Personal Geography (6 page)

I touch up my makeup, not wanting to waste the time once we’ve landed. When I’m done, I settle back, starting to get into character—but I can’t. Not until we’ve had our little chat. I have to be India Burke for a little while longer. Although he’ll still think of me as Kit Bailey-Isles, and that’ll be disconcerting. Damn Cris Ardmore and his need for
conversation
. This is far more trouble than I usually go to. He’d best make it worth my while.

When we filter off the plane, Matty is waiting, and I give him a hug.

“Aloha, kitten.” Matty was born on St. John and didn’t leave the Virgin Islands until college. He’s got the most beautiful latte complexion and lovely accent to show for it. Tall and wiry, his dark hair is clipped short, and he’s wearing a white linen button-down over pressed khakis. He doesn’t look like he spent the same six hours as I did on a plane.

“Aloha, Matty.” I greet him with a kiss and take his hand. People often comment on what a handsome couple we are, which is hilarious. We are affectionate with each other and move with the easy synchronicity of people who’ve been together for a long and happy time, so it’s easy to forgive and we don’t correct them. The truth is far too complicated for your average bear. Matty is Rey’s sub, although they more regularly play with other people. He runs the administrative side of Rey’s business and, oh right, acts as my sometime babysitter/escort/bodyguard.

While Matty picks up our rental car, I find a bathroom to change in and slip into an orange, white and navy tunic dress. I frown at my reflection. My hair’s made it through the flight relatively intact, black curls loose and glossy, and though my gaze catches on it, no one else will pay attention to the slight rise at the bridge of my nose. The only person who’s ever had a problem with that was my mother. Not even Hunter had said anything about it, and he’d had something to say about every square centimeter of me. My mom started dragging me to plastic surgeons when I was twelve, all of whom had been professional enough to turn us away.

So, no, it’s not my “imperfect” nose that’s bothering me. It’s my eyes. They’re more conspicuous than usual. Most people don’t notice they’re two different colors because the difference is subtle—one green, one hazel—but not today. Through some trick of lighting or maybe the contrast with what I’m wearing, I’m practically emerald on one side and chestnut on the other. My sister used to tell me it was the mark of the devil.

When I get outside, Matty’s leaning against a black 4x4 Jeep. It’s spotless and new, but a far cry from the luxury car we usually have.

I cock my head in question.

“Our friend lives off the beaten path.”

A smile creeps over my face, and I bite my lip in anticipation. Matty laughs and raises a dark eyebrow as he holds open my door.

“Rey said you were looking forward to this, but I had no idea. You have got it bad.” He hands me up before slipping into the driver’s side. The beast roars to life. “Can’t say I blame you. He is…appealing.”

I gape at him as he pulls into traffic. Matty rarely expresses an opinion about the men I’m going to see, unless he doesn’t like the look of them. Then he’ll try to warn me off, which I should really take more seriously. He was right about Vasili. But this is the first one he’s had anything complimentary to say about, and he knows far more about this guy than I do, having put together the dossier. Perhaps I should take this seriously as well.
Cris Ardmore, you’ve put a spell on us all
.

*

Matty wasn’t kidding
when he said the man lived off the beaten path. I’m glad we have the Jeep, with the heavy-duty grab bars and four-wheel drive, when we’re careening over dirt and rock paths that narrowly accommodate the vehicle’s width. I bounce in my seat as we drive over a copious number of ruts, and I have to keep pushing my hair back from my face as it whips around in the breeze. We’re surrounded by jungle, and it smells of dirt and living things instead of sunbaked concrete and car exhaust. I feel like I’m on wild safari ride at an amusement park—it’s fun.

By the time we arrive at what I assume is Mr. Ardmore’s home, my nerves have been shaken loose and I’m pink with delight. Matty is less enthused, probably because he’ll have to drive the path at least three more times before he can fly home to his nifty little Audi coupe and the comparatively smooth hills of San Francisco.

We pull up a few yards away from what appears to be the largest of several raised, wood-and-glass huts joined by covered walkways. My eyes wander over the structure, but only for a second because there he is, ambling down the steps. Seeing Cris Ardmore in person sends a thrill through me. He’s about six feet tall, powerfully built without being bulky, and moving with no apparent hurry in our direction. His wardrobe consists of a faded blue cotton button-down, open at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves; clean but worn khaki shorts; and a pair of flip-flops.
Flip-flops? Someone’s feeling sure of himself
.

He opens my door and offers me a hand. I can see the reason he looked a little off in his photograph: his nose has clearly been broken, probably more than once. He doesn’t seem like a brawler and a record for assault would’ve shown up in his dossier, so I’m intrigued instead of concerned. His dark curls are shot through with stray strands of grey, and his eyes are…curious. No wonder I couldn’t tell if they were blue or grey in his picture. I still can’t say for sure, and he’s looking right at me. They’re the color of the sky when you know a storm is gathering but you don’t rush inside because you know you’ve still got a while before it starts to pour.

He’s still got the stubble, as I’d hoped, and I have to consciously refrain from running my fingers over it. Lines are etched around his mouth from smiling, and I hope again I’ll get to see him laugh. He is, as Matty said, appealing.

He looks me over from head to toe. Not in a vulgar way, but with decided interest. I’ve got him at a disadvantage. Rey tells them what I look like, but they don’t get to see a picture beforehand. Rarely do they seem disappointed, though, and this is no exception.

“Ms. Bailey-Isles, I presume?”

He has a nice voice. Not the warm, languid caramel of Matty’s, but a pleasant, deep tenor that could turn sharp or sweet on a dime. Very nice, indeed.

“Were you expecting anyone else?” I deadpan.

He blinks, surprised, but recovers with a lopsided smile. “I believe that would be contrary to the letter of our agreement.”

“Touché, Mr. Ardmore. And Ms. Isles will do.” I place my hand in his and return his smile. His hand is large and smooth and warm. There’s nothing worse than a man with clammy, sweaty palms or frigid fingers when you know they’re going to be all over you—possibly in you—in a few hours. Or minutes, as the case may be. But, no, Cris Ardmore is checking all my boxes.

He helps me out of the 4x4 and releases me. I’m disappointed and annoyed now that I need to talk to him before those hands will be anywhere else.
If
they’ll be anywhere else.

He comes around the car and extends a hand to Matty. “Mr. St. James.”

“Mr. Ardmore.”

“Mr. St. James will wait here while we talk.” I take charge, placing a slight emphasis on the word
talk
.

“Sure.” He looks relieved. I don’t blame him. What
is
the protocol for dealing with the man who’s escorted your potential rent-a-sub to your doorstep? I don’t think Miss Manners ever wrote a column on that. “Ms. Isles, shall we?”

I’m pleased when he lays a hand at the small of my back. He
is
going to touch me. Excellent. His fingers are warm through the fabric of my dress, and his touch is sure as he leads me in the direction from which he came.

“There’s lunch in the house if you’d like. Or if food isn’t…appealing, right now…”

I try to contain my smile.

“Do you think I’m squeamish, Mr. Ardmore?” I glance up at him, the lightest mocking in my tone. “That I have a weak stomach? That you’re going to offend my delicate sensibilities?”

For god’s sake, we’ve brokered an agreement that includes the word
dildos
. I’m hardly a shrinking violet.

He colors under tanned skin and stutters, “No, I…”

Oh, he’s adorable. This is freaking
adorable
. I could have some fun with him and make him squirm, but I like him. I’ll throw him a line.

“If it helps, Mr. Walter and I discussed the contract over ceviche.”

His brow wrinkles for a second before he laughs.
Oh, my.
Something liquefies in my stomach. No one’s laugh has ever done that to me before. It’s better than I imagined.

“You know, that does help. Ceviche, huh?”

“Sea bass. It was delicious.”

“Okay, Ms. Isles, lunch it is. It’s no ceviche, but I hope it’ll meet with your approval.”

Cris Ardmore shows me into the largest hut, and when I enter, I freeze. It’s bigger than I thought it would be and beautiful, all warm wood and light. There’s a long dining table set with ten chairs, a seating area with off-white couches and benches scattered with bright throw pillows, and a shiny kitchen against one wall with some kind of stone countertops. That would be a pleasure to cook in, unlike the barely serviceable Formica nightmare in my apartment.

There are also some bookshelves (filled with
books
and not dusty knickknacks, I note with satisfaction) and solitary chairs with ottomans in corners supplied with small side tables and lamps—places made for reading. There are doors recessed off the walls that must lead to the other huts and probably a bathroom. I could look around forever, but to be honest, I’d rather peruse the shelves, find something familiar, and curl up in one of the chairs.

I realize he’s staring at me, and I’m embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I’m being rude. You have a lovely home.”

There’s the slightest shrug of his broad shoulders before he responds. “It’s my parents’ house.”

What?

I must look some shade of horrified because he volunteers, “They don’t live here. It’s just me. They built this place a long time ago, thinking they’d retire here, but my father’s health isn’t good. They live in Kona, much closer to civilization. I’ve lived here since I finished school. Added a couple things, redone the place. I’ve thought about leaving, having them sell—”

“No, don’t!”

He looks surprised by my outburst. I am. Why the hell do I care?

“You shouldn’t. It’s a beautiful spot, and…”

“You haven’t seen the best part. I’ll show you after lunch.”

After lunch, huh?
We both realize what he’s said and regard each other shyly.
Really? Ceviche, people—there’s no room for shyness here.

“Come, eat. You must be hungry.” He takes my hand and leads me to one end of the large dining table. The places are set, simple but pretty. There’s even a bowl with white and yellow plumeria floating in water. Whoa. I’m being wooed. Courted. Flowers. Lunch. It’s like a date. I haven’t been on a date in…

He pulls out my chair and gestures for me to sit. When I have, he wanders off toward the kitchen, and I take a sip from the glass of water at my place. I feel…nervous. I don’t get nervous. This guy is throwing me off my game.

He comes back with two plates and sets one in front of me. It’s filled with blackened fish, wild rice, and grilled vegetables. I wait for him to take his seat before laying my napkin in my lap and starting to eat. Holy shit, this is good. Cris Ardmore knows his way around a kitchen.

“So, Mr. Ardmore, you wanted to speak with me?”

“I did.”

“And what did you want to speak with me about?”

“I don’t know.” His brow creases. “I guess I wanted to make sure…”

“I wasn’t some sort of sex slave? I’m not being coerced? That’s very gallant, but entirely unnecessary, I assure you.” I take another bite of fish, hoping I appear cooler than I feel.

“I can see that. You’ll have to forgive me. This isn’t the way I usually do things.”

“It’s not the way most people do things. But, it’s the only way
I
do things.”

He looks surprised but covers it with a joke. “So you’re the world’s foremost expert on this type of arrangement?”

“Possibly. You’re starting out with the best. I’ll ruin you for anyone else.”

“I think you might.”

He mutters this under his breath, and I’m not sure if he intended me to hear him. We sit in silence for a minute, but I’m getting antsy.
Let’s move this along, shall we?
“Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?”

“Lots of things, but I don’t think I’m allowed.”

“Probably not.”

I enjoy a few more bites of my food, trying to play it cool, even though I’ve rarely felt less so. Is this what he expected? Is this what he wants? How can I tell? This is maddening. I stab another piece of perfectly cooked zucchini and shove it in my mouth before I let on exactly how discomfited I am. I’m swallowing when he leans back in his chair and takes up his glass of water.

“This… This is, by far, the strangest date I’ve ever been on.”

“Is that what this is? A date?”