Tempting Eden

by Celia Aaron

JACK

  MS. ROCHESTER SET A meeting with the interior designer for the Wednesday prior to our departure for Belle Mar. The Atlanta team brought room mock-ups and sample finishes intended to woo potential buyers. The designers were like a troupe of traveling salesmen who specialized solely in ostentatious bling.

  Ms. Rochester was planning a huge pre-opening party to tout the luxury condominiums, and my guest list had already swelled to capacity. I had booked the bar and balcony overlooking the Gulf at a swank hotel near the Belle Mar construction site. It was sure to be a huge to-do, and I wanted to make it as perfect as I could for Ms. Rochester. She had been grooming clients, burning up the phone lines throughout the Southeast, courting both new and old money, and even up North, netting the snowbirds.

  Beach real estate had come back with a vengeance after the bubble burst almost ten years ago. People were hungry for a piece of the coast, and it was our job to make them pay handsomely for water views and high-style amenities. The penthouse suite was going to list at $4.5 million, supposedly a record for real estate along the Florida Panhandle.

  I had checked the Belle Mar build site on satellite, but in the images it was still just an expanse of sand and scrubby trees. I scanned the map, noting the ebb and flow of the coastline, the little inlets and large bays. I wondered what the water would look like. Did pictures do the waves justice? I’d never actually seen the ocean, never been anywhere even approaching a body of water that size. Abandoned quarries and some rivers were as close as I ever got, and even I realized those were raindrops compared to the deluge of the Gulf. I intended to take a canvas or two with me, see if I could start a rough sketch of the surf and the sky. It would be a pathetic first attempt, no doubt, but I had to begin somewhere.

  Ms. Rochester burst through her glass doors, looking ready to either make or break the design meeting. I could never tell which with her.

  I followed her to the large conference room. She took the chair at the head of the table and seemed almost regal with the uptilt of her chin. She wore a turquoise sweater and a short gray skirt. Something about the heels she wore that day made her ass appear even nicer, rounder. She’d flitted around my desk, getting ready for this meeting and making it hard for me to concentrate on my job. Her green gaze would light on me sometimes, as if she were trying to catch me looking. Not a chance. I was no amateur.

  She drummed her fingernails on the conference table, making a resonating tapping sound. “I hope you brought me what I asked for, Bess. If not, we’re going to have a poor pre-opening party this weekend. That means you don’t get paid.”

  “I think you will be pleased,” Bess, the lead designer of Xiao & Co, said with a gracious smile.

  Bess Xiao was a tall, dark-haired beauty. She wore a short white dress and black high heels which accentuated her willowy figure. Her lips were painted blood red so she appeared brighter, large than life, and she’d captured her dark hair in a high ponytail. She was almost more work of art than human. Her movements were fluid, practiced, as she set the room and dimmed the lights for her slideshow.

  Ms. Rochester tossed her hair over her shoulder in a definitively feminine—yet somehow forceful—move. “Then by all means, let’s get on with it.”

  Bess started her presentation, displaying various concept drawings and computer-generated images of the finishes and views occupants could expect to find in Belle Mar. She narrated in a clear, low voice.

  On almost every slide, Ms. Rochester would have a comment to “change this,” or “I don’t like that,” or “why would we go with gold instead of silver here?” Bess answered each question as her assistant feverishly typed notes, taking down every word and change that came from Ms. Rochester’s mouth. I didn’t envy her the job.

  Where Ms. Rochester quibbled, I saw nothing but opulence. To me, the images were nothing short of amazing. They represented some sort of fairytale place where everything was made of glass, chrome, and gleaming stone. Fireplaces and chandeliers, fur rugs and leather couches…these things were expected, normal, in this world. It was fantastical.

  Though I was admittedly dazzled, Ms. Rochester remained critical, finding some perceived flaw in the pocket doors, or the type of crystal in the lighting. She was attuned to every detail, every tiny piece of design. I wondered why she hired out the work in the first place when she seemed more than capable of bringing it all together on her own.

  When the slideshow ended, Bess opened a large black case full of samples. Squares upon squares of fabric were neatly lined along both sides of the box. She and Ms. Rochester went back and forth on which top grain leather to put on the chairs for the model, which fabric for drapes, what to use on the accent chairs. It was serious business between them, but absurdly so, given the topics were prints or solids, paisley or damask. I wanted to laugh. I didn’t.

  Both women were bent over, focusing on the tiny samples. Ms. Rochester’s auburn hair fell into her face. Her sweater gaped open a bit, showing me her nude bra underneath. I shifted in my seat to enjoy the view more. Some wardrobe malfunctions were better left unmentioned and simply enjoyed.

  They went through each box just as methodically as the first. The next case had bits of stone arranged as if marching in line. Another case contained a hundred different knobs and drawer pulls. Another, sheets of wallpaper. It reminded me of all the ingredients required to bake an outrageously pricey cake. One that no doubt looked far better than it tasted.

  Ms. Rochester was utterly meticulous in her choices, and once she’d made a decision, she stuck to it. Bess nodded here and there, agreeing or capitulating at times, though I often couldn’t tell which. I enjoyed being a silent spectator, watching them choose every detail right down to the size and shape of the doorstops. Ms. Rochester got to the last case, one lined with moldings in several patterns. She picked out a few, frowned, and then picked out a few more.

  “Bess, should we even do coffers? I mean, don’t they seem stuffy?”

  “They are making a big comeback right now, actually. I just did a piece on them for the Journal-Constitution living section. They are, of course, a bit more traditional than the look you’re going for, but I think they would give the condos a little more eclectic flair.”

  “You say ‘eclectic,’ I hear mismatched.” Ms. Rochester wrinkled her nose.

  “Well, of course it’s up to you.”

  Ms. Rochester turned to me. She held up two moldings, one done with an acanthus leaf and another in a simpler, more angular style. “Jack, what do you think, between these two?”

  First world problems.

  I studied her proffered options. “I’d go with the more art deco piece, if it were me. You seem to be going mid-century mod a bit on the fixtures and the pulls. The kitchen is of course, full-on modern, and the rest of the rooms lack any traditional elements. Like Bess said, the coffer is traditional, but if you give it an art deco angular look, it would give a nod to older tradition with the quirk of earlier century design.”

  The air seemed to have left the room as Ms. Rochester, Bess, and Bess’ assistant all stopped and stared. Ms. Rochester’s mouth quirked a bit; she was trying to stifle her smile.

  I shrugged. “I took a few design and art classes at Alabama.”

  “You certainly have an eye,” Bess said and gave me a once-over. I felt like it was the first time she actually saw me, though her look was more predatory than anything else. She was beautiful, by far one of the more beautiful women I’d ever seen. All the same, she didn’t spark anything inside me.

  I dropped her gaze and picked up Ms. Rochester’s. Her attention was what I wanted. Her interest. One look and I saw I had it. Wanting Ms. Rochester was trouble, and I’d already had more than my fair share. But she was the sort of trouble I couldn’t pass up—headstrong, confident, and sexy as fuck. Bending her to my will had been a goal of mine since the first moment I saw her outside the Galway building, her red hair glowing in the sun and her long legs eating up the sidewalk toward me.

  “This
one.” Ms. Rochester chose the art deco molding and held it out to Bess. Even as she moved, she never took her eyes off me.

  “Okay then.” Bess took the molding. “That’s decided. I think we’re done here. I’ll get back to Atlanta right now, get everything you’ve selected sorted out, and send by personal courier to…?”

  “Hotel Carter, just down the beach from the Belle Mar.” I filled in.

  “Great. Shall I put the items to your attention, Ms. Rochester?”

  “No, put them to Jack’s. If his abilities so far are any indication, I think he’ll be more than up to the task of sorting through whatever you send him.”

  Bess’ assistant began packing their items on the metal rolling cart. Bess made no move to assist her and instead inquired if Ms. Rochester had any other projects coming up where she could be of assistance.

  I lifted the heavier boxes and helped Bess’ assistant arrange everything so they could get out in one piece.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  “My pleasure.”

  Once everything was ready, Bess gave Ms. Rochester air kisses. She then sidled to me and wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing against me and whispering “call me” in my ear. I extricated myself from her embrace and gave her a perfunctory nod.

  She winked and, after barking an order in Chinese at her harried assistant, they left, shutting the door behind them.

  Ms. Rochester leaned against the table and crossed her arms over her chest. The look she gave me was her signature direct engagement, nothing filtering her emotions. “So, what did you think of Bess?”

  “She’s an excellent designer.” I took the few steps to reach her. “She has a great grasp of how to put together a compelling space.”

  She looked up at me, eyes teasing. “Is she a perfect ten?”

  Tricky. I chanced it and put a hand on her elbow. “Not to me.”

  When she didn’t move away, a pulse of pure heat shot through me.

  She smiled, her pink mouth a beautiful bow. “Good. Now get on the horn to Hotel Carter and let them know the design package is coming and that if the boxes are so much as chafed around the edges I’ll have someone’s head.”

  “I’ll get on it.”

  “Damn right you will. Only one month and a week left. Tick tock, Jack. Tick tock.” From jealous, to boisterous, to demanding in moments. She made my head spin. In fact, I was certain she would make anyone’s head spin, even medical professionals.

  She took a few steps to the door. “Oh, and Jack?”

  “Yes?”

  “I totally saw you checking out my tits.”

  I hefted my canvases up under my arm and pulled my carry-on with my other hand. Ms. Rochester walked ahead of me, rolling one huge bag and one carry-on along behind her. I’d never seen her dressed so casually in a large sweater with leggings. The sweater was wider than it was long, so I got a great view of her ass as she walked, hips swaying. She was practically jaunty, as if she loved flying.

  I intentionally trailed behind her, enjoying the view immensely. At least I was until I realized she was walking toward what looked like a kid’s toy plane. There was no way it had more than four seats, if that. I swallowed hard. Would our luggage or my canvasses even fit? Would I? My heart beat faster, fear mimicking exertion.

  My steps slowed, as if my feet were glued to the tarmac.

  “I thought when you said we were flying, that we would be on an actual airplane.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and gave me a dazzling smile. “This is an actual airplane.”

  “It’s the size of a drone or something. Or a drone’s little brother who hasn’t hit his growth spurt. The one all the other drones pick on.”

  The real planes, the ones that seated hundreds of people, took off overhead, going wherever real planes go.

  “It’s plenty big enough. I promise. This little beauty is Thornfield’s pride and joy.”

  I shook my head, though my steps had sped a bit faster after she’d smiled. “No, this is that airplane you read about on the news where the two media moguls, or the two adventurers, or the two businessmen, or the two real estate people crash into a forest somewhere and are never found alive, or even dead, again.”

  She shrugged and greeted who I assumed was our captain with a hug. I’d never seen such an open display of affection from her, but it seemed so natural and genuine. It suited her. She had a warmth hidden under her unpredictable exterior. Maybe that was her one constant. I didn’t know about it because I wasn’t able to see it all the time—or ever, really. For someone who seemed to be an open book, Ms. Rochester held more than a few secrets.

  Our captain was short and stout, and looked to be in his sixties. He wore a Braves cap, and his silver hairs floated around his ears. He waved at me as I caught up with Ms. Rochester.

  “Tom, this is my assistant, Jack. He’ll be working with me on Belle Mar, so you two will be seeing a lot of each other.”

  She turned back to me. “Jack, Tom is a retired Navy pilot. He was a top gun instructor, if that makes you feel any better.”

  I’d seen parts of that movie—though I still couldn’t figure out what the deal with the half-naked guys playing volleyball was about. But knowing that Tom could actually teach people how to fly made me feel better. At least a little.

  “Now, Tom, go easy on us today. This is Jack’s first time flying.”

  Tom slapped his hands together and stomped one of his feet so hard his mirrored aviators slid down his nose a bit. “Well, hot damn! That’s rare these days. I promise I’ll make it a smooth ride. Great day for flying.” He pointed a crooked finger to the cloudless blue sky. “Good air up there. You sure you’re all right, son? You’re looking a little green around the gills.”

  “Oh, he’s fine. Aren’t you, Jack?” Her smile was back, mischievous at best, diabolical at worst.

  I nodded and swallowed hard. My mouth was suddenly dry, my tongue somehow growing huge and spongy.

  “Well, don’t worry, we still got some vomit bags stowed away somewhere. I’ll fix you up a couple.” He took Ms. Rochester’s luggage and opened a hatch on the side of what claimed in bold writing along the side, to be a Cessna.

  “Thanks, Tom,” I managed to say.

  Ms. Rochester grinned at me. “So this is the way to disrupt your poker face? Make you fly in a tin can with an octogenarian at the controls?”

  “He’s eighty?” I gasped. Images of him slumped forward over the controls, his hat lolling off his head and his aviators askew flooded my mind. Ms. Rochester asking me if I could fly the plane. Me shaking my head and using the vomit bags. I could hear the whine of the engine. Going down.

  She laughed as Tom stowed her luggage and came back for mine.

  “No, I’m teasing. He’s only in his sixties. I think.” She cocked her head to the side, pretending to be stumped. If I didn’t know better, I would think she was flirting with me.

  Tom, ignorant of our banter or perhaps slightly deaf, took my bags and canvasses to stow them along with Ms. Rochester’s luggage. He dropped open the passenger door on the side of the aircraft, and Ms. Rochester climbed inside. Tom’s eyes and mine were glued to her ass as she went. He lowered his mirrored aviators and gave me a wink once she’d settled in. I decided I liked the old guy.

  I took a deep breath and followed. I felt as if I was folding myself in half to fit into the cramped quarters. I couldn’t even stand up straight, but once I’d plopped down in one of the plush seats, I realized it wasn’t as tiny as it had seemed. There was a cockpit and in the rear, four seats all covered in cream-colored leather. The seats faced each other around a small table in the center.

  Ms. Rochester was already setting up her laptop, as if this was just another day at the office. Tom climbed in, the aircraft rocking back and forth with his movements. I leaned back and breathed slowly and deeply, trying to calm my heartbeat. I closed my eyes so I couldn’t see the closeness of the roof.

  “All right folks, let’s get
this party started.”

  Ms. Rochester giggled, actually giggled, and said, “He says that every damn time. Without fail. I think it’s a good luck charm or something.”

  I fucking hope so.

  The engine came to life, not exactly a roar, but it was loud enough to show there was some power behind it. Maybe this questionable contraption could get us into the clouds, after all. Tom started babbling into a mouthpiece about flight plans, just like in the movies. I imagined he was wearing a bright yellow headset over his Braves cap. He went on for a while until I heard him clap his hands again.

  “Cleared for take off. Everybody buckled up back there?”

  I looked around and found the old-school lap belt. My hands were shaking, and it took two attempts for my sweat-slickened fingers to grip the metal. I snapped it in place, pulled the belt across, and yanked it tight. Ms. Rochester did the same, though hers was far too loose for my liking. I wanted to reach over and tighten it for her. I lifted my hand from the armrest to do just that, but then Tom revved the engine, and we started to move.

  I gripped the armrest and screwed my eyes shut as tightly as they would go. My ears were at once hot and cold. We picked up speed. The wheels rumbled beneath us, and something made a loud whining sound like metal turning or warping or maybe disintegrating. I didn’t know.

  I was trapped, caged. I had no room to move, no air to breathe. I could feel the old familiar bars under my hands, the coldness and the metallic smell they left on my palms. Dampness. My cell was always slightly damp from a leak under the sink. That feeling was here, too. My palms were wet, clammy. The other inmates were making noises, banging on their cell walls, their bars, making the whole prison hum and vibrate. I covered my ears, the sound growing unbearable.

  “Jack?”

  I was on the plane. On the plane. There were no bars, not anymore. I rubbed my ribs on my right side, imagining the ink beneath my shirt. I would never be inside again. Never.

  We had been coasting for a while but then turned abruptly. The engine grew even louder, and we took off at a rush, the speed building to a fever pitch. My insides were being wrenched apart, just like the time I was almost beaten to death in the juvie yard. The noise of the engine mimicked the sound of the other boys crowding around me. The echo of fists on skin, a sick smacking sound. My ribs breaking. My blood soaking through my shirt.