.”

Calvin
smiled and squeezed my hand.

“When did you bu
y the
Europa
?” I asked, dizzy from his spell.

“Two years ago. I fell in love with her the moment I laid eyes on her.” Calvin ran his hand along a deck rail appreciatively.

“She beautiful,” I said, noting his use of the word
her
. Looking around the boat, I whistled. “I can’t get over how big she is!”

“You haven’t even seen the lower deck yet,” he said smiling.

We made our way down a flight of stairs into the interior of the boat. “There are four bedrooms in addition to the master suite,” he said, walking me into a large guest suite. Each room had a different nautical theme, antique anchors mounted above the beds, weather-stained maps on the wall with their private bathrooms.

The most stunning, not surprisingly, was the master suite, which was larger than my parents’ bedroom back in Dallas. A king-sized bed was the centerpiece of the bedroom, piled high with oversized pillows and cashmere throws, facing a movie-screen-sized flat-screen TV. A private sitting area filled the left side of the room with another flat screen and a faux fireplace.

We wandered through a full dining room with ornate china, a game room with a pool table, and a library, lined wall to wall with books. Calvin told me that, originally, the boat had been designed for a Saudi prince who demanded that it be larger and grander than any yacht ever built. After a familial dispute, his brother acquired ownership and sold it in a fit of rage. Calvin said he’d been invited to spend a week on the yacht, when a business acquaintance rented it for a weekend a few years ago and put an offer in on the boat the moment they docked.

“And that concludes our tour,” he said, leading me back to the sundeck where we started, pulling his shirt over his head and reclining on the pool chair next to me. A hot flush burned my face when I realized I was staring, admiring his strong body and firm abs. Quickly, I turned away, lying back on the chaise and shading my face with a magazine.

“Your shoulders are looking a little pink,” he said.“Turn over; I’ll do your back.”

Whipping my head toward him, I turned to see whether he was serious. A smile danced on his lips, but he held out a tube of sunscreen. “SPF 15.”

I smiled back, and my heart sped up as I lay on my stomach, preparing to feel his hands on me. The weight of the lounge chair shifted as he sat on the edge, pressed against my side. Lightly, he flicked the thin straps of my dress off my shoulder, fully exposing my bare back. 

“It’s cold,” Calvin warned, rubbing the lotion between his hands.

The cool cream felt glorious on my heated skin, and my breath quickened as his large hands spread over my back. He rubbed slowly and deliberately, massaging the lotion into my back. The tightening in my stomach I had felt the night before returned as his hands neared my lower back, the sides of my breasts.

“All done,” he whispered, hands lingering on my skin before getting up and returning to his chair.

The afternoon passed quickly in the warm sun. Between catnaps and margaritas, Calvin and I shared interesting magazine articles, memories about favorite vacations. I told him about growing up in Dallas and my best friend Chloe and our plan to move to Boston the second we graduated from SMU.

For dinner, we moved to the back of the boat where a private table was set with candles and champagne. As we finished an incredible meal of fresh seafood, the sun was setting, a dim glow spreading across the horizon. City lights began to flicker and, within moments, lit the darkening sky. A cool breeze brought welcome relief to the hot day and my sunburned skin.

“I want to know more about you,” I said, leaning my elbow on the table. “Juliette told me you started with a financial firm when you graduated from college.”

Calvin nodded. “I studied economics at Princeton with an emphasis on international policy. Business strategy had always fascinated me, especially the psychology behind investments and corporate decision-making. But I knew I needed to become an expert in financial analysis before I moved forward with my venture, so I appli
ed to Goldblatt.” He leaned back in his chair and took a long drink of wine.

“When did you discover your interest in business?”

“I spent most of my high school afternoons in the library,” Calvin said, a flicker of anger in his eyes. “I read everything I could get my hands on, but one sentence of Adam Smith’s
Wealth of Nations
, and I was hooked.”

“Your parents must have loved
you
,” I joked. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard,
If you would just apply yourself, Sabrina!
Well, then, I just might be as rich as you are.”

A shadow crossed his face, and he looked out on the river. “No,” he said softly. “Not exactly.”

I was quiet for a moment. “You don’t have a good relationship with them?”

Laughing harshly, he said, “No. To put it mildly. It was a difficult house to grow up in…” His voice faded into the night. “There were a lot of painful memories. They weren’t even around by the time I started high school. I guess I didn’t feel quite so lonely when I was surrounded by books.” He said this last part softly, as if to himself.

“Did you grow up in New York?” I asked, changing tactics.

“No. Until I was nine, I lived in a small town outside Chicago. Then, I m
oved to Ohio with my aunt.” He still wasn’t looking at me, but his tone wasn’t as forbidding as it had been when I asked about his family the day before. I pressed on cautiously. .

“Where were your parents?” I asked quietly.

”I never really knew my father. He spent most of my childhood in jail.”

“Is he still alive?” 

“I don’t know,” Calvin said. “We aren’t in contact.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, automatically.

“Don’t be,” he replied. “It doesn’t matter to me.” My heart ached thinking about how much pain his father had caused his family, to earn that sort of apathy from his son.

“What about your mom?”

Calvin sighed and finally looked at me. “She died when I was eight.” He looked away again.  “She killed herself.” I inhaled sharply. “Calvin, I--,” I said, but didn’t know what to say. Instead, I reached out and took his hand across the table. He looked down at my hand curiously for a moment, before squeezing it back. It struck me that few people had the nerve to try and comfort this imposing man. 

”Please don’t repeat that information,” he said. “Non disclosure agreements aside, I’m not sure why I told you that. It’s not something I share with people.”

I got up and sat beside him, slipping my hand between his folded ones. “Thank you,” I said, “for telling me.  I want to know you, Calvin. I really do.” Virginity auctions and contracts seemed miles away after our peaceful, fun day on the yacht.
This isn’t a crush, Sabs,
I thought to myself.
You’re falling in… No, don’t even go there.
I leaned my head on his shoulder, just glad to be a little closer to this mysterious man.

He put an arm around me, pulling me a bit closer. I didn’t ask any more questions, letting him sit silently for the rest of the trip. As we approached the dock, Calvin turned toward me, smiling. “Let’s forget about the past, Sabrina.  Those things happened a long time ago, they don’t matter anymore.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, took his hand as we walked back to the car.  I knew that the past matters—you can heal, but you never lose the scars.  But I wasn’t going to push him to keep talking about it until he was really ready to.

The ride back to the hotel was quiet, but not awkward. Something had happened between us when he told me about his past. I still had many questions, but he was no longer a stranger to me.

When he dropped me off
, he leaned across the car, kissing me softly on the cheek, letting his lips linger on my sun-kissed skin. “See you tomorrow, Sabrina,” he said, and my heart warmed.

“Can’t wait,” I said with a smile as I got out of the car.

I immediately climbed in bed when I got to my room, but I didn’t fall asleep right away.  My family was controlling, frustrating, demanding, manipulative… but I had never felt abandoned until they decided to gloss over Brandon’s infidelity. That had hurt… but I was an adult.  I couldn’t imagine being so alone as a child.  What would that do to someone? Calvin seemed like he had everything, but now I wondered what he really needed.
You’re getting too involved,
I thought to myself, but then sleep finally came.

Chapter 7

I needed coffee. I hadn’t slept well; I’d dreamt, tossed, turned, and had woken up far too early.  Why couldn’t I stop thinking about Calvin’s past? Our conversation continued to replay in my mind, as if on repeat. “
It was a hard house to grow up in
,” he had said. What did that mean exactly? What had happened there?

My view of Calvin had changed. It had become clear that he wasn’t just some rich playboy, not just some spoiled, demanding millionaire. I wanted to know what made him tick. I wanted to know what had hurt him. And I wanted to make it better.

Pulling the covers over my face, I tried to block the morning light and fall back asleep, but the effort was wasted.
All right, all right
, I thought,
I’m getting up
.

I hadn’t heard from Calvin, but I figured I should get dressed, so for once I’d be ready when the call came.

Ugh.
The suitcase was filled with crumpled clothes, balled up and haphazardly folded. After some digging, I found a pair of black leggings that seemed passable and a moderately wrinkled sweater. When I left for Las Vegas, I’d had no idea how long I’d be gone and packed lightly, certainly not expecting to end up in New York City for three plus weeks.

Groaning, I emptied my bag on the hotel bed realizing I couldn’t postpone it any longer—it was time to do laundry. Maybe I could use the concierge. Or maybe I could do my laundry at Calvin’s. I smiled, imagining folding clothes next to him on his king-sized bed, throwing him a pair of socks, like an old married couple.

Before I could dial his number, my phone rang from a private number. Maybe he had read my mind. “Good morning,” I answered, crossing my fingers that I’d hear his voice.

“Good morning, Ms. Clarke,” Du Cheval answered coolly. “Did you enjoy the day on the Hudson?”

I made a face.  My favorite chaperone, oh joy.
“I did; thanks for asking.” I paused, waiting to hear what order he planned to bark at me today.

“Mr. Chambers thought that it might be time for you to go shopping, refresh your wardrobe,” he said. “Does that sound of interest to you?”

Perfect timing.
“Actually, yes,” I answered. That would be fantastic. Will Calvin be coming?” I held my breath expectantly.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Chambers will be in meetings for the rest of the day,” Du Cheval said. “He’s asked me to accompany you.”

I was disappointed, but tried not to sound like it. “What time will you be picking me up?”

“It’s 9:30 now,” he said, and I pictured him looking at his oversized Gucci watch. “I can be there at 11:00. Will you be ready?”

“I’ll be ready,” I confirmed. Even if I wasn’t looking forward to spending the day with Du Cheval, I couldn’t wait to treat myself to some new outfits and indulge in some retail therapy. It sounded like just the thing I needed. After three cups of coffee, I felt as if I was finally prepared to brave the world. And Du Cheval
did
know clothes, of that I was certain. Maybe today wouldn’t be unbearable.

Du Cheval seemed in a good mood when he picked me up, chatting idly about the weather and readily supplying a list of not-to-miss boutiques on Fifth Avenue. “Have you been to Bergdorf’s?” he asked with the closest thing to eagerness I’d ever heard from him.

“No,” I said. “But I’d love to go.”

He nodded decisively. “Bergdorf’s and Bottega Veneta, then. Their styles are made for your slender build.”

Du Cheval was right; after an hour in the Bottega Veneta dressing room, I’d fallen in love with their entire spring collection, finally deciding on a few cotton pants, knitted tops, and wrap dresses. At Bergdorf’s, we accessorized with stilettos, purses, silk scarves, and a new pair of Chanel sunglasses. This time, Du Cheval had come in with me, pointing out this or that piece with an air of authority, which, I had to admit, was deserved.  He was always right about which cut would be flattering, which fabric would complement my coloring. It was uncanny, and I was thrilled. I’d never wanted to look good for someone the way I did for Calvin.

San Michele—Du Cheval’s favorite—was unlike any store I’d ever seen. Every item was unique, nearly leaping off the hangers with originality, clearly handmade from the highest-quality fabrics. Instantly, I was drawn to a beaded scoop neck, knowing it would shimmer as I moved.

I flipped over the price tag, curious what it’d cost me.
No way—well into the triple digits
. Bergdorf’s had been expensive, but this was far and above any prices we’d seen today.

“This is too much,” I hissed to Du Cheval. “Gorgeous, but way out of my price range.”

He waved me off. “Mr. Chambers insists on paying. Don’t look at the cost—if you see something you want, it’s yours.”

“He doesn’t have to—”

Du Cheval interrupted. “He
wants
to.” He paused, and continued. “You’ve surely figured out by now that Mr. Chambers is very insistent about getting what he wants, Sabrina.  He’s indulging
himself
. Enjoy it.”

I didn’t argue, instead, choosing to appreciate his generosity and indulge
myself
in the process, noting mentally to thank Calvin profusely. Du Cheval persuaded me to try on a black peacoat lined with chinchilla fur, hiding the price from me. “It gets cold at night,” he warned. “You’ll need a jacket, and I haven’t seen you in anything… well,
appropriate
.”

It fit like a glove, and I smiled in the mirror—I felt like royalty. On Du Cheval’s insistence, I also decided on two formal gowns that made me feel as if I belonged on the red carpet beside a slew of celebrities.

Du Cheval wandered toward the register with my selections while I hung back, still browsing through the magnificent pieces. Unexpectedly, I was almost knocked off my feet, as a middle-aged woman, dressed in a crisp pantsuit, slammed into me, chasing a sprinting toddler.

“Sorry!” she gasped, snagging the boy by his shirt, irritation dripping from every word. “Everett!” she crouched and pressed her nose against his. “You are a
bad
boy! Look what you did!” she snarled, pointing to a small juice stain on the cuff of her blazer. “Do you want another time-out?”

Everett shook his head, eyes wide. The woman looked back toward me, rolling her eyes.“Do yourself a favor and never have kids.” With another look of contempt, she tugged on the boy’s arm. “Let’s go.”

I looked back toward the boy whose expression had darkened, and I saw only Calvin, shamed and alone. What had it been like for him in those years before his aunt? What had his parents said to him? What had they
done
to him? From the pain I had seen in his eyes last night, I knew it was more than an arbitrary spanking or a few harsh words. They had done real, lasting damage, enough to shape his adult life, enough to continue to break his heart.

This little boy’s eyes met mine, and a familiar current of anxiety began to course through my veins. I backed into a rack of camisoles, and without thinking, I reached up to stroke the fabric. The overhead lights began to pulse, and I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to curl inside myself and escape. As I forced myself to breathe, I caressed the hemline of the shirt, counting the circles I made with my thumb.

The silk was cold beneath my fingertips, and I needed to take it. Not needed to
buy
it, but needed to shove it in my purse and bury it under my makeup bag.

No,
I tried to tell myself,
This is childish. You can have it, just take it to the counter.  Don’t do this silly, childish bullshit, Sabrina. 
I thought the words, but I was already draping the shirt over my arm, concealed between a few heavier garments.
It
was starting to take over, just as it has so many times.

“I’m going to try on a few more things,” I called to Du Cheval waiting toward the front of the store, chatting with the manager. “Be right out!”

The spacious dressing room was well lighted with thick velvet curtains instead of doors. There was no indication of any security devices, no red lights flashing, no blinking cameras, and no watchful attendant counting items. The pressure in my chest continued to build, and unless I pocketed the shirt, it would surely overwhelm me.

Behind the curtain, I smoothed my hand over the thin fabric, feeling for any plastic tags or ink clamps that would set off any alarms. I’d had the compulsive urge to shoplift in response to anxiety for many years, though I’d mostly gotten it under control as an adult.  I hadn’t forgotten the basics, though. Sure, a place like this might not have a bulky, ugly, ink clamp but there would be something… maybe behind the label…
Bingo.
In the side of my purse, I kept a small pair of scissors—for my nails, of course—which I used to carefully snip the tag from the seam. I tucked the tag under the lush carpet in the room and removed my sweater. From long habit, I’d selected lightweight, sheer fabric for the object of my theft.  Once I folded the silk into a small handkerchief-sized square, I tucked it under my bra, so even if I was searched, it would be nearly undetectable. Now it felt like it was too late to stop.

With my baggy sweater back on, there was no way to see even the slightest hint that anything was amiss. My anxiety had begun to dissipate, and I felt in control, senses heightened. The thumping in my chest slowed, and my blood pressure began to return to normal.

“Anything else you like?” Du Cheval said, making me jump. He stood just outside the dressing-room door, ready to pounce.

“Nah,” I replied casually. “They were just okay, what we’ve already got is perfect.”

He nodded and signaled to the manager that we were ready to make our purchase. Though I knew there was really no chance of being caught, I felt a thin layer of perspiration begin to form at my hairline as we approached the counter. My adrenaline surged. Had anyone seen me enter the dressing room with four items? Had anyone noticed there were now only three blouses hanging behind that curtain? Would they realize before we left? Or at all?

I took a deep breath and smiled brightly at the manager. “You have a beautiful store.”

She returned my smile warmly. “Please come back anytime.”

Both Du Cheval’s and my arms were filled with shopping bags as we left the store. I’d glanced at the register as Du Cheval offered his credit card and realized the total was close to fifteen thousand dollars.
Holy shit!

My eyes never left the front of the store as I buckled my seat belt, watching for someone to sprint after us, waving the amputated sensor. When we pulled away from the curb, my breathing returned to normal as I became sure I had managed another successful heist.

With my head against the seatback, my relief immediately gave way to a massive onslaught of guilt.
What the hell, Sabrina.
I thought.
Why would you risk embarrassing yourself, Calvin, hell, even Du Cheval.
I might not be that fond of Du Cheval, but I could only imagine the fashion-obsessed man’s humiliation had I been caught shoplifting.
Shoplifting while someone else bought you $15,000 dollars in clothes.
I thought to myself with disgust.

But it had never been about the money. Never been about the thing I stole. My parents had shelled out for an army of therapists, and the one that had finally stuck had helped me to understand it was a self-defense mechanism, a coping mechanism. I didn’t steal things because I wanted them, or needed them, or because I was greedy.  I stole them to have some secret method of taking back control. To rebel… in a way that only I would know about. Once I understood that, I had promised the therapist… promised myself—to cut it out.  Stealing wasn’t taking control… it was losing control.

But apparently, I hadn’t escaped the past, hadn’t found a way to put the urges behind me. The cool silk now felt clammy in my bra, damp with sweat and discomfort. I was a petty thief, a criminal. Pathetic. Disgusting.

Sitting in that
car on Fifth Avenue, I felt the old shame all over again. I looked toward Du Cheval nervously; should I ask him to take me back? Tell him I forgot something and shove the shirt back in the dressing room before dashing out. No, that would be weird.  He would ask a hundred questions.
It’s over now, nothing I can do about it. 
But the sick feeling in my stomach wouldn’t go away, and I became aware of how hungry I was.  I hadn’t really eaten anything yet and…
No, Sabrina, this won’t help,
I thought to myself, but my anxiety swallowed that thought whole.  The really awful thing about bad coping mechanisms is the way they tend to snowball once you get started…

So what,
I thought.
All I know is I can’t sit in this car in silence a second longer obsessing about this.

“Hey,” I said, trying for casual. “Getting hungry? I’m starved.”

Du Cheval seemed mildly surprised.  “You’d rather go out than have the chef at Mr. Chamber’s prepare something?” Well, of course he was surprised. I’d done nothing but pick at my food around Calvin. 
I can afford it,
I thought.
I’ve probably managed to lose a couple pounds with everything going on.