CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Miramar, Mallorca
December 3
Cam entered the villa salty, itchy, and exhausted. A butler met him in the front hall with instructions to change and meet Miss March on the east patio. Cam lumbered past the grand staircase that bisected the central gallery and wandered back toward his assigned quarters on the main floor. He mapped the floor plan as he moved through the home, noting the large living room with a portrait of Gemini, standing with her head turned in profile, wearing a strapless black gown. The painting bore a striking resemblance to Sargeant's Portrait of Madame X. He passed a library, solarium, and billiards room before crossing into the more utilitarian section of the house, noting a storage room, a catering kitchen, a mudroom, and servants’ quarters. In his bedroom, he spotted the clothing laid out on the bed and brushed past it without a second look. No one had dressed him since he was a small boy. Opening the bathroom door, he flashed to the memory of Gemini March floating up out of the pool and across the room like a goddess in an Olympian palace.
On paper, it was the sexiest thing most men could imagine. Why it left him feeling decidedly turned off, he had no idea. He stepped into the massive spa and had to admit, even in his wildest imagination, he couldn’t have conjured such a place. Everything from the walls to the counters to the floor was marble, iridescent grey with subtle veins of gold. Inspired by the region's Turkish-style baths, the rib-vaulted ceiling and built-in benches that ran across the wall were reminiscent of a lavish hammam. After that, the twenty-first century took charge. From the steam room to the soaking tub, Cam could have lived in this room and been a very happy man.
He stepped into the open jetted shower and scrubbed the day from his body. As the lather ran down, his thoughts wandered to the woman from the ocean. He touched his tender eye, relieved she hadn’t blackened it. She had punched him, kicked him, puked on him, and flipped him off. Yet, when he pictured those damn pink toes and the desperation with which she had clung to his back as he swam them to safety, well, the shower took a bit longer than planned.
With a towel low on his hips, Cam paused at the ensemble on the bed, a cream linen suit, blue button-down, and woven loafers. He huffed. Ensemble. That's precisely what it was. Without a second thought, he moved to the closet and retrieved a pair of dark wash jeans and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt. He knew how to handle Gemini March, and he’d be goddamned if someone tried to dress him like he was a toddler getting ready for school.
Miguel Ramirez was a yes-man. He did what he was told when he was told. But the one thing Miguel Ramirez and Camilo Canto had in common: nobody told them what to do in the bedroom. Ever.
Thirty minutes later—and twenty minutes after he was instructed to arrive—Miguel Ramirez sauntered barefoot onto the east patio. The elegant space was surrounded by a waist-high limestone balustrade that in the spring would be obscured by vines bursting with gem-colored blooms. To his right, a path opened to the pool and an expansive, impeccably manicured lawn. A mirroring walkway on the left led to the front of the villa. And in the center, Gemini March sat at a round glass table laden with fresh fruit, cheeses, a Spanish-style baguette called pan de barra, and a whole lobster sitting atop a steaming bowl of paella.
Cam noted Gemini's look of disapproval at his clothing before her face morphed into a cover-girl air of pleasure and seduction. She looked like she wanted to eat him for dinner and knew exactly where she wanted to start.
“Hello again, Miguel.” She plucked a strawberry from the fruit plate and made a show of taking a bite.
Cam strode to the table, took a seat, and began filling a plate, taking mouthfuls of food directly from the platters as he loaded up. Behind him, a servant appeared with a wine bucket.
“Champagne?” Gemini nodded to her glass, and the young man filled it with the Roederer Cristal Rosé.
“Beer,” he commanded, mouth full.
She stiffened but nodded to the servant, who hurried off.
“So… I imagine you have questions.” Gemini toyed with her champagne flute.
Cam merely shrugged. “What's to question? A job, a nice place to stay.” He met her gaze then as he cracked a lobster claw with both hands. “You.”
She paused a strawberry at her full bottom lip. “Aren’t you wondering why you?”
Cam extracted the claw meat and ate it in one bite. Then he sucked the juice from the pad of his thumb as he shamelessly stared at her flawless breasts beneath turquoise silk that failed to mask her pleasure at his perusal. “No.”
She shivered at his confident reply. “That night on Ibiza was…” She searched for one word that could accurately describe their encounter. When she couldn’t find one, she settled on “unforgettable.”
He met Gemini's gaze then, knowing exactly when to play into her hand. “Yes, it was.”
“What were you doing in the club that night? Who were you waiting for?”
Cam chewed thoughtfully. Then his golden eyes met hers with a predatory gaze. “You.”
Her full lips tipped. “Right answer.”
She plucked a mussel from the paella and fingered the morsel in the shell. Gemini March was not yet willing to cede control. “I’m eager to see if the present is as satisfying as the memory, but our reunion must be postponed.”
The news that delayed their rekindling excited her. Cam waited, slowly chewing his food.
“I have been selected as one of Couture Magazine's Most Beautiful People on Earth. It's a distinction I’ve wanted for three years, and it's not something one declines.” She scanned his body. “No matter how tempting the reason.”
“They chose correctly.”
“Thank you, Miguel. I don’t fish for compliments. They simply jump out of the water and land in my lap. But it's nice to hear your lover finds you desirable.”
Cam met her gaze. “Desirable isn’t the word I would use.”
Gemini flushed from her cleavage to her ears. “I leave tomorrow morning. I’ll be gone for four days. But we have tonight.”
Cam stood and rounded the small table. Towering over her, he ran the back of one finger down her cheek. “I’m not fully recovered from the drugs, but I have many ways to bring you pleasure we have yet to explore. Tonight will be for you, querida.”
He held his hand flat, and she slipped hers into his palm. Banishing every shred of Camilo Canto from his mind, Miguel Ramirez led her into the bedroom.