5. Everleigh

Chapter five

Everleigh

I can’t sleep, and is it any wonder? I called my family right after dinner to let them know how my spiraling dark fairy tale was working out for me. Right, okay, so I told them only as much as I had to tell them since it was already insanely late, and they’d been waiting to hear from me. I knew they were worried about me, but I played it off with smiles and laughter and told them that everything is hunky forking dory with extra forks, extra dory, and a little of the hunky because, my god, could Darius be any more pleasing to the eye? Naturally, I didn’t mention that. I focused instead on telling them that everything was taken care of. I didn’t tell them I was a freshly minted millionaire, compliments of the one million dollars that appeared in my bank account before I called them.

On their end, they said they’re concerned things have gotten out of hand.

And they’re right. Things have seriously gotten out of hand.

In the end, though, they accepted my decision to see it through. They wanted me to know I had a choice. Always. And that they love me. Always. I also made sure they knew how much I loved them, too. More than anything. More than my own safety, kind of kidnapped, private jet ride, tied up to a bed, dinner with a broody super rich dude who happens to be insanely hot, muscly, and also my husband kind of anything.

And anyhow, how rich is Darius anyway, and the family as a whole, if he can just agree to shell out a million bucks without even batting an eye? Maybe he doesn’t bat his eyes. Maybe he’s secretly dying inside, but I don’t think so. He’s probably sleeping just fine right now. He probably hasn’t had a single second of regret over this. He’s likely not at all worried about his company now. I know the development corporation is one of the biggest in the States and a big player internationally, but seriously? I’m still in shock.

Then again, Darius would have paid me out of his personal funds, not from company money. I mean, he has a private jet. How could I have forgotten that detail?

I’m too hot. The sheets are like six million thread count, and the bed is all old, and the house is old times a hundred and extra creaky, and even though the security is probably insanely good, I don’t find it reassuring. Or, maybe I don’t find it reassuring that the security is so good because they’re here to keep bad guys out and keep me in, which makes me feel like a prisoner, even though I’m not.

Eventually, I toss the expensive blankets aside, slide out of the huge bed, and walk to the window. I had chosen a pair of fuzzy pajama bottoms and a tank top. I was surprised to find normal-looking clothes in the dresser. Things I would have worn at home. No gold-plated crap or silky stuff that I had to put on.

I wrap my arms around myself and pull back the heavy red drape from the window. The thing weighs a ton and is probably made out of some fabric that came straight from a castle in the Middle Ages, preserved through extremely expensive means because when you have that much money, why not?

The moon is full, and the exterior yard, grounds, or whatever they’re called, is bathed in silver light so bright that it looks like it could be early morning or late evening out there. But it’s not. I know because I grabbed my phone off the nightstand, and it’s telling me it’s four in the morning.

I always sleep badly when there’s a full moon. I guess whatever it does to the world with all its magic works on me, too.

I’m not going to explore the grounds at this hour just to ease my insomnia because that would probably set off alarms and cause chaos, but I do remember Darius said there was a pool. I like swimming. If I can find it, a middle-of-the-night dip wouldn’t be such a bad thing. When I was looking for pajamas earlier, I found a drawer that contained a bunch of bathing suits—bikinis and one-piece suits. No thong-type bottoms, thank god. I guess Darius isn’t an asshole because I’m sure his brother would have included more than a few.

I flip Bradford the bird, aiming it at the moon like people aim lovelorn sighs, hoping their lover is out there doing the same thing at the same moment. I know Bradford isn’t flipping me off, though. He’s probably sleeping like a damn baby, too, because he also got what he wanted.

I walk over, switch on the lights, and pull open the dresser drawer that I know holds swimsuits. A one-piece with flowers and stripes and an open back should do nicely. It’s rather inventive and tasteful, and I’m annoyed that it’s something I’d pick out for myself.

I wrench off the wedding and engagement rings and set them on top of the dresser. I can’t bring myself to not-so-accidentally lose them at the bottom of the pool, even though that would be a real delight.

The one-piece suit happens to fit perfectly, and it doesn’t give me camel toe. I might be petite, and I know that’s usually a tall person problem, but believe me, it can still happen. After I’ve changed and inspected myself in the dresser’s mirror, I spend the next thirty minutes wandering through the house, trying to sniff out the scent of chlorine, which will usually lead a person straight to any pool.

I get on the right path by accident, pushing open a heavy wooden door, and this time, voila. Humid air hits me like a blast of dense heat. It smells salty, and I realize there aren’t any chemicals used here. This pool probably tastes like the ocean, not a cleaning cabinet. I feel like I’ve stepped into another land. There is greenery everywhere, and the walls have been painted with murals of trees, tropical vines, and fronds. There are actual fake palm trees in here, and even some real ones, too. So many other leafy plants and ferns take up the beds that it looks like a tropical oasis. Talk about setting up the atmosphere or the aura or whatever.

I drink in every detail, and halfway around the room, it includes the most ornate pool I’ve ever seen, complete with blue and mother-of-pearl tiles, a pool deck done in a mosaic of palm trees, lounge chairs—one containing one large goon reading a fashion magazine—and someone drowning in the pool.

Wait, what?

Someone drowning in the pool.

I was so taken with the ambiance when I walked in that I was completely oblivious to the frenzied, rapid splashing. My eyes tear frantically from the pool to the big goon bastard just sitting there, flipping pages so casually. Why is he not doing anything? Whoever is in the pool looks like they’re so far gone that they don’t even have any breath left to call for help. They’re splashing wildly and getting nowhere, just barely staying on the surface.

It’s a damn good thing I came down here, and it’s even luckier for whoever is in there that I know how to swim well, and at summer camp when I was nine, I saw a demonstration on how to save someone who was drowning. It left quite an impression on me.

I don’t think before I start running. I just take off and tear toward the pool. The only dive I know is a cannonball, so I let rip with that, and then I swim like the devil toward the source of the splashing. I can barely get an arm around broad shoulders. This dude is too much for me to contain. I try to make it clear that I’m here to help, but there’s water in my eyes, blinding me. The salt is stinging, and he’s thrashing wildly, trying to fight me off. Now I remember the first part of that summer camp demo and how the instructors said to be very careful because a drowning person can panic and pull you under with them.

I try to swim away and put a bit of distance between us while still holding him so he doesn’t think I’m just abandoning him to sink straight to the bottom. I’m out of breath already, so out of breath that I can’t even call to the bastard sitting in the chair, who probably hasn’t even looked up from his magazine. As the salt stings my retinas, I wave my arms frantically in what I hope is the right direction.

I force myself to blink and open my eyes. Nope, okay, I just waved frantically at a light-up flashing neon palm tree wearing sunglasses. I whip around and scream for help before swimming back and reaching out, grasping what’s available of the guy still splashing wildly, which is basically hair. Whoever the person is pushes back against me, and I try to swim hard and grab hold of his shoulders. I’m looking for traction, and I get it, but not in the right place. I’m kicking a little too frantically, and suddenly, my knee connects with something soft and squishy and junk-ish.

Oh, fuck. I think I just kneed this guy in the package.

The cry of pain that erupts, along with even more violent splashing, pretty much confirms it. If I had any breath left, I would apologize for bagging him, but as it is, any apology is going to have to wait.

A huge splash erupts to the left of us both as the goon finally makes an entrance into the pool to save the damn day. I wisely back off and let him do his work, which he does cleanly and efficiently. He drags the drowning guy to the edge of the pool and hoists him up and over. Then, he gets out beside him, and I realize he went in with his full suit and shoes on and everything. And holy shit, it isn’t just any guy I nutted. It’s my husband.

Darius freaking Anderson.

The goon slaps Darius on the back, muttering in heavily accented English that the suit and set of shoes he just ruined is going to be a hefty bill. Darius coughs and splutters, and god, I feel like sinking down to the bottom of the pool now and staying there for good, but I have to explain, so I gather my courage and swim over to the edge. When I reach the edge, I throw my elbows over it and peek out above the pool’s lip.

“Fine time now to save him.” I swipe water out of my eyes and blink an accusatory blink because, damn it, it’s hard to roast someone with a staredown when your eyes are on mega-fire from salt water.

Darius gags and coughs some more, water pouring out of his mouth until there’s just a fine string of spittle. Hans pounds him on the back one more time, then backs off. He casually walks over to his chair, lifts his magazine, and sits down again, crossing his wet shoes at his wet ankles like nothing happened.

“Boss was swimming just fine until you try to drown him,” he says in a heavy accent, throwing the words at me from behind the magazine.

I whip my eyes back to Darius. He’s trying to get off his knees, but I can tell things are not so good in the family jewels area. He’s obviously in a lot of pain.

“What?” I whisper-yell. “I thought you were drowning. You were splashing all weirdly.”

“That’s how I swim,” Darius gasps. His throat sounds raw from the water he took in and also the wreckage in his groin, but I catch snippets of words through my horror. “Shoulder doesn’t have the range of movement…exercise in the pool…sometimes can’t sleep…water therapy…hard to do it with one arm…”

Wow. I have to say, I monumentally misread the situation and fucked it up big time.

My face is burning red hot as I hoist myself over the edge and sit down on the tiles. They’re hard but warm and not sharp under my bottom. I pull my legs up, cross them, and lean my elbows on them, tucking my chin into my palms. “God, Darius, I’m really sorry. I thought you were in trouble.”

He glances over at the goon, Hans. I really need to start using his name. Calling him the goon is too mean, even if he spontaneously drugged me at my own wedding. “Nope,” he wheezes. “I always swim with a buddy.”

“I didn’t think he noticed you were in trouble. His fashion magazine seemed to be totally engrossing.”

“Oh, it is,” Hans says smoothly without looking up, ignoring my accusatory tone completely. “It most certainly is.”

I swipe a trickle of water out of my eyes, pushing my wet hair back. Now that Darius has regained his breath and cleared the water off his own face, I really have to try hard not to notice what a thing of beauty he is. He basically defines the term hyper-masculine. Like holy Hannah, abs much? He’s so cut that he looks like he was carved from a diamond. Because they cut anything, right? He’s solid, with chiseled abs, hard pecs, and nicely bronzed skin. There’s a smattering of dark hair around his naval and disappearing under his swim shorts, but that’s it. He either doesn’t grow hair naturally on his chest, or he gets expensive man waxes, and okay, that shouldn’t be hot, but it’s so, so hot. Not that I have anything against chest hair. Bear-skin rug dudes are fine, too. It’s just that this way, I can see all the droplets of water standing out on his very nice skin, his very nice muscles, and his very hard nipples.

Oh lord, I did not just go there.

“I’m sorry I interrupted your exercise session.” I can feel myself fizzling to a crisp of mortification on the spot. And what’s crispy? Bacon. I’d be extra well done if I was a piece of bacon. Or like tissue paper. Wait, no, newspapers. That’s crispy. I’d be the perfectly printed kind. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought a swim would be nice.”

“Was your room too cold? Too hot? Was the bed not comfortable? Was there something not to your liking?”

“Goodness, no, it was fine. It’s just…a lot to process. My mind won’t shut off, and it’s a full moon.” I point up like the moon is right there in the room with us. The ceiling here isn’t glass, but it is painted with vines and a fake sun. “It’s nice in here,” I say with a cough to cover further embarrassment. “Really nice. I like it. You’ve done great things with the place.”

“Yes, well…I should probably head to bed. I could use a shower.”

“And some icing down,” Hans remarks smartly.

Fuck with a side of double fuck. “I see that I’ll have to up my saving-a-drowning-person skills. I’ve never had to do that before.”

“You could have asked me,” Hans chimes in again in that same bored tone. “If you were concerned I wasn’t doing my job, you could have come and listed your demands.”

“Right, while he drowned.”

“No. I would have informed you that he was doing just fine. I would never let D drown.”

“You call him D? Your boss?”

Hans ruffles the magazine, turning a page as water sluices off of him and puddles beneath the chair. “No English,” he quips, effectively shutting me right up.

“He calls me D, yes,” Darius groans. “Anyway, you can keep swimming if you want. Enjoy the pool.”

“Actually, I think I’ll go shower and head to bed too. I’ve probably had enough excitement for the night. And also, um…done enough.” I duck my head because I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. “I’ll, uh, see you at breakfast tomorrow? Or lunch or something?” I’m not sure how meals work here, and I shouldn’t just assume. I’ve made a bunch of bad assumptions already. And now I feel tremendously silly.

Darius gets up, though it’s with a great deal of difficulty, and he’s walking a little funny, kind of a crab-like goat shuffle. I have my head bowed, so I’m totally unprepared for the brush of warm fingers on my shoulder. It’s a sensual touch, but probably not for him. For him, it’s just meant to be reassuring. But still, I nearly fall sideways, straight into the pool. My heart jackhammers worse than when I thought I was trying to save someone from drowning, and we were both drowning, appealing to the neon palm tree with sunglasses to please do something.

“Thank you. What you did was very kind.”

“Nutting you was kind?” I wince. I can’t believe that, on top of everything else, I just said that.

Darius and Hans both snort in amusement at the same time. I whip my head up. “That was an accident, and it started with noble intentions.”

“Oh boy, here we go.” Hans drops his magazine, walks over, and wraps his arm around Darius’ waist, supporting him. Because, yeah, he can barely walk and probably needs an icepack for the damage I just did to his babymakers. I watch them walk away together, and as they disappear behind a palm tree, I swear I hear Hans say, “Do you need me to carry you, wrap you up in my arms like a baby, and rock you sweetly?”

“Remind me to fire your ass in the morning,” Darius growls in response, so I’m sure I heard right. “Just as soon as I can walk and think properly again.”

I drop my head into my hands after they’re gone.

What a hell of a first night, and it’s not even over yet.