Authors: Lauren Boutain
“
How far?” he repeated.
She turned her face a little to the side, feeling the breeze strike tears on her cheek, turning them into small streaks of burning ice on her skin.
Clearing her throat a tiny bit, she managed to speak.
“
What do you mean?”
“
Do you want to go all the way?” Adrik asked. His hand stroked her side again, down and up. “Get married.”
Uncertain of what she had heard, Christie raised her eyes to search his, but she could detect no teasing or humour in them.
“Married…?” she echoed, in barely a whisper.
“
Married,” he confirmed. “And then I’ll wait – until you’re ready to tell me everything. No interrogations. I don’t want you to feel as though you’re under pressure to talk about anything you can’t talk about yet.” This time it was only his fingertip that trailed down her side, more slow and intimate a caress. “Or that you have to run away from me. Again.”
The subtle reminder at the end of his offer to her hinted that this was still more than a deal over some piffling anonymous paintings, and an impressive collection of female celebrity stalkers.
It was about the diamonds. And that kiss…
“
So it’s still blackmail?” she queried, lowering one arm from around his neck to dry the tear-streaks on her cheek.
He caught her wrist lightly, and pressed his lips against it, pausing to inhale her perfume.
“We’ll both get something good out of it,” he said. “The truth. Eventually.”
She nodded mutely, part defeat – part surrender.
More than anything else right now, she needed this to be real.
But she couldn’t say
no
, to what was yet another agreement with Adrik – because already, this was the closest thing to real she’d ever known.
“
Stay there.” He took a step backwards, leaving her leaning against the tree-trunk.
His hand went to his top left-hand pocket, where the corner of a neatly-folded, turquoise blue handkerchief had resided all evening, since before dinner. As he drew it out carefully, Christie’s immediate concerns were almost realised when a small, shiny, serrated-edged packet that had snagged in it dropped with a faint smack onto the stonework at their feet.
“Trust Lucas to ruin my moment,” Adrik groaned, but his lip curled in a smirk at the same time, eliciting a relieved breath from her. “Save that one for later…”
“
What’s this?” she asked, her throat beginning to tighten, as he unfolded the linen square methodically.
“
Something you can’t steal from me,” he replied. “Because I’m giving it to you.”
The last corner of the handkerchief fell aside, and the moonlight flared off it, cradled in the middle of his palm.
Before Christie had recovered from her shocked gasp, she realised that Adrik was now kneeling in front of her. And not to recover the rogue condom.
He took her left hand in his, the handkerchief discarded and forgotten – the only thing in his other hand a diamond ring that seemed to have captured not only the moon, but all of the stars as well.
“Christie,” Adrik said, gravely. “Will you marry me?”
Her tongue was frozen in her mouth, while the unreality of being proposed to by the hottest man this side of the sun, beside Lake Como under a full moon, became more than the fantasy she could ever previously have imagined.
“Yes…” she whispered at last, hardly daring to believe that this was true.
“
I knew I would think of a good question at some point.”
He kissed the backs of each of her fingers, before sliding the ring softly into place.
And then he was on his feet, pulling her away from the tree. When he kissed her neck, Christie found herself biting her tongue, willing herself to wake from a dream that wasn’t a dream – just in case…
“
Big day tomorrow,” he said at last into her ear, his embrace loosening, but only in order for his hands to stray, down her back and over her hips. “I think you deserve a night worthy of our engagement party first.”
His words made her tremble all over again as he led her inside, stopping only to retrieve the condom.
* * * *
Luckily there was strong Italian filter coffee on hand in their annexe the next morning, although Adrik had to tear himself away from Christie in the shower to go and make it. She hadn’t even got as far as closing the bathroom door behind her this time. Their chemistry had transcended sleep for all but a few snatched moments of the night, bringing his need to be with her as the sun rose, and beyond, to the pangs of an almost insatiable hunger. He’d found her reach a point after screaming, where she purred, unconsciously contracting around him, completely surrendered, at the mercy of her nerves continuing to send their messages while her strength was spent. He had kissed the perspiration away from her upper lip and chin, still denying her a real kiss until he was finally unable to hold back his own power, demanding release and satisfaction.
He was already concerned about his own ability to stay focused, having to stop himself abandoning the too-slow coffee machine, and storming back in to towel her off and throw her back down onto the bed as he wanted to.
Because if this went as far as he intended, he’d be forced to do some confessing of his own, when she finally opened up to him – so long as she was honest – and he needed to be certain she was prepared for that.
He’d had eleven years to think about what he would do, if he found her one day. In contrast, she didn’t seem to have planned for the eventuality at all.
“
Shouldn’t have kissed her,” he muttered to himself, and cursed in Russian, as his conscience enquired as to which occasion was now in question.
Her kiss had the gravitational effect of the sun on him.
Feeling as though he needed to ground himself before the day ahead, he took the tray with the coffee out onto the terrace and set it down, where the lascivious lapping of the water in the pool taunted him with the searing memory of a moonlit skinny-dip, and a scattering of leaves on its surface from the overhanging tree reminded him that the tree-trunk had seen a bit of return action as well.
He retrieved their two unfinished glasses of vodka and tonic from the wall by said tree, emptying them into the pool. A distant cawing and squawking announced the predicted eviction of the scarlet macaw, and Adrik spotted him perched smugly on the arm of a dark-haired woman in navy slacks and polo-shirt, heading down the jetty far below, towards an awaiting motor-yacht.
Adrik grinned as he left the poolside, and deposited the two empty glasses on the tray between the loungers. Then he settled himself down to pour a coffee, took out his phone, and selected his cousin’s number.
“
Roksana,” he said, when it was picked up. “It’s gone nine-thirty. Which makes this your early-morning call…”
* * * *
Once Adrik had left it, the shower was too much for her night-sensitised skin, so Christie soaked in the tub, suffering the pleasurable echoes of his deviousness. Her involuntary tremors carried an edge of pain where they met her fears of what the new day might contain.
The fears, of course, were not due to him.
The diamond engagement ring sparkled off her finger through the bubbles as she hugged her wet knees up to her chest, fighting to regain control over her own body, while it seemed determined to remain a slave to the memories of his.
But it was the memory of another man that kept her mind adrift, detached from the meaning that the ring she now wore contained.
I’ll have to pretend Derek’s not there.
Just as he had always done with her.
* * * *
The magazine’s photography team had arrived, and were bringing in their reflector stands when the two of them joined Eileen in her red felt morning fez – and the Sicilian dirty stop-out, Giovanni – for a late breakfast in the main house. Adrik and Christie were relieved to see that both had survived the night. Little tiny stroke or not.
“They will be using the conservatory at the side for the main seated poses,” Eileen reported. “We will get most of those out of the way as people arrive. The rest will be the usual opportunist snaps taken while mingling. I think we have at least one hundred expected for lunch, with the rest of the riff-raff arriving from about three onwards…”
A deafening bang from outdoors tinkled the crystal chandelier above the dining table, making them all jump. Fortunately, they had already been forewarned.
“Not bad,” Giovanni mused critically, adjusting his hearing aid.
“
Perhaps a little further away from the house,” Eileen remarked, and picked up her phone from beside her plate, to call one of the household staff. “Philippe – would you run and tell Mario that these new fireworks definitely have to be set up behind the topmost barn…”
* * * *
“Are you sure Eileen doesn’t have the Paparazzka painting of me yet?” the Republican asked Christie at the buffet lunch, making her wonder if he was in fact here with the priority of carrying out an elaborate heist. “I know there are people who would make it a talking point for the gossip columns…”
“
The charity are still settling its insurance for transit from New York,” Christie assured him. “She paid a lot. It has tremendous value to the beneficiaries. You ought to be flattered.”
Once Doug and the close inner circle of his hip-hop posse had arrived, she began to lose track of numbers. The guests from that night at
Harding’s
in Manhattan had all materialised, Eileen’s neighbours were back – one or two of them still nursing hangovers – and most of Adrik’s relatives were here already and having their own congenial Russian gathering, as residents of Belgravia and Dulwich reunited with Moscow denizens. What with his rather intimidating uncles present, the return of the Sicilians, and Doug’s crew occupying loungers around one of the pools enjoying Thug Passion cocktails, the atmosphere was a cross between engagement celebration, and international undercover arms conference.
There was no sign of Derek Goldman – so far.
Christie’s parents appeared while the buffet was in full swing, looking bemused and worried that they had gatecrashed the wrong party by mistake. Adrik had spotted them first and went down to the jetty to greet and reassure them, and brought them up to find Christie, where she was helping the Australian model establish which of the dishes were gluten-free, for her coeliac diet restrictions.
“
Is this real?” her mother greeted her, with an emotional hug. “I was so worried. He still seems to me to be very unlikely to settle down…”
“
Don’t believe everything you read in the media, Maman,” said Christie, glad that Adrik was already heading off, to accept a call on his phone. Her mother didn’t consider that her own opinions were ever private. “Look, here’s the ring. We’ve just been sitting together having it photographed. They had to use a special filter.”
“
And you are not pregnant?” said her father with reasonable concern, leaning over and kissing her cheek in turn.
“
Hello, Dad. And no – not yet,” she teased bravely.
Thanks to Lucas’s idea of holiday essentials when packing, it was unlikely, anyway.
“Is this your mother?” A hopeful squeal interrupted them.
“
Yes,” Christie grinned, as they turned to find their hostess, underneath what was essentially a peacock’s tail in full display mode. “Maman, this is Eileen. I think she wants to talk wedding hats with you…”
* * * *
“I can see you,” said Adrik, crossing the terrace to look down towards the jetty, his phone to his ear.
Roksana was standing up in the water-taxi, waving, with three other individuals seated alongside – the ambassador Zory Tamarkin, his wife, and their adopted son Paolo.
“Told you I would not be late,” she said when she finally hopped ashore, flinging her arms around him for a hug. “Where is she? I want to see her so badly. And I’m starving. Is there food yet?”
She dashed away, without waiting for her companions.
“I can’t keep up,” Paolo groaned wryly, climbing out onto the jetty.
“
Formula One test driver, and you can’t keep up with an archaeologist?” Adrik chuckled, as they shook hands before also exchanging a brief, brotherly hug. “Oh dear.”
“
Tell me about it.” Paolo Tamarkin’s wiry shoulders slumped as he trailed after the slim whirlwind brunette. “I’m exhausted…”
“
He’d be more exhausted if he was still patching tyres at the roadside in Cuba,” Zory remarked, while Adrik helped him disembark before they both turned back to assist Mrs Tamarkin. “Ungrateful little rascal. That’s the last time I offer a smart-talking seven-year-old my good name in exchange for repairing a flat. I end up with a thirty-two-year-old petrol-head who can’t get car insurance for under six thousand pounds sterling. Don’t adopt, Adrik. Make your own heirs.”
“
I plan to,” Adrik replied, and escorted his father’s old friends up to the house.