I can’t stop thinking about Alex. I can’t stop going over and over the feel of his lips on mine . . . and to be honest, his cock inside me. I can’t stop picturing his beautiful face – the most beautiful face I have ever seen. And his smile. And the way his hair gets lighted up by the sunlight.
OK. I’ve got Alex withdrawal . . . bad. And I hardly even know him.
It’ll pass, I tell myself. I reach for a cupcake in desolation and make myself bite into it. It’s tasteless. Not because Deanna’s baking is bad, but I can’t seem to taste anything these days.
The doorbell rings but I’m too listless to get up. Deanna scampers up. I hear her opening the door and letting whoever it is in.
“Oh my God!” I hear her scream. “Liz, you’ve gotta come out and have a look at this!”
My heart leaps into my mouth.
I scramble to our tiny lounge. Standing at the doorway is a guy carrying the largest flower arrangement I have ever seen. I don’t think I even know the names of half the flowers on that monstrous thing.
“Can I come in?” the delivery boy says.
“Of course,” Deanna says. She seizes the album-sized card on the top.
“Are you Elizabeth Turner?” the delivery boy asks.
“No, but what’s it to you?”
“Because I’m supposed to deliver these flowers to Ms. Elizabeth Turner and make sure she reads that card.”
“Let me see that.” I snatch the card from Deanna.
It says:
‘Alexander Vassar requests the pleasure of Ms. Elizabeth Turner’s delightful company in what he deems an official date at 7 p.m tonight. He would be over a certain planetary satellite’s orbit if she says ‘yes’.”
“Alexander Vassar?” Deanna screeches. “The Alexander Vassar?”
The delivery boy sets the gargantuan flower arrangement down. He’s followed by another delivery boy carrying yet another huge bunch of flowers . . . and another . . . and another.
Deanna and I can only watch, amazed.
“How do you know Alexander Vassar?” Deanna squeaks.
“Um . . . it s a long story.”
Soon, our little lounge is filled with the redolent scent of blooms. The first delivery boy stands before me with the card.
“So, Ms. Turner, I . . . ah . . . need an answer to go back with.”
I eye him mutely. To say that I’m a little stunned would be to say the sky is marginally blue.
Deanna whirls to me. “Liz! I can’t believe you’re dragging on this any more than I can believe you held out on telling me. No wonder you were Googling him that day.” She swivels to the delivery boy. “She says ‘yes’. Now go before she changes her mind.”
“Hey,” I protest.
“What? I’m doing this for your own good. He’s Alexander Vassar, for crying out loud! It’s not every day you get asked to the ball by a handsome prince.”
“It’s not a ball he’s asking me to.”
“It’s what you make of it. So it’s a yes, and I won’t take no for an answer. Or else, if you don’t want to go on a date with him, I’ll take your place. Gladly.”
“Yeah, maybe you should.”
Deanna looks at me, deadpan. “You don’t mean that.”
No. She’s right. I don’t.
The delivery boy looks from one of us to the other. “So if it’s a ‘yes’, there’s more to come before you go on your date.”
More flowers?
I frown. “There is?”
8
In the next couple of hours, I am inundated with delivery girls and boys from various couturiers (“Alexander Vassar requests that this should be delivered to you”).
So I have got:
A gorgeous purple gown with a shining filigree net all over it.
A pair of purple Jimmy Choos.
A (gasp!) diamond and amethyst choker and matching earrings – on loan from Tiffany’s.
I know. It’s a bit much.
I know I’m not supposed to be accepting all this stuff from a man who is trying to get into my pants for some inexplicable reason – but I can’t help being bowled over by all this. I mean – I have never worn a diamond anything in my life. I have never worn Jimmy Choos either, and the only gown I ever had was to the prom, and I swear I looked like a curtain.
Deanna has officially fainted from all the excitement.
“Tell me, tell me how you met!” she insists.
Reluctantly, I tell her.
That’s how she fainted.
“You mean . . . you had sex with him in the men’s restroom? Isn’t that . . . wow, like . . . not you?”
This is why I don’t tell her stuff. She makes such a big deal out of everything.
I’m tempted not to wear any of the stuff Alex sent me . . . turn up in a T-shirt and jeans just to give him a message that he can’t buy me. But all the stuff is so gorgeous that I can’t help trying them on.
I look like a princess in the mirror. I swear – I look almost as good as Tatiana. Deanna has helped me do a makeover that goes with the dress – meaning my long hair is teased and put in curlers to achieve a wave. And my eyes are made up in smoky kohl, and my lips are rouged to go with those marvelous earrings.
“Oh wow,” Deanna says. She can’t take her eyes off me.
I know the feeling. I can’t take my eyes off me either. I’m not me. I’m some transplanted fashion model. And to think that I can look reasonably good with the right clothes and makeup. Whoever would have thought?
“So,” Deanna says, lounging on my bed, “are you going to sleep with him?”
“Of course not. I don’t want him to think that he can buy me stuff . . . and I’ll sleep with him. I’m not that sort of girl.”
“And yet you spread your legs for him when you only met him for twenty seconds.”
I gaze at her in the mirror in despair. She’s right, of course. Whatever possessed me to do what I did?
“I’m over it now. I won’t do it again.”
She pouts. “Well, if you don’t want to do it with him, may I have him?”
I laugh. “He’s not interested in me beyond that. I’m just a fling – something he thinks he wants . . . I don’t think I’ll see him anymore beyond tonight.”
Deanna points her pedicured toe.
“You know,” she says coyly, “you could play it out. Not give in tonight, if you can hold out.”
If I can hold out. I almost laugh again.
“Toy with him and keep him interested, you know.” Deanna waves her foot. “Play hard to get. I mean, he’s obviously hooked now. But if you give in to him tonight, he mightn’t want to see you again. There are men like that.”
Yes, there are.
“But I’m not sure I want to be with that sort of guy for keeps,” I say.
I’m conflicted about this, of course. My head tells me I shouldn’t be even hoping that this will be like a normal boy-girl relationship. And yet – I’m over-analyzing stuff again. I should simply be in the moment. Enjoy things for what they are. Not manipulate stuff or worry about things I can’t control.
That’s my own good advice I should be taking.
“Oh my God,” Deanna says, looking at her Guess wristwatch. “It’s seven o’ clock!”
I panic.
Right on cue, the doorbell rings.
9
I’m all flustered, and so Deanna sprints to the door. Our tiny apartment suddenly feels like a furnace.
What am I doing in this dress?
“Hi,” I can hear Deanna saying in a voice that may possibly be brighter than a 100 Watt light bulb. “Would you like to come in? She’s just getting ready.”
“Nice flowers,” says a male voice.
I go weak-kneed. It’s inconceivable that his voice can do this to me – but it does! And he’s come to fetch me himself, not send some flunky or aide.
I rush out of the bedroom. And there he is – Alexander Vassar in the flesh. Alone.
Suddenly he’s plain A
lex again – the Alex that I’ve fucked the very first time I saw him, and the Alex who tried to seduce me in his hotel bedroom. The Alex who seems to desire me like no other guy.
He seems as stunned as I am.
“Wow,” he says. “You’re so beautiful.”
I can’t take my eyes off him too. He’s insanely and beyond beautiful. He’s so glorious that it hurts to look too long at him. His longish hair is a little disheveled, and the rest of his face and body is simply . . . well, Deanna can’t stop gluing her eyes to him either. He’s dressed fittingly in a suit that shows off his broad shoulders. His shirt is white and his jacket and pants are charcoal.
His blue-green eyes are mesmerizing. And I can’t help it. When I look at him, I think about sex.
Now I remember why I succumbed to his kiss in the restroom. I remember clearly, so help me.
I attempt to make a coherent sentence. “Uh, Alex, this is my roommate, Deanna. Deanna, Alex.”
“Hello.” Alex appears to recover some himself. Amazing! To think that I have actually impressed him with the way I look!
Deanna gives him a hug. “Well . . . hello.” It isn’t just Alex. She’s one of those touchy-feely people who hug everybody, so I won’t hold it against her.
“Thank you,” she says after she lets him go. She turns to me, makes a funny face and mouths ‘hot hot hot!’
“So . . . you ready to go?” Alex says.
“Yeah, sure.”
I make to walk confidently forward and almost trip on my dress.
Alex proffers me his arm. I take it, feeling self-conscious and more than a little dazzled.
“So . . . how did you know my dress size?” I say.
He dips his eyes knowingly up and down my body. “Let’s just say I made a wild guess. No. Seriously. I called up Housekeeping and asked.”
He called up Housekeeping and asked for my dress size? OK . . . I don’t know how to feel about this. On one hand, it’s flattering. On the other . . . it’s just obsessive.
How can a guy like this be so totally obsessed with me?
“So where are we going?” I say.
He winks. “It’s a surprise.”
10
I’m prepared to be surprised, but I wasn’t expecting this.
We are in a stretch limo, chauffeured by a driver who wears dark glasses against the setting sun. When the limo goes farther and farther out of the city limits, I begin to be worried.
“Where are we going?”
Part of me expects to be kidnapped, because this man – gorgeous as he is – is so unpredictable. He makes me tense every second I’m with him, and I honestly don’t know what will happen next.
He smiles at me, and it’s like the sun has gone up again. “It’s still a surprise.”
We rev into a moderate-sized airfield, and a plane is on the tarmac with all its engines on.
I’m immediately alarmed again. “Where are we going?”
“Up in the air.”
That’s obvious.
It’s also obvious that this is a private plane, because it has the Moldovian crest on it. (Yes, I Googled.) The driver stops the car. Alex gets out, comes round to my door and opens it for me. Charming.
“Are you trying to impress me with your good manners?” I say.
“I believe I am.”
He gives me his arm. This is an official date and I’m enjoying myself so far, so I take it and let him lead me to the steps of the plane, which is a Boeing 737.
The décor inside is unlike anything I have ever seen in a plane. The walls have oak panels running across them, and there are about eight plush seats, all arranged so that they face one another. Another compartment is boarded off. The lighting is a warm white – or what they consider warm white, seeing that it’s actually yellow.
Three hostesses are standing by at attention, and the lead one – a pretty blue-eyed blonde who raises my suspicions – greet us.
“Good evening, your highness. Good evening, Ms. Turner.”
Oh, so she knows my name.
“Good evening, Arabella. And will you can the ‘your highness’ crap? I can’t abide that when my father isn’t around.”
Really?
The blonde sizes me up fleetingly, and beams as if to say ‘I have to be nice to you even if I don’t want to, and he’ll dump you after tonight faster than you can flush that diamond choker down the chute’.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Alex indicates a seat.
I do. He seats himself across a table, facing me.
“Strap in,” he says. “We’re taking off soon.”
It seems strange to strap myself in with a seatbelt when I’m wearing such Oscar party clothing. Alex is solicitous.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
“There are pashmina shawls onboard if you need them. Arabella can pick out one for you.”
“It’s OK.” I’m pretty warm and flushed all over actually. It’s the excitement and anxiety of it all, even though I’m trying to remain calm and ice princess cool. And failing miserably. I don’t even know what’s a ‘pashmina’.
We take off, Alex gazing at me all the way. Once we are up in the air and the seatbelt sign is switched off, Arabella emerges from the other compartment.
“Dinner will be served,” she says brightly, handing me and Alex menus on an embossed cream cards. “Take your time to look through and I’ll be right back.”
I wonder if she’s expecting a huge tip at the end.
I peruse the menu. It’s one of those menus with five or six courses that will make you feel stuffed just reading it. I’m used to those menus, of course – from the other end of serving them.
For the main course, I apparently have a choice between:
Roast Lamb Provencale with julienned baby potatoes
Duck terrine with aubergines and baby carrots
Alaskan halibut in béarnaise sauce
I’m not really hungry. My stomach is in one of its spin cycles. Alex’s brilliant eyes are disconcerting, especially when he won’t stop looking at me.
“Do I have a smudge on my cheek?” I say, touching my right one.
“No.” He laughs. “I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I? It’s just that I can’t get over how good you look.”
“You mean I didn’t look good before?”
“No, you looked pretty damn good to me. It’s just that now you look – ” he waves a hand “ – different. Like you belong on the cover of some society magazine.”
Arabella comes in with the starters. Oh yeah, there are three starters in all. A soup served in a fashionable teacup. Lobster bisque of some sort, with a splotch of cream in it – done in the shape of a spade.
“And do you like girls like that?” I say, thinking of Tatiana.
“No. Hell, no.” He laughs. “I merely thought you would like dressing up as one for a change.”
“What makes you think that?”
“A hunch that you would like to try something different.”
He isn’t far off, though he is being presumptuous. But try as I may, I can’t be mad at Alex. He’s too good-looking, too intense, and he radiates an aura of authority in an ‘I know what you secretly like and I’m dishing it out to you whether you protest or not’ manner.
The soup is followed by smoked salmon fashioned to look like a flower. We fence and chat, finding out bits and pieces about each other. I already know a bit about him from what I read on the Internet. So he went to Eton in England, and then to Harvard.
“Why anthropology?” I ask.
Somehow, I can’t get myself to relax. My stomach is in knots, and I’m finding it difficult to digest the salmon in the soup that is already swirling around in my guts. The food is extremely delicious, of course, but the unknowable factor of this man – along with my surreal surroundings – makes me feel as if I’m tethered very close to a live electrical wire that is whipping back and forth.
“I like studying different peop
les, especially when they as far away from my environment as they can possibly be.” He’s sitting back affably, sipping his vodka on ice. Me, I need a stiffer drink than the tomato juice I’m having.
He talks about the places he has been to – Papua New Guinea, India, Russia, the Andes. To hear him speak, it sounds like he has roughed it – sleeping on the floors of mud huts, trekking across the scorching desert, scaling cliffs with zip lines and carabiners. The places that he speaks about are so different from the luxurious environment that we are in that I wonder if he’s leading me on. But he sounds earnest and passionate as he describes the little mud-fortified straw houses on the savannah and the elongated necks of the Burmese tribal women – buoyed only by ringed necklaces – in the mountains.
“So how about you?” he asks me. “Where did you grow up?”
Me? I’m a little embarrassed to be talking about myself, especially when I don’t even have a patch on where Alex has been to. But he hangs onto my every word, as if I’m one of his anthropological subjects he has to write a dissertation on.
“So you grew up in South Texas, huh? And your Mom, she works in a bank?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to your Dad?”
“I never knew him,” I say, taking a spoonful of the palate-cleansing sorbet they serve between courses. “He went away after a fight with my Mom when I was ten. Never saw him since.”
Oh yes. I remember crouching underneath my bed in the room, trying to get the screaming and shouting out of my head. I hear a slap, the last of a long succession of blows and slaps over the years, and the slam of the door. That’s the last I ever saw of my Dad.
Somehow, Alex intuits this.
“He beat up your Mom?”
I’m surprised. “How did you know? I never mentioned it.”
“You flinched.”
“I flinched?”
“Yeah. It was when you said it.” He puts down his vodka and stares at my face. His intensity goes up a shade, if possible. He says softly, “Did he hit you?”
“N-no.”
This man is unnerving.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because if anyone ever hits you, they’ll have me to answer to.” He says this with the dead seriousness of someone who knows he can hire assassins.
Tangled: A New Adult Romance Boxed Set (12 Book Bundle of Billionaires, Bad Boys, and Royalty) Page 112
