Taken (10 page)

I nod, feeling confident and authoritative. I can bring you—a big, powerful, sexy man—to your knees right now if I wanted.

Chapter Eight

We sip iced coffee sitting on wooden stools at the rotting butcher-block island in the kitchen.

“Have them here tomorrow,” you say to Joan, your assistant, on the phone. I know her name because I’ve been listening to half of your conversation. The first half I tried to give you privacy by lurking in the entryway while you made our coffee, but you came out and retrieved me, asking me if we should start on clearing the island and get a crew here.

“Yes, bring those too, please” you continue. Then your face lightens at what she’s said and you smile, looking down into your mug. “You know me too well.”

A pang of suspicion streaks through me, and I wonder about your relationship with Joan. But it’s stupid of me—you and I are…I’m not sure what we are, but whatever it is, I have no reason to be jealous of anyone. I definitely hold no claim to you, nor do I want to.

You hang up and tap the phone on the counter. “Have you thought about landscaping? Should we pave trails for walking and biking around the island?”

I place my hand over your phone, silencing your tap-tap-tapping. “You do realize you sprung this on me, right? I haven’t exactly thought it all through.”

Narrowing your eyes, you lean forward over the counter. “I might not know everything about you, Rachael DeSalvo, but I know you put a lot of thought into this renovation. Are you telling me you don’t have
anything at all
in mind?”

I sip my coffee, lick my lips and take a deep breath readying myself to let my vision loose. “Fine. A man-made grotto on the west side with a waterfall and a swim-up bar. Private cabanas. Exotic gardens south of the cloistered courtyard with hidden niches, oversized outdoor furniture, and soft, overstuffed cushions.” Your eyes shine with intensity listening to my plan. “Places to get lost in. Places to fall in love.” My eyes drop from yours. You kiss your finger and place it against my lips.

“Validation,” you say. “You belong here, don’t you?”

I glance back up to your eyes and can’t suppress my smile of agreement. “Yes.”

Your face is luminous. “Do you forgive me for the way you ended up here?”

The way I got here is a dark black spot in my conscience that won’t fade. I can only look into your eyes and not speak. My lips don’t hold the answer you want to hear.

Your lips press tight and you lightly pound your fist onto the counter. “We’ll work on it. Come on. We have trees to climb.”

“Trees to climb?” I follow along behind you out the hulking, heavy hacienda door to the front of the hotel.

“Whoa,” I whisper, shading my eyes with my hand. For as far as I can see, there are lines of trees weighed down with ripe fruit. Oranges, limes, mangos, figs—more fruit that I can see from where I stand. “The famed orchards of Turtle Tear.”

“Where the key limes grow for the infamous key lime pie of Turtle Tear Hotel.” You pick up two baskets sitting beside the front door. By the dried dirt and petals inside, I think they held flowers at one time. “Let’s go pick some so I can make it for you.”

“You have the recipe?” I take a basket from you, and we walk down the gentle drop of the two front stairs.

“I hope. I took a lot of cookbooks out of the kitchen and stacked them upstairs so they don’t get lost. We can go through them this afternoon if you want.”

“I don’t have any other plans I’m aware of.” I nudge you with my elbow.

“I can think of something, I’m sure.” You nudge me back.

You pick up a stick and hack some of the tall grass out of our way, and we duck under the limbs of trees baring ripe, swollen fruit ready to drop onto the ground and burst open.

“I think these are key limes,” you say, reaching up to pluck one off a branch. “Their rinds are lighter colored than regular limes, I believe.”

“You’re the Florida native,” I say, holding up the basket for you. “Limes don’t grow in Cleveland.”

You glance down at me and frown. “I’m not a Florida native. Why did you think that?”

I scroll through my mind trying to recall when you’d told me you lived in Florida. You never did. Why did I think you lived here? “Where are you from? Where do you live?” I really don’t know you at all. I’ve been feeling closer and closer to you when all I’ve done is fill in the blanks myself.

“Georgia originally, right outside Atlanta. Heidi still lives there.” You pull another lime from the branch and drop it in the basket. “I’ve been in upstate New York for the past five months. I move about every six months or so.”

“Why so often?”

One shoulder hitches up in a shrug. “Never felt comfortable anywhere. No place felt like home I guess.”

“You’re considering retiring and staying here though. For how long? That’s a huge decision for a six month commitment.”

Holding a lime up to your nose, you take in a big sniff. “Ah.” You toss it in the basket and pause, holding my gaze. “This is home, Rachael. This finally feels right.”

Upstairs behind the couch in the sitting area, you lift a huge cardboard box and sit it down on the coffee table. Filled with old books, loose sheets of paper and a couple file folders, it isn’t the organizational style I expected from you.

“Seriously?” I gently backhand you in the chest. “You need a filing cabinet or something. This is a mess.”

You laugh, running your fingers through waves of dark hair. Your olive-toned skin has tanned a little more over the past couple days here, making your white teeth seem even whiter, your lips even redder. I’m struck by how I find every move you make sensual. Your voice vibrates through me, collects and smolders in my center.

“Organization isn’t my strong suit. That’s why I have Joan.” You sit on the couch and hook my waistband with a finger, pulling me down next to you. “Start digging, woman. My mouth is watering thinking about that pie.” Your eyebrows shrug suggestively.

“Don’t get all worked up. We have all day…for pie.” I pull a stack of papers and books out of the box as you chuckle, low and deep.

Instructions and a warranty for the new stove are in the first booklet I flip through. I toss it aside and grab a sheet of paper from the stack. It’s faded and hand written. I can’t make out one word. Beside me, you’re squinting at a yellowed page in a cookbook. I pick up a file folder and leaf through.

The contents are recent. The pages have the Rocha Enterprises logo scrolled across the top. I glance to see if you’re paying attention. Maybe I shouldn’t be going through your business files. You’re humming to yourself and running a finger down the page in the cookbook. My eyes turn back to the file on my lap.

The top page is titled: TURTLE TEAR PROJECT and it’s dated 2010. I didn’t realize you’ve owned the hotel and island that long and renovations haven’t begun. Why the hold up?

The next page is a resume for a woman named Adrianna Singer. Her name is circled and beside it, in your handwriting, it says: HIRED 6/15/10. Behind Adrianna’s resume is a photo of you and a dark-haired woman. You’re both wearing bathing suits holding drinks served in coconuts with leis around your necks. Hawaii, maybe? Is this Adrianna? Your arm around her waist holding her close tells me she was—is?—more than an employee.

The next few pages are pink duplicates of purchase orders for building supplies, work orders for a construction crew and detailed project notes for the hotel renovation. All are dated in early 2011, and all of them have CANCELLED scratched across them in angry, black pen—in your handwriting.
 
The last pages in the file outline a severance package for Adrianna Singer.

I slam the file shut not wanting to see anymore. You glance over, frowning. “Something wrong?”

Accusations streak through my mind, but I try to sound merely curious. “No, nothing.” I hold up the file before laying it aside. “Was Adrianna Stringer hired as project manager before I was offered the job?”

Your expression freezes. Your eyes open a bit wider. “Um.” You shift and cough. “She was hired with the project in mind. Negotiations on this place were still ongoing then.” Your knees swivel toward me, and you lay your hand on my wrist. “Things with Adrianna…fell through.”

I shake my head, reaching in the folder and pulling out the photo of you and her. “I have to ask. Do you start…
relationships
with all of your project managers, or just the brunettes?” I flick the photo, sending it spinning toward you. It hits you in the chest and falls to the floor.

You pick it up and study it. “Adrianna and I did have a relationship. It was short lived. We weren’t good together. It ended badly.” You toss the photo into the box on the table. “And no, I don’t start relationships with all of my project managers, blonde or brunette.”

“Did you…” I bite back the word kidnap and try again. “Did you
whisk
her away, too, or did she accept the job offer?”

You snatch the file off my lap, tear it in half and throw it in the box. “What do you think, Rachael? I’ve apologized, explained my stupid, desperate mistake and asked for your forgiveness.” You throw your hands in the air. “I don’t know what else to do.”

You’re angry, but I can’t help the words that keep shooting out of my mouth. “So, did she belong here, too? Was it her dream? Was this
home
to her? Or did you just use those lines on me?”

Your hands grasp my arms and jerk me toward you. “Listen to me. Everything I’ve told you is the truth. I didn’t use any lines on you. Adrianna wasn’t right for this hotel project just like she wasn’t right for me. She didn’t care if she brought Turtle Tear back to life or if she was getting paid to do any other job I gave her. It was a paycheck, and I was the billionaire on her arm for a while. That’s it.”

“You were the billionaire on her arm for a while,” I repeat. She hurt you, didn’t she? It sounds like she did.

Your eyes flash, and you let go leaning back into the couch rubbing your forehead. “It doesn’t matter. It’s been over for a long time now.”

I sit back and scoot closer to you. “In the last few days, you’ve told me about strained relationships between you and your dad, you and your sister, and you and this woman. Do you push people away on purpose?” I fold and rub my arms, nervous for your response.

“They push me away, Rachael, not the other way around.” Your eyes are closed. My fingers twitch with the need to reach up and stroke your cheek.

“Why would they do that?” My voice is so soft; if we weren’t sitting so close, you would never hear me.

You exhale loudly shaking your head. “I try. I’m always fucking things up. Look what I did to you.”

My heart clenches. You’re like an overeager puppy, jumping up and getting smacked back down when all you want is to be petted, cuddled, and loved.

You suck air in through your teeth rubbing your fingers through your hair vigorously. “Whatever. I’m done looking for that recipe. I’ll be downstairs.” You move to stand, but I grab your arm.

“Don’t.” I lean in and run my thumb across your cheek. “Don’t run away when you should stay and talk to me.”