With his eyes on the water and not on me, I get a good look at him. For someone with a masculine face, his profile makes him look kind. Soft skin over a square jaw that could chisel granite. High, wide cheekbones are offset by a tiny bit of stubble that makes them a touch rugged. Sensual lips are slightly pursed, but there’s no denying their volume.
He bites his lip, not in a sexy way. Actually, I’ve never found lip biting to be sexy. I straighten my back and look ahead at the water.
It’s hard to imagine a man as attractive as Asher would have a free afternoon to take me around on a boat. Then again, this is his job. I can only imagine that someone with his looks, traveling around the world on a yacht, would get a lot of tail. He’s probably dreaming about where else he can be right now.
I open my mouth to tell him to take us back.
“You like speed?” he asks, before I’m able to get a word out.
“Excuse me?”
“Speed. Do you like speed?” He repeats, his eyes still focused on the water ahead.
Speed. Going fast. Driving erratically. Hitting things. Bodies flown. Hands crushed. Lives lost. Dreams expired.
No. The answer is no.
I like control. I like slow. I like safe.
“No!” I yell, grabbing onto the handlebar to my left and swallow hard. “The speed you’re going is just fine.”
By the look of Asher’s jowls sticking out from the side of his face that was, clearly, the wrong answer. He raises his chin and turns the wheel of the boat, keeping the same speed as before.
He continues to drive, following the perimeter of the island past the limestone and sandstone rock that make up the island. The water in front of us is a gorgeous turquoise color. It must be the way the sun is reflecting off the sea because it is so much bluer than it was yesterday.
I inhale the smell of salt permeating the air. If I were to play a concerto it would be the Ernest Bloch, so full of heart and triumph. I hear the crescendo with each crashing wave and spray of white foam as my gaze travels up to three dramatic towering rock formations off the coast. Standing erect, the rocks rise out of the sea as if sculpted by wind and sea. I’ve seen the image on brochures. They must have significance to the island.
“What are those?” I ask, pointing at the rock formation.
Asher shrugs his shoulder and turns his wheel to the right, away from the rocks and toward the island. “I don’t know.”
Figures.
Just then, his cell phone rings and he looks at the screen, briefly, before answering it. It’s a rude thing to do—talk on the phone with company—but he hasn’t struck me as the courteous kind yet.
“Yeah.” He answers. “What do you mean she didn’t get on the plane?” His voice rises over the low roaring engine. “Then charter one.”
Hopefully he doesn’t talk to Devon like that, otherwise his ass should be fired. Without saying good-bye, he ends the call and tosses the phone into a compartment near his seat.
I cross my arms and sit back in my seat. This is the most ridiculous boating experience I’ve ever been on, and I’m counting yesterday’s disaster. Devon must have a serious flaw in his judgment of character.
Asher drives the boat closer to the island but there is no shore or docking area in sight. Instead, there is a large opening in the rocks, peeking out from the bottom and half submerged in the ocean. It is similar to the one we saw yesterday at the Blue Grotto, but much larger.
Lowering the speed, he guides the boat inside the cave and then turns off the engine. The boat is too big to go inside the grotto so we are drifting in an alcove of rock that provides shade from the sun. The water here is a transparent aqua, which means it must be pretty shallow.
There is no one else in sight. No other boats or tourists groups. No sightseers on foot either, though I can’t imagine you’d be able to walk here from the island. It looks like this is one of those rare and special places you can only access from the water.
Asher hits a button on the console and there is a rumbling heard from beneath as he lowers an anchor. He raises the sunglasses off his eyes and onto his head as he swings around his chair and walks over to the seating area in the back of the boat. Bending over, he lifts the cushion of one of the bench seats and reaches down. I’m admiring the way his forearm muscles twitch when he raises a cooler out of the compartment and puts the cushion back in place.
He places the cooler on the floor and opens the top, rifling through the items inside and takes out two bottles of Pellegrino and two oranges.
Palming the two oranges in one hand, he holds out a bottle of Pellegrino with the other, pointing it toward me in invitation. I nod my head and stand, my legs wobbly. I take a few steps toward him; grab the water bottle and head back to my chair.
“I don’t bite.” I can detect the sarcasm in his baritone.
Sure you don’t. I turn back around and see one brow is tilted up. Other than that his expression is unreadable.
“Want one?” He offers me one of the oranges.
Deciding not to be a completely ungrateful brat, I accept the orange and take a seat on the bench to the right of him, setting my water next to my hip and curl my left leg under me. Focusing all of my attention on the orange, I pierce the skin with my nail and slide my finger down the side until the inside of the orange is peering back at me from beneath the thick rind.
The hairs on my neck stand the way they do when you know you’re being watched. And from the proximity of the man sitting to my left, it’s not difficult to feel his intense gaze.
I turn my head and meet him eye for eye. In this lighting his eyes are the color of honey wheat, but intense nonetheless. My head flinches back to observe my orange and I find myself biting my lip this time.
Curling my finger over a stray hair that came loose, I hook it back behind my ear and take the opportunity to look over at those unwavering eyes. Feeling incredibly self-conscious, I turn my head to admire the surroundings. “What is this place?”
“I don’t know.”
My mouth opens and I try to hold my tongue, but of course, I can’t. “You are the worst tour guide ever.”
Asher leans into my left shoulder and his body heat makes my already warm skin burn. He smells of sea and soap; I could drink him in. “I have a secret.”
I raise my eyebrows in interest.
“I’m not a tour guide.” He says before leaning back in his seat and opening his Pellegrino. The opening of the bottle perches on his mouth as his lips wrap around it to take a sip.
Blinking back any erotic thought that might come to my mind I gather my wits. “So what are you? I mean, what do you do for Devon . . . Mr. Smith? Are you like his assistant?”
Lowering the bottle, he tilts his head, looking back at me with an odd expression. “What if I told you I was his bodyguard?”
I let out a laugh and immediately correct myself. That was rude of me. I cough back my smile and am met with an unamused Asher. I let out one of those throat gurgles you do when you need to find your voice and swallow. “I’d say that due to the size of him, I doubt Mr. Smith needs a bodyguard.”
Asher stares back at me for a second before shrugging his right shoulder and nodding into the air. He lifts the bottle to his mouth again and I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs with each gulp.
I let out another breath of air and fiddle with my orange again letting my thumb graze under the sliced skin and peeling back a strand.
“So what do you do for him?”
Asher crosses his leg over his knee. “A little of everything. Mostly, I make sure people don’t wander into rooms they don’t belong.”
My stomach drops and I swallow back the awful feeling creeping up my windpipe. I already apologized for that. There’s no reason for him to be such a jerk about it. “Why is the room off-limits?”
His jaw moves from side to side and I’m glad he doesn’t have his sunglasses on or else I’d miss the way his eyes dance around for a second before he answers. “It’s a
place for reflection. A private retreat. No one is supposed to be in there.”
My mouth smashes together and I tap and pluck my fingers on the skin of the fruit the way I would on the strings of an instrument. It’s what I do when I have something on my mind. I play a song in my head while I work out whatever it is that’s plaguing me, which right now is how a music room as grand as that could belong to Devon.
“What are you thinking so seriously about?” he asks, staring at my fingers moving about.
“I just didn’t take him as a musician.”
“Why is that?”
I think back to yesterday, when Devon saved me from drowning. His hands, they’re big and bulky. Callused and course. They’re the kind that save people. They don’t seem like they tickle the ivories, if you know what I mean.
“It’s in his hands,” I offer.
“What about your hands?” Asher asks, not fazed by my comment. “Are they the hands of a musician?”
I look down at my palm and shake my head. “No. They’re not.”
“You were playing yesterday.”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “You said I played beautifully. If you knew anything about music, you’d know what was coming out of that piano was far from beautiful.”
My body jerks about as I talk. My nerves shooting through me like a bolt of lightening.
“I didn’t say the music was beautiful. I said you played beautifully.”
Asher leans up from his seat and pushes into my personal space, making me feel all sorts of uncomfortable for all the wrong reasons. “When you play, you are beautiful. It’s as if the melody possesses you and takes you on a journey. I was in awe just watching you.” His words come across as authentic and honest, his eyes burning with meaning. I part my lips, yet have nothing to say.
Asher, on the other hand, fills in the silence. “That said, the melody itself was dismal. It doesn’t take a savant to know you are not a musician.”
My eyes shoot wide open and I balk back at him. Fine, he is right about it being dismal but how rude can you be?
“I’ll have you know I graduated from Carnegie Mellon. I, sir, am a classically trained musician.” My voice is loud and rough. I don’t know why I even said the words. I’m sure he doesn’t even know what Carnegie Mellon is.
“You? Well you certainly didn’t train to be a pianist.” He’s baiting me.
“What does it matter to you?”
“I’m interested.” His voice contradicts his words.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I bite back.
“What do you play, Emma?” he asks sternly, his tone loud and commanding.
“I don’t play anymore.”
“Just say it.”
“The violin!” I shout. I don’t know why I get so dramatic. But this guy just gets under my skin. “I played the violin.” My voice lowers a few octaves.
The air is tight with tension and the only sounds are the waves crashing around us. I go back to peeling my orange, one I have no desire of actually eating, and peel off an entire portion of the outside layer.
“I know. I googled you,” he says, laughing at his own joke. It’s infuriating. “Why don’t you play anymore?”
Man, he just doesn’t let up.
“I don’t talk about that with anyone.”
“Why not?”
I stand up and walk to the side of the boat, away from Asher, his intense regard and his probing questions. They sound harmless but every mention of music and every furrow of his brow makes me want to shut down and curl into my metaphorical fetal position.
“Just stop asking.” I shoot him a stern look. It’s the first time I’ve been able to hold steady eye contact with him. He’s so intimidating I have a hard time doing so.
The boat bounces in the water as a small wake comes in. We each ride the tide, waiting for the other to say something. Asher is looking out, his eyes zoned in on a piece of granite that hangs down from the top of the rocky archway. It looks like a teardrop of glitter hanging down from the face of a goddess of stone. Yes, I’ve decided the island is a woman.
“You’re from Pittsburgh.” Asher’s statement is just that. A statement, not a question.
“Two hours outside, originally. Moved to the city a few years ago.” Pittsburgh has been my second home for fifteen years. Seven years ago I made it my permanent residence when I got my first apartment just off campus and stayed as I pursued my Master of Music. It was the best seven years of my life.
Asher leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. Shaking his head, he lets out a smile. “Klavon’s still there?”
I lift my head at the mention of the historic ice cream shop in the strip district. “Yeah, it’s still there. You’ve been to Pittsburgh?”
He slowly nods his head and a hazy look passes over his face. “I was born there.”
“Maybe we ran into each other before. I practically grew up there.”
“I left when I was ten and never went back,” he says in a dark undertone. His body slightly shakes with the thought and pulls back with a grin. “Besides I am much older than you. If we’d run into each other I would have been in a world of trouble.”
Appraising the man in front of me, handsome, fit, and nicely dressed, I would guess he’s older by a few years but not that much. “You’re not that much older than me.”
“You forget, I am in possession of your passport information. I know exactly how old you are.”
I roll my eyes. “Geez, talk about an invasion of privacy.”
“Wanna hear something cool?” he asks, and my ears perk up. “We have the same birthday.”
“January twenty-third?” I ask even though he just said he knew we have the same birthday.
“January twenty-third.”
That’s interesting, I guess. What are the odds? Well, I know what the odds are. It’s one out of three hundred and sixty five. But what are the odds I would travel to Italy and meet a gorgeous man who takes me on a boat ride to a sea cave and has the same birthday as me? My guess is one in a gazillion.
“Why did you leave Pittsburgh?” I ask, suddenly interested in his story.
Rising from his seat, Asher walks toward me. His long legs only require three steps to reach me. I stand up straight from where I am leaning on the side of the boat. The top of my head stands just under his chin. He leans forward and grabs the orange out of my hand, brushing his fingers with mine. Ripping off the rest of the peel, Asher breaks it in half and hands the other half back to me.
“I don’t talk about that with anyone,” he answers with a wink, popping a piece of the orange in his mouth.
I put my hand on my hip and shift my weight to the side. “Are you just saying that because I said it earlier?”
Asher leans against the other side of the boat, directly across from me. “No. I don’t like to talk about certain aspects of my past. There are things that no one needs to know and, quite frankly, I’d be happy never to speak of them again.” His answer is honest and concise, and, boy, do I understand.
“Your family is probably completely different than mine. All they want to do is talk. Talk about things that happened. Talk about feelings. Talk about the future. They want to make sure I’m okay, when their constant pressure is making me so not okay I want to crawl out of my skin.”
“Why don’t you tell them to stop?” He asks this like it’s the simplest suggestion in the world.
“My family . . .” Where do I begin? “They’re kind and sweet. My mom is the type of woman who wears cat sweaters where there’s a kitten wrapped in a ball of yarn with a saying that says, ‘Hang in there.’ And my dad, he’s this really cuddly guy who teaches history and reads James Joyce novels. I mean, who reads Dubliner’s anymore? And he makes taffy. Like, a lot of taffy. But he doesn’t eat it. He makes it because he thinks we love it, but no one has the heart to tell them we don’t like it either!” My hands have taken on Leah�
�s Italian like way of talking, and I have to rein them in.
“You’re pretty funny, Emma Paige.” Asher crosses his arms and the creases around his eyes form as he gives me a real smile. It’s luminous and beautiful, showcasing two divots on the side of his face. They’re not dimples but they’re definitely only seen when he lets out a big smile.
“Nice to see my pain is entertaining.”
“I don’t mean it like that. It sounds nice to have people around you who care.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his stance changes and the light in his eyes falters.
“They do care, too much. But I don’t want to be taken care of, ever. They raised a strong, independent woman and, lately, all they do is hover like I’m going to break. I’m not angry with them for the way they act. It’s the opposite. I feel awful for causing them to worry. They have their own lives to focus on. I can take care of myself.”
Asher leans his hands on the edge of the boat and cocks his head to the side as if working something out in his head. I just gave him a mouthful. More than I even told my shrink, and that’s not saying a lot.
“Sorry for blabbering.”
“You apologize a lot.”
“Sorry?” I dip my head and cringe to myself even as I say it.
He smiles again and uncrosses his arms. “For someone who doesn’t like to talk, you seem to have an easy time talking here.”
He’s right. Maybe it’s the confines of the cave. They make me feel like I’m in another universe. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re on a boat and far removed from the mainland. Or . . .
“Maybe it’s because I know I’m never going to see you again.” This time it’s my turn to be honest and concise.
Asher nods, the perfect arch of his brow a little straighter; his lips pucker in. Placing his hands in his pockets, he leans back on his heels and looks back at me.
“So, Emma, what would you like to do? I’ve offered my services to you and so far I’ve passed a rock formation I couldn’t tell you the name of and brought you into a cave I only discovered during an outing of my own last week.”
Reckless Abandon Page 6
