Colin barely spoke to Eve for the entire drive to the rendezvous point. The repeated calls had been rude and disrespectful, not to mention poorly timed. For starters, she had no business interrupting him at his workplace and furthermore, that ultimatum she gave was downright juvenile. So he sat in his seat with his arms folded, staring out the passenger window. He was actively ignoring her, and he hoped she was getting the message. The one time he did acknowledge her was to ask her to stop the incessant cheerful humming. Her reply had been an effervescent giggle, which only served to irritate him further.
As annoyed with her as he was, the real issue was with Henry, and he didn't trust himself to not take that out on her. So he stewed in silence.
She dropped him off at an upscale apartment building in Manhattan. Where once he would have been impressed with the splendour, today he begrudged it. It was all fine and well for Seduction to toss money around, but in the real world, people like him had to work hard for it. And that's what he needed to be doing right now — working his ass off to try to keep his job, not playing out some fantasy.
As he got out of the car, Eve handed him a piece of paper. "Here's the security code for the penthouse," she said. "Have fun!"
He closed the door without saying goodbye.
The lobby was grandly decorated, which was no surprise. There was even a uniformed elevator operator who greeted him by name. A few months ago he would have been wide-eyed with wonder at the opulence of his surroundings. Now, preoccupied by thoughts of Henry, he kept his head down.
He was the first to arrive at the penthouse and was struck immediately by the sense that someone lived here. As he began to look around, he noticed all the little touches that make a house a home; keys in the bowl by the door, candles that had already been burned, books with bookmarks in them and, on a side table in the living room, framed photos. He picked one up and his brow furrowed in confusion. It was Grace — in her early twenties, on a farm in autumn, holding a basket of apples. There was another photo of him at about the same age. He scratched his head trying to pinpoint the time and place. It was before he'd gotten married, certainly.
Colin moved throughout the apartment, everywhere noticing touches that reflected his tastes and, he assumed, Grace's as well. His favourite beer was in the fridge, music he liked was on the shelves and his brand of shaving cream was in the ensuite. On a table in the master bedroom were two gift bags, one pink and one blue, and next to them was a card addressed to them both. He opened it and read Eve's message:
For the next 12 hours, this place is yours. Make yourselves at home.
He looked in the blue bag and found a change of clothes — jeans, a t-shirt and a casual sweater.
Ah, so that was it. This was supposed to be Grace and Marlowe's home. They were playing house.
And right on cue, the front door slammed. Dealing with an angry woman was something he did all too often. He sighed. At this point the rendezvous was feeling more like reality than fantasy.
"Grace?" he called. In no time her footsteps pounded up the stairs and she came into the bedroom with a scowl on her face. He could almost see the smoke coming out of her ears. "Bad day?" he asked.
"You could say that." She didn't look at him when she spoke.
"Want to talk about it?"
"No." She unbuttoned her pants.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking off my clothes."
"I can see that. But why?"
"Because I can't have sex with them on — not the bottom ones anyway." She lay back on the bed, wearing only her sweater and panties. "Alright, hurry up," she said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I have stuff to do. Are you going to get started or not?"
"As tempting as that offer is," he said, folding his arms across his chest, "I'll pass."
She raised an eyebrow in disgust. "Well, tough. We signed a contract."
He suddenly felt very tired. "Grace, get up."
"What's your problem?"
"For starters, in case you haven't noticed, my day has been pretty shitty too." Jesus, this was like a marriage.
"Do I have to listen to this?"
"Yeah, you do. If I have to deal with you treating me like I've done something wrong — which I haven't — you have to listen to me."
"You must be the only man on the planet who wants to talk about his feelings." She was standing in front of him now, reaching for his belt, but he stepped back.
"Do you think sex is all I care about?"
"You're a guy, aren't you?"
"Excuse me?"
"You all think with your dicks, right? That's how men operate."
He shook his head in disbelief. "Wow. Someone sure did a job on you."
"Oh, cut the psychoanalytical bullshit, will you?" She wasn't quite yelling, but there was an edge to her voice that he'd never heard before, and he struggled to put his finger on it. "We said we'd have sex once a month," she continued. "So let's get this over with."
"No."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because, believe it or not, I don't want to. Nothing about this is turning me on." Never in his life had Colin heard anyone scream so loud. There was nothing piercing about it, and nothing hysterical. It was instead the kind of deep, guttural sound he'd expect a demon to make as it tore through the earth on its way up from hell.
He'd had just about all he was going to take. "Downstairs," he said, pointing to the door. If this was supposed to be their home, and if Eve had done her research, the solution to this problem was in the living room.
Grace's eyes narrowed. Her hands were in fists at her sides.
"Now." He squared his shoulders to make sure she knew he was serious. "And put your pants on."
In the living room, Colin found what he was looking for. Nintendo Wii U. He turned it on and set up the boxing game. "Grace?" he called. "Get down here."
A minute later she appeared. If looks could kill, he'd be a dead man. She took the nunchuck without enthusiasm and stood with her arms folded. "Are you going to play?" he asked.
"This is stupid."
He gave her avatar a quick jab.
"You punched me!" she howled.
"I punched the air," he said. The second he dropped his hands to his sides, she threw a right hook and knocked his virtual self out. A giant "you win" flashed on the screen.
"Set it up again," she said, and for the next half hour Colin did his best to stay just out of arm's reach. He ducked and bobbed, and gave her ample opportunity to burn off her anger. When finally she tossed her nunchuck on the coffee table, she was covered in sweat.
He flopped back on the couch, and Grace settled next to him with one leg tucked under her. "Now," he said. "What was all that about?" He was too tired to be upset.
"This hasn't been the best day for me." The venom had left her, finally.
"So I gathered." He put his feet up on the coffee table and crossed one ankle over the other. "But I'm talking about that stuff on the bed."
"We have to have sex every month. It says so in the contract."
"We have to meet every month. There's a difference," he said. "We can't reveal our identities either, but we took our masks off — and you don't know who I am, right?"
Grace grabbed a throw cushion and hugged it to her. In her eyes, he saw the emotion he'd tried to pinpoint earlier. It was fear.
He turned to face her. "Listen to me. I said no to you upstairs because it was obvious that you didn't want to have sex. And even if I had been turned on, I would never have expected you to do something you didn't want to do. That's not how I operate."
She twisted the corner of the pillow in her hands.
"Is this about the bookstore?"
She nodded.
"Are you afraid we'll get caught?"
Grace chewed her bottom lip but didn't answer.
"Or are you afraid of me?"
"No. God, no." A pained look came into her eyes. "Please don't think that."
"It's getting caught then. That's what's concerning you?" He couldn't blame her for that certainly. Joe had picked up on his transgression right away and while no permanent damage had been done, he didn't want to risk it again. "Seeing you at the bookstore was a definite surprise." He smiled at the memory while Grace blushed in red splotches on her neck and cheeks. "But you're right, we can't let that happen again."
She smiled an uneasy sort of smile, as though she were trying to convince herself to believe him.
"This is about us relaxing," he continued. "So let's relax."
Isla wished that Yves Saint Laurent had made her sweater out of moisture wicking fabric. Alas, the cashmere trapped her body heat and caused sweat to trickle down her back. It was worth it though. Wii U boxing had been brilliant therapy and in retrospect, a very wise move on Marlowe's part. Clearly, the pressure was starting to get to her. Dealing with Joe and Robert was challenging enough, but the conversation with Eve had freaked her out. And now the reporter . . . that was a bit of a tipping point.
Marlowe poked around the kitchen, hauling out ingredients for supper. He worked so quietly and had been so patient. That nonsense in the bedroom had been completely beneath her, and he'd been right to call her on it. He was a good man and she hadn't treated him fairly at all. She'd acted like a crazed hormonal bitch. No, worse — a spoiled brat. Rubbing her forehead in utter humiliation, she took a deep breath and willed herself to get a grip.
Time for a reset. "I'm going to grab a shower," she called. There was something about the feel of hot water that made it easier to cope.
He peeked out from behind a cupboard door. "Take your time."
In the gift bag upstairs, Eve had provided a pair of leggings, an oversized sweater and cable-knit wool socks. Clearly comfort, and not sex-appeal, was the order of the day. She peeled off her own clothes, folded them and placed them back in the bag to take home with her later.
The ensuite had a walk-in shower with clear glass doors and two shower heads on opposing walls. Isla stepped in and let the hot water pour down over her. Heaven. She squeezed some soap onto a pink puff and began to lather up.
"Want some help with your back?"
She jumped at the sound of Marlowe's voice. She'd been watching the bubbles twirl down the drain, hoping that maybe her worries would go down with them, and hadn't heard him come in. "Sure," she said.
He wasn't nearly as methodical with his clothes as she was, but he did at least hang them on a hook rather than leave them in a heap on the floor. Someone had trained Marlowe well. His mother maybe, or his wife . . . his ex-wife, surely. Her stomach twisted at the forbidden thought. There was a son, so there must have been a special someone. But of course there was. He was a sexy man in his forties. He'd had a life before the game — and he'd have one after it.
She buried her face in her hands and silently chastised herself for going there. Colin had entered the game just like she had, and while they were together, the outside world didn't exist. Once a month he was Marlowe, and he was all hers. Fatigue was the only problem here. When she was tired she was weak, and all her insecurities surfaced. But damn, how she wished she'd never looked at his luggage tag.
"Hey," he said, his voice gentle and compassionate. "Are you ok?"
She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her head against his chest. "I need a hug, that's all." There, in his embrace with the warm water pouring over them, Isla felt safely cocooned — protected from a life that pecked at her daily. He kissed the top of her head and ever so softly, hummed a beautiful melody.
“What song is that?” she asked.
"It’s called Pretend by Nat King Cole — one of my favourites."
When he finished singing, she pulled away and saw that soap from her body now covered his. As he tipped his head back under the water, she rinsed it from his chest. An occasional strand of grey showed through and she kissed each one. Joe had waxed his chest — a practice she'd always found odd. Marlowe was so gloriously real.
She chuckled. "Real." Right.
"What's so funny?" he asked.
"Nothing. This is nice, that's all."
The corners of his mouth turned up just enough to trigger the dimples.
"I'm sorry about earlier," she said. "There was no need."
He smoothed the excess water from his hair. "No problem," he said. "Now turn around so I can do your back."
Isla did as he asked and sighed at the feel of his hands. He gently massaged the tension from her muscles as he washed, and kissed her neck. She was going to miss this when the game was over, but for tonight she could indulge. "What's for supper?" she asked.
"Fettuccini Alfredo with grilled portobello mushrooms and bacon."
"Carbs and cream and bacon?" she teased. "Guess I'll be fitting in extra workouts this week."
"Not on my account," he said, moving his hands down over her glutes and hips. "I love your curves."
"Is that a backhanded compliment?"
"Nope. It's a straightforward compliment. You're a beautiful woman, Grace. Lean and strong," he said, smoothing his hands over her thighs. "But also . . ." He looped his hands around her waist and up over her abdomen to her breasts. "Full and feminine."
"Works for me," she said with a laugh. "Cheesecake tomorrow it is!" She turned around and rose up on her toes to give him a playful kiss.
Marlowe held her close. "What do you say we watch a movie tonight?"
"What did you have in mind?"
He looked upward as he thought. "How about High Fidelity?"
"Yeah," she said, unconvinced. "Or maybe Bull Durham?"
"I'm a big fan of Susan Sarandon, but not so keen on sports movies."
"When Harry Met Sally?"
"Not the fake orgasm scene again. Please." He groaned. "There's not a man alive who thinks that's funny."
She laughed. "Ok. Fair enough. How about Notting Hill?"
"Well, let's see . . . a story about a beautiful woman with an average guy in a bookstore. We like bookstores," he said with a wink. "It's settled. Now, I'd better go check on supper."
"I'm going to wash my hair and then I'll be down. Can you hand me the conditioner, please?" She pointed to a bottle at his end of the shower.
"Silicone free?" he said, reading the label.
"Oh yeah, that stuff is brutal. Useless, if you ask me."
He shrugged and handed her the bottle. "I dunno. I'm sure it's good for something."