by Rea Thomas
“You call this rough?” she barked, wrapping her legs around him in a vise. He felt her heels dig into his back, as if he were a horse and she were frantically riding him. Vikram could feel her pulse race below the tender skin of her dainty wrists, and a sheen of sweat glistened on her chest.
He bent his mouth to her throat, sinking his teeth into the soft, milky skin of her neck, drawing a pained cry from her mouth, next to his ear. As he drew back, Vikram saw the vivid red outline of his teeth, marking her flesh. He wished the brand could be permanent—an eternal reminder of this night.
Vikram watched as her expression turned to one of bliss, and he imagined the fire in her belly as it ignited and grew out of control, turning every bit of her to liquid. As she rode his cock, the depths of her drew tight around him and Lisabeth stiffened in his arms—rigid and statuesque.
“Oh God…” she whimpered, her lips parting to inhale an unsteady breath into her lungs. “I love this… I love…”
He covered her mouth with his, allowing his own climax to wash through him in shuddering torrents, bursting into her with long spurts. Around him, her pussy continued to convulse and ripple for minutes after, her entire frame trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm.
Vikram released her wrists, slipping his arms around her waist to spread his palms flat against her smooth, bare back. Lisabeth placed her cheek against his shoulder, her hot breath fanning against his neck as she lay there, slumped against his body. Vikram recognized the tenderness of the moment—recognized there had never been such open, exposed intimacy between them before. He was loathe to disentangle their bodies, and felt bereft when his cock slid out of her.
“Vikram?” Lisabeth opened her eyes as he laid her against the pillows, drawing the blanket over her naked, still-trembling body.
“Shh,” he whispered, brushing damp hair off her forehead, thinking there had never been a raid where his emotions were so ardently evoked. “Go to sleep. We can talk in the morning.”
The talk would be dire—a mixture of regrets for things unsaid, and things that would never be said. He partly wished he hadn’t cut her off when she had been a single word away from admitting her love for him. At least, he hoped that had been her intended admission. Perhaps that was why he had cut her off, for fear she might admit to loving something else entirely.
“Come to bed too,” she murmured, pulling back the blanket to reveal the empty stretch of mattress next to her.
Vikram complied, reasoning there would be a lifetime of nights ahead when he would sleep alone, and somehow, sleeping in her arms for just one night seemed justified.
Chapter Sixteen
She looked exactly as she had when he had first met her, that morning back in Chennai. As the sun had risen over Lake Geneva, Lisabeth had purchased herself a new outfit—jeans, a T-shirt emblazoned with the Jack Daniel’s logo, a pair of comfortable flip-flop sandals, and a sweater for the cold evenings on her journey back to Britain.
They sat together in the busy train station as she prepared to catch a train to France and through the Euro Tunnel to her native land. Vikram had a long, tense journey back to India that would likely take weeks. By then, Lisabeth would be sipping cappuccinos in some quaint English café, enjoying her forced retirement under a perpetual blanket of gray gloom that was traditionally British.
Once rid of the sword, Vikram intended on enjoying his retirement too. Only, he would relax between coconut trees, or swim in the tepid waters of the South Pacific.
“So,” he began, breaking a stretch of silence that had begun in the hotel foyer, “do you think you will visit your sister when you get home?”
Lisabeth took a sip of coffee from a take-away cup, resting back against the bench. “Yes,” she told him. “I want to try having a relationship with her.”
Vikram, having not touched his coffee, set his cup aside and knotted his hands together, realizing he felt somehow nervous.
“Will you tell her about all this? Your past? Being a fugitive from the Italian police?” He couldn’t imagine telling his own family about his misdeeds, now or in the future. When Lisabeth’s head gave a slow shake, he believed she felt the same prickle of disgrace. She, who could have been an astrophysicist, had instead opted for a life of crime. There had once been many safer, more respectable options laid out before her.
Vikram couldn’t find it in himself to wish things had been any different for Lisabeth. If she had stayed on course for a PhD in astrophysics, their paths would never have crossed, and he was past pretending that he wished he hadn’t met her.
The intercom announced her train was boarding, and it seemed as though the past number of weeks had flown by in a blur, hardly real—as though they had been, in some way, imagined. He would have traded all the wealth in the world at that moment to once again relive the tempestuous weeks he had spent with her. Perhaps then, he would not have been so bull-headed, rigidly fighting his burgeoning feelings for her. But it would have made no difference, for Lisabeth sat with a determined, stony expression, proving he had turned soft, not her.
“Well,” she declared, getting to her feet. “Thanks for the money.” Lisabeth patted her pocket, bulging with enough euros to get her back home to London in relative comfort.
“Yeah,” he replied, clearing the lump in his throat. The awkward tension between them had become thick. Would he hug her? Kiss her? Simply wave from the platform as he might when bidding an old pal goodbye?
“Take care of yourself, Vikram. Enjoy Tahiti, or wherever you end up.” She smiled at him, a genuine smile that made her eyes twinkle behind the shiny curtain of her hair. “You…” She paused, probably searching for some way to verbalize how great the sex had been between them, without descending into cheap and seedy platitudes. Finally, she shrugged. “It’s been really great.”
Vikram nodded sharply, sinking his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, afraid he would reach for her in some desperate way that would forever label him an emotional fool. “Goodbye.”
Lisabeth stepped closer, standing on her toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek. He stood still, fighting for composure when he so desperately wished to wrap her in his arms and kiss her until she was breathless.
“Goodbye,” she replied, stepping back to search his eyes for the briefest, yet most intense seconds.
She turned away, striding with resolute purpose toward the train platforms, digging into her pocket for her boarding pass.
“Lisabeth, don’t go!” There, he had done it. The pretense of being some rough-edged professional thief without morals, feelings or a heart had been smashed into pieces. Yet he didn’t care. Especially not as she had stopped, her shoulders sagging as the determination drained from her as though someone had opened a pressure valve.
She turned slowly, and by then he had caught up with her. She seemed surprised to find him so close.
“Vikram…” she began, her voice a faraway whisper of despair and anxiety.
“Just come with me, Lisabeth. Come with me to the South Pacific. I know you want me…and I want you too. I have done since…” His words trailed to silence as she took his hand in hers, squeezing his fingers together with all her might. Her bright green eyes were filled with spiraling despondence.
No, he thought, panic rising in his chest. This isn’t how it is supposed to go. He ought to have known, after the years he had spent working in the profession he had, that real life did not transpire as the movies sought to make the naive world believe. Especially not for two people like them, who probably didn’t deserve happiness. Selling your soul to the devil meant the hackneyed tale of happy-ever-after just wasn’t an option anymore.
“I can’t,” she said, her voice wavering. “We aren’t the type of people who fall in love, Vikram. We’re selfish by nature. Self-serving. It was you who said so.”
“Yes, and I’m being self-serving by asking you to stay. I don’t want to be without you.” Stop now! His self-preservation defenses came up, preparing for sever
e damage control. If he continued to blab like a sentimental fool, he would be left licking his wounds and his pride. “Lisabeth…”
“It wouldn’t work,” she sighed, cupping his cheek with her warm, soft hand. “We’re too alike.”
He should have just let her go. By the time he reached his island, she would have been nothing more than the distant memory of a few epically good fucks.
“Too alike? That’s probably the lamest excuse not to take a risk that I’ve ever heard, Lisabeth.” He laughed mirthlessly, stepping away from her touch. “At least I tried.”
Her eyes glistened, and he knew she was fighting with her wish to relent. Letting her go with a simple goodbye would have been the right course of action, like ripping off the Band-Aid in one swift, clean pull. It stung, but it didn’t prolong the agony.
Vikram retreated another step. “Go on then. You’ll miss your train.”
She jolted, as though prodded. “I wish things were different,” she said in a rush. “I wish we were different.”
Then she was gone, rushing off toward the platforms without a backward glance at him. Vikram watched until she had disappeared, expecting she would remerge, a beatific smile lighting up her face as she charged toward him, flinging herself into his arms with a thousand whispered sentiments, peppering him with kisses. Even then, Vikram had lost himself in the fantasy of cinema.
It was only when he looked at the electronic board overhead and saw the Geneva to Frankfurt train had departed, he accepted she had left. Lisabeth Baker, true to form, was both full of surprises and painfully predictable in equal, contradicting measures.
Vikram rocked back and forward on his heels, shaking his head sadly. He had known on the very first day he had met her, even in the back of his consciousness, his liaison with Lisabeth would end badly. Perhaps even before Chennai. Back in the museum in Rajasthan, he had been fatally beguiled by her. Lowering his eyes, he cursed his own foolishness.
He had made a deal with the devil, and he had lost.
Epilogue
Eight Months Later
The lush vibrancy of the French Polynesia never failed to take his breath away.
He made a point of being awake at sunrise, and to sit on the sugar-white beach on the western cove at sunset—even on days when it rained hard, gray bullets into the pristine blue ocean. Those days were particularly special; the air smelled renewed and clean, heavy with the scent of the bright pink hibiscus flower that bloomed across the island, and tiare, the national flower of nearby Tahiti.
He thrived on his strikingly scenic island, renamed Island of Aman. No one had protested to the proposed renaming, believing Aman, meaning “peace”, was a spiritual word that tied in magnificently with the theme of the French Polynesia. For him, it carried more depth than he had let on. Peace was something he felt, sinking his toes into the warm sand, swimming in the tepid azure waters, fishing and growing chilies in a small allotment behind his home.
On occasion, when he felt lonely, he would charter a speedboat to the main islands and engage in conversation with the locals at the market, or drink rum-based cocktails until dusk, when he would return to Aman with the certainty that this place, so far away from everything, was exactly where he needed to be. His criminal past seemed another lifetime ago—perhaps the life of another person altogether. The identity of Vikram Singh had been shed the moment he had tossed the sword on Lorna Reilly’s desk in Mumbai, whether she had wanted it or not.
Nothing had given him as much pleasure as telling her never to call him again, that Vikram Singh was officially retired.
Life was good.
He trailed his fishing net toward the shore, basking in the glorious sunshine beating down upon his bare shoulders. In the distance, speedboats danced across the ocean, splashing glistening diamonds in their wake, and just beyond he saw the thatched roofs of an exclusive hotel resort, catering to the super wealthy and the super private. The paparazzi didn’t come here and world-famous celebrities were free to vacation in peace.
A respectable catch of blacktail snapper brought a smile to his face. Before retirement, he hadn’t known how to fish. Punjab was a landlocked Indian state and farming was the order of business. Fishing made him feel liberated, standing knee-deep in the crystalline waters of the South Pacific. He felt alive, lulled by the tranquility of Aman.
He glanced up at the speedboats as they bounced across the water, shading his eyes against the sun to see Tepau’s approach.
Tepau was a fisherman by trade and the first friend he had made upon arrival in Tahiti. On the weekends, Tepau worked as tour guide for visitors, taking them on daytrips to the most picturesque islands. Twice a month, a group of wide-eyed and envious tourists would descend upon the western beach of Aman to sample barbequed marlin.
The company was mostly welcomed, filling his beach with relaxed chatter and laughter, at least until sundown when Tepau would charter them home, blissfully intoxicated with white rum and freshly squeezed fruit juices. As far as these visitors were concerned, he was an eccentric businessman who had thrown a lucrative career down the toilet for a near-reclusive life on a private island. No one pried, and he did not volunteer any information.
The boat edged against the jetty, Tepau killing the engine as the first group of his clients descended upon Aman, breathlessly declaring their host to be the luckiest man alive. He felt like the luckiest man alive, most of the time. When he read about market crashes and the plunging economy, he was thankful to be unaffected by it. Mostly self-sufficient, he had enough cash in his bank account for living expenses, such as electricity and fresh water to his hilltop villa.
“That’s lunch,” Tepau chuckled to the group, gesturing to his fresh catch, still wriggling in the net. “Can’t get much fresher than that!”
A middle-aged man pulled his baseball cap off, his wide blue eyes scanning the island as though he had stumbled upon Babylon. “It’s magnificent,” he announced in a thick, Austrian accent. He shook free a head of thick blond hair. “I think I retire here too.”
Tepau swung off the boat and onto the jetty, carrying a bass pahu, a Polynesian hide drum he had painted with white Taire flowers. When he wasn’t fishing or guiding tourists, Tepau was playing his drums—a treat for eager tourists as the sun began to dip in the sky, when the drinks had started to flow.
The crowd landed on the beach, still mostly silent while they observed the lush green tree line, the pathway he had made by hand from driftwood collected on the beach, tall unlit tiki torches spiked into the sand, and a fire pit where he would roast fish on an open grill.
“Hey!” Tepau called, hoisting the drum up on his shoulder. “One of the girlies today says she knows you?”
“I doubt that, man.” He dropped wriggling fish into a cooler filled with water, before dusting sand from his knees. “Mistaken identity.” He felt a prickle of apprehension nonetheless, worried that some client from his past had spotted him on the mainland, remembering him from a stolen painting or worse.
“No, definitely not mistaken identity.”
The voice was one he was never likely to forget, no matter how many nights he spent in solitude, watching the stars and listening to the surf. No matter how many days he tried to push her to the very back of his mind. Lisabeth Baker’s rejection of him still stung, eight months after he had left her at the train station with her pockets stuffed with euros and a one-way ticket back to Britain.
He looked up at her, and she looked almost like a different woman, dressed in comfortable navy linen pants and a sleeveless red T-shirt. Her long dark hair was shorter, cut to her shoulders. The sun had bleached the strands to a lighter, caramel color. Those green eyes were the same, though, glittering like two perfect cut emerald stones, except they reflected warmth.
Her feet were bare as she crossed the sand to him.
“I had some free time, and I heard this island was a real treat.”
God, she was beautiful. Even more so now than she had ever been, sporting a
healthy tan and smiling with easy happiness. He gawped at her, wondering if he had spent too much time in the sun, worried the image before him was a tricky mirage, borne from dehydration and too much wishful thinking.
“Everything all right, man?” Tepau dumped his drum by the fire pit.
“Yeah…” He nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off her, dare she disappear. “Yeah, everything’s good. Go back, get the next group.” The crowd meandering freely across his beach went unnoticed, their excited garbles unheard. The only thing existing in that moment was her—every sun-kissed, green-eyed inch of her.
She took three steps closer, chuckling. “Vikram Singh, speechless. I can’t believe it,” she said smoothly, removing her hands from the pockets of her linen pants. Her nails, always unpainted when he had known her, were the same scarlet red shade as her shirt, and like a sucker-punch to his gut, a thousand sexual images flooded his mind, each one hornier and filthier than the last.
“I’m not Vikram Singh,” he said sharply, glancing furtively around the beach. He had spent long months shedding that particular identity. Resuming the one he had been born into had been difficult, and compromising it wasn’t an option.
“I know,” she replied, folding her arms.
He could picture every inch of her skin, and he had visualized it endlessly during his voluntary solitude. There had been nights, lying in a hammock stuffed with pillows, when he decided with resolute certainty that as soon as the sun came up, he was going to England to search her down. But once the red sun had crept over the horizon, spreading beams of light across his little island, his nocturnal thoughts had seemed like the delusions of a madman, ridiculously unfeasible. She had left him—had rebuked him.
Yet there she was, a flesh-and-blood goddess, just as he had remembered her, only more beautiful—warm and touchable. Her eyes begged him to welcome her, to invite her into his private world. She had crossed several oceans to be there, allowing herself to be vulnerable by taking a risk. He could turn her away, humiliate her…hurt her.
