She did try to be quiet, going for a swim, then eating dinner on her own—left over lasagne, which she’d bought.
As it got dark, she retreated inside, sliding the massive glass doors shut. It was getting quite cold in the evenings now. Sitting down, she watched the ridiculous large screen, which was more high definition than she was used to, giving more details than she wanted, like people’s bad skin. She wasn’t entirely sure that higher definition was better. Perhaps some of the mystique was being lost.
Sam heard Sebastian’s bedroom door opening and he came out from the hall, wearing the same clothes as before. He looked even more dishevelled after his sleep as he moved to the kitchen and retrieved a sandwich from the fridge.
“Anything on the news?”
Sam changed the channel over to BBC and put the remote down. There wasn’t actually that much on TV that captured her attention. Since she’d started travelling, she didn’t watch that much TV, and since she could never afford satellite TV, she was stuck with the French channels. And now, she’d just gotten out of the habit.
“How was New York?”
*
Sebastian sat down and devoured the flavourless sandwich, still feeling groggy from his sleep. He didn’t usually sleep during the day and normally would push through until evening, but today, he’d just been shattered. Negotiations in New York had gone well into the night and he’d hardly had any sleep, even on the plane back, when the rest of his work had pressingly demanded his attention.
“I didn’t see much other than the office and the airport.”
“How exciting. Do you ever travel for fun?”
“No. It’s always for a meeting or to attend some event.”
“I suppose backpacking was never your style.”
“Hardly.”
“Don’t be disparaging. Some of the best times I’ve ever had was when I was staying at a backpackers.”
“I’m not sure what that says about your standards.”
Sam gasped in put-on shock. “So tell me, what do you do for fun? Actually don’t; I’ve seen it in the papers.”
“You can’t believe anything you read in the papers.”
“That is true, but pictures don’t generally lie.”
Sebastian thought back on the pictures she was referring to, but they hadn’t been about fun; they’d been about pain—the recent ones anyway. Actually it had been a while since he’d done something fun. He worked and he got laid; both seemingly necessary, but he wasn’t sure they were fun—not the kind of fun she was referring to. That kind of fun wasn’t strictly necessary in his life. Achievement nurtured him. And there were the toys—the rewards for success and achievement. But fun, actually doing something without a purpose—that seemed a bit pointless. “And what do you do for fun?”
“Explore. Have dinner with my friends. Get drunk on wine, sitting on a beach, talking.”
“Sounds fun,” he said sarcastically.
“When was the last time you sat on a beach and talked?” Actually he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d set foot on a beach. “Do you even have friends?”
“I’m not twelve.”
“You’re not fifty either.”
He was getting tired of this discussion. “Are you planning on doing more of your backpacking?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said, rubbing her ankles, which looked a bit puffy. “I’d like to. I spent some time in Asia, but I’d like to travel around South America, too.”
“And then what? What will you do when you return home?”
She looked at him a little suspiciously. “You mean career wise?”
He shrugged, letting her make up her mind what he meant.
“Well, I studied marketing, so I guess I will get a marketing job.” She leaned back into the couch and regarded him.
“Do you miss New Zealand?”
“More of late.” She was quiet for a moment. “It’s home. I know I belong there. It’s very different from Monte Carlo. No one here seems to be from here. Where are you from?”
“Good question. Depends on the season.”
“Do you actually have somewhere you belong, culturally, I mean?”
“I suppose I am European. My family has been in Europe for more centuries than I can count. I guess we don’t really ask where we belong. Perhaps such thoughts and sentiments that are more common amongst younger countries. I never really questioned where I belong—France, Switzerland, England, New York. It all depends on the day.”
“Is this the only house you have?”
“No.”
“And that’s just normal in your world?”
He shrugged. It was really. “In the school I went to, it was the norm. The kids had powerful fathers, or powerful families. There were the old guard and the new pretenders with more money than sense, trying to buy their way in.”
“Sounds very nineteenth century. Don’t you think the world has moved on?”
“Sadly, not really. Not in Europe anyway.”
“Or maybe it’s just your crowd that doesn’t realise that things have changed.” She gave him an unimpressed look. “But you don’t date the kind of girls from that crowd. You date the flashy famous lot.”
“Are we going to talk about my sex life now?”
“I said nothing about your sex life. Admit it, you date every starlet you come across. Every single one of them captured in the press for prosperity. You have quite a track record. Don’t pretend like you don’t know it.”
He was more amused than he let on. So, she followed his antics in the press. A lot of the information was false, but then quite a bit wasn’t. He had dated his fair share of eager and willing beauties, and he had never pretended that he cared what the press thought, or what they called him; it actually seemed to keep their interest more than pandering to them. “I can’t go through my life worrying what the press thinks.”
“They have a propensity to forgive anything you do.”
He smiled—the kind of smile that relayed pure mischief. When younger, he did use to toy with people who were overly concerned about their reputation and the press getting hold of information about them. There was nothing in his life he was ashamed of. He let it all hang out and if someone didn’t like it, too bad.
“You’re trouble, you are,” she said and turned her head toward the screen. He continued watching the girl who was essentially holding him to ransom for his behaviour. He’d never been in a position where it had mattered before. Even his business interests forgave indiscretion every now and then—not that he did anything really wrong. He wasn’t running around messing with married women, breaking up marriages and such. The world was full of single and willing girls—there was never any need to get complicated.
As she watched the screen, she rolled the balls of her feet around on the floor. “My feet are killing me. They’re twice the size they should be. I can’t even wear most of my shoes. They didn’t put this in the brochure.” Bending over, she rubbed her lower shins.
“Here, let me.” He wasn’t sure why he’d offered. “In all my experience running around with the flashy famous, as you call them, I’ve picked up the odd skill or two.” She looked at him for a moment, then relented out of sheer desperation, shifting to place her feet towards him. “I won’t tell you what I can do with my tongue.” After a shocked gasp, she went to pull her feet away, but he grabbed her ankles, placing them on a pillow he retrieved from beside him.
Even being twice the size of what they should be, her feet were small and well formed. She had lovely skin and her legs stretched out in front of him, slim and tanned, up to the navy shorts she wore.
He could feel her tense at first as he firmly pressed along the arch of her foot with his thumb, then start to relax as he stretched out the movement. Her ankles were a little swollen and he moved to caress them, along down to the top of her feet as well. She even moaned when he gently squeezed her heel. Laying back, she had her eyes closed, enjoying his ministrations. Somehow, his
influence over her was fascinating. He could feel her relaxing and her legs grew heavier.
“You’re hired,” she said, clearly relishing the massage. “If things don’t work out for you, this is always a fall back career.”
He chuckled, knowing he was as susceptible as the next guy at being told he was fantastic at something.
His attention moved to her tanned legs as he returned to massaging her ankles, suppressing an urge to run his hand up her calves, between her knees and up to the smooth skin on her inner thighs. That is what he’d normally do when he had a girl in this position.
His gaze lingered on the skin on her legs, thanking himself for having the foresight in putting the pillow in his lap, because his body was showing its appreciation of the sight in front of him.
Slapping her feet gently, he indicated that it was time to finish, or his mind and eyes would wander higher. “I’m going to turn in again,” he said, his voice a little coarser than he wanted it to be.
“Okay, sure. Thanks for the massage.”
Nodding, he got up, glad the room was quite dark.
Chapter 20
When Sam arrived home the next day, there was a car in the driveway that she hadn’t seen before—a late model navy blue Toyota Corolla. She thought someone was there, but the house was locked and when she got inside there was no-one there. For a minute she’d wondered if her solicitor had dropped by unexpectedly, but there was no-one.
After checking the whole house, she shrugged and sat down on the sofa outside to read the magazine she’d just bought at the nearby supermarket. She’d been inspired by watching a cooking show, to cook a casserole. Her mouth had watered so much as she’d watched, she’d decided to try the recipe that night—hence the excursion to the supermarket.
She wasn’t normally a napper, but she couldn’t seem to get through the days at the moment, sleeping a full two hours in the afternoon. A swim later and she was ready to start cooking.
She tore a bit of crusty bread to eat before she prepared the meat and vegetables. As the onion and garlic went in, the house started smelling wonderful.
“What are you cooking?” Sebastian asked, making her jump in surprise. She hadn’t even heard him come in. How was it that with that loud car of his, she never heard him?
“Beef stroganoff,” she said. “The proper kind, with cognac.”
Sebastian made an appreciative groan. “I’m supposed to be going out to dinner tonight, but you are making it very hard.”
“Oh yeah, and who will you be seducing tonight?”
“A fifty-year old male council planning director, but one does what one must.”
Sam laughed with the mental image that came with that statement. “Right. I thought you had visitors.”
“Here?”
“The car.”
“That’s for you. Can’t have you driving around on that scooter; you’re practically bigger than it is.”
Sam gave him a pointed look, but truthfully she was very glad because she had started feeling a bit cumbersome on the scooter, and it was now her a bit, particularly as she would also soon be purchasing some more bulky things. Her balance was a little more problematic now that she was getting bigger. “Thank you,” she said.
“Wow, not an argument coming from you.”
“Why would I argue a car?”
“Because you argue everything.”
“I do not.”
“See.”
“Ugh,” she said, conceding the point. He really had won that one. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Yes. But I will change first.”
Sebastian disappeared into his room for a while and returned in a pair of light grey pants and a pale blue sweater, which really was a ridiculous colour for a man, but somehow he pulled it off. She rolled her eyes, wondering how different the European men’s dress style was from the typical New Zealand man, who wouldn’t be caught dead in a pastel anything.
She handed him a glass of wine and followed him out to the patio as the casserole was now bubbling away quite happily without assistance. The sun was just setting, bathing the whole of Monte Carlo in a golden light, including Sebastian.
“So what are you trying to seduce the council planners into doing?”
“Giving approval to greater floor clearance for a site I’m developing.”
“And smoosing the planner will do that?”
“No, not outright. It’s a process. The planner is only part of it.”
“Ah,” she said, sitting down at the table, enjoying the relief getting off her feet. An hour standing was a task at the moment, and everything now ached.
“See that building over there?” he said, pointing in the distance. “About one hundred metres away from there is the site I’m developing.”
“I didn’t think there was any land left in Monte Carlo.”
“There’s not. There is an older building on it, but it’s deteriorating, so it’s going to go.”
“And this is what you do?”
“Yes.”
“And you like building things.”
“I love it.”
“Must be good to have something you love doing.”
*
Sebastian considered Sam as she sat leaning forward on the table. She wore another dress, which sat tightly around her chest, then flared around her belly underneath. She looked fresh and lovely. There wasn’t any gloss around her, just pure, natural woman. She didn’t even wear perfume as far as he could tell and her hair was roughly tied up in a knot. She was so very different from the women he knew—calm and carefree. She was young, but intelligent, and not afraid to face a challenge. “You seem to like cooking.”
“I have time to do it. It’s a lot harder when you’ve just fought traffic back from work, returning to a house overturned by your flatmates.”
“I’ve never had flatmates.”
Sam laughed. “I would say that you’re missing out, but you’re really not. Although I suppose I count. I’m your flatmate.”
“In a very twisted flatting arrangement, considering you are carrying my baby.”
“Yes, well, there’s that, plus the injunction keeping me here.”
Sebastian smiled. He liked that she could make light of what was essentially a horror show of a situation, and he had a lot of respect for her because of it. Many he knew would be an absolute wreck at this point, but Sam managed to hold her own.
“Did you go for a swim today?” he asked as a way of changing the topic.
“Yes, the water is still lovely, but it’s getting colder.”
“You might have to stop soon.”
“I might have to find a swim hall or something. It’s really the only exercise that’s working for me at the moment.”
“They have a heated pool at my gym. I can get you a pass if you like.”
“Thank you,” she said graciously. “It’s one of those gyms were everyone’s wearing lycra, isn’t it?”
“I don’t.”
“Yeay,” she said weakly. “I think I might brave the pool here a little longer.”
It was getting darker and he went inside and turned the lighting on, grabbing his phone and cancelling his dinner, not in the mood to get dressed up again and making his way down the coast. Plus, the casserole smelled utterly divine and if he went, he’d be wondering all night what it tasted like, and thinking of Sam here on her own.
She joined him in the kitchen, stirring the casserole and turning on the waiting rice. “It will only be about twenty minutes,” she said. “I might grab a quick shower. Can you turn the rice down to a lower setting in about a minute?”
“Sure,” he said and watched her walk past, her long dress swaying behind her.
After turning the rice down, he returned to the patio and refilled his wine glass. He felt incredibly relaxed, sitting there sipping wine, watching the car headlights moving around the hills below. This was actually the most relaxed he’d felt in a long time. His stomach was grumbling for di
nner, and it was nice to just sit for a little while, feel anticipation for the delights ahead. He hadn’t done this with Shanna. There was always something to do, to prepare for—to go out for. Shanna was always on the move. They’d never just stayed home and eaten a simple dinner on the patio. In actual fact, they hadn’t spent much time out here at all—except when they had people over for catered parties for the exclusive, beautiful and wealthy.
Sam dished the meal when she returned, bringing two plates with her. “Since you’re still here, I’m assuming you’ll eat.”
“Yes, thank you,” he said, accepting the plate. Putting her plate down, Sam retrieved a lighter and lit the candles on the table, so they could see in the darkening space.
Taking a forkful, he let it melt in his mouth, deliciousness suffusing his taste buds—savoury, creamy and rich. “This is wonderful. You are quite gifted.”
“I don’t know about that. I can follow a recipe. It isn’t particularly hard.”
He ate some more, enjoying the pure heartiness of the meal. It was such a simple meal and so satisfying. Although he would put on the pounds like the man in accounting if he ate like this every day. The simple crusty bread was perfect for scooping up the sauce and tender chunks of beef.
She was done with her plate by the time he’d finished. “Would you like some wine?” he asked.
“Perhaps a little.”
He retrieved a glass for her and filled in halfway, handing it to her. Taking a sip, she savoured the taste. “This is gorgeous,” she said.
“It’s French. Do you like wine?”
“I am from New Zealand. We have more wine than we know what to do with.”
“So you indulge once in a while.”
“It has been known to happen, when I’m not pregnant.” She looked uncomfortable. “My hips are killing me. I might find something softer to sit on. “
He had no idea what kind of discomfort she might be referring to, but took her word for it. “There are some cushions over there,” he said, indicating toward the entertaining area, which had been abstractly inspired by a more Moroccan theme.
“I might have to,” she said, getting up with a cumbersome gait. She went over to one of the large cushions and lay down on her side. “That’s better. Pregnancy turns into one long drama, twisting from one pain and discomfort to another.”
A Material Gift (D'Arth Series Book 2) Page 12
