But I can’t. I really can’t. Fun, carefree fun, has become something else. There’s danger on the horizon; I can feel it. It’s settling in my soul. So I shake my head and force a smile to my face, reminding myself that not once did I let Gareth see me cry, reminding myself I am a master at hiding how I’m feeling until I’m alone to process things in private.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hart.’ The words come out so husky I might as well have invited him to strip me naked right here. ‘This is a business meeting.’
He groans and lifts a hand, running his fingers through his hair. ‘I’d better get in the pool then because this situation is hardly PG.’
He flicks his eyes down and I follow, my breath snagging in my throat to see his hard dick, visible in his shorts. Desire snakes through me.
‘You’re not the only one who keeps their promises,’ I say, sauntering past him, my heart beating so fast and loud I can’t believe he can’t hear it.
‘Oh, yeah?’
At the edge of the pool I angle my face to his. ‘I meant what I said this morning.’ I lower my eyes to his cock. ‘That was just the beginning.’
I hear his muffled sigh as I dive underwater, smiling to myself as I push to the other side of the enormous pool.
I hear his splash behind me and, just like when we dived this morning, he comes up beside me, but this time, without the masks, I can see his face, I can see his beautiful face, and I can hardly look away. I burst up, out of the water, my breath coming hard, my lungs burning. I reach for the side of the pool, laying my fingers over the coping, just looking at him.
I look at him and I wonder about the man I met at the bar, the connection I felt, even when I knew it would just be sex. I look at him and I see him through the filter of what I know now, I see the man who escaped a disastrous marriage, I see a man who had his heart broken again and again, each and every time his parents split with new partners. I see a man who, from the outside, appears to have it all. I see a man who must wonder if women are only ever interested in his bank balance. I stare at him and I see a man I want to see more of.
I see a man I’m not so sure I can walk away from, a man I don’t think I want to walk away from.
He stares at me while I stare at him, and I wonder if he sees me for who I am. I wonder if he sees a woman, a strong woman who’s fought hard to get where she is in life, who’s terrified of putting herself out there again, only to be rejected. I wonder if he sees that, beneath what I show to the world, there’s a woman who had her confidence shattered six months earlier, who takes nothing for granted but still wants to fight for her dreams.
I wonder if he knows that somehow, at some point in these last few days, he started to become one of those dreams.
For several long seconds we stare at each other, and then a kid throws a ball that skids between us, splashing me, waking me from the trajectory of my thoughts, like a light-bulb moment except with water and laughing. I kick back from Jagger, a smile on my lips, and float away while he scoops up the ball and tosses it across the pool.
When he comes up beside me again I’m ready. ‘The pool is the hub of the accommodation,’ I say.
He takes a second but his expression sobers and he nods with mock seriousness. ‘Tell me more, Miss Llewellyn.’ He tosses a glance over his shoulder, though, towards the setting sun. The sky is morphing from brilliant blue to an equally stunning shade of purple and orange. ‘Tell me while you can.’
My stomach rolls at the promise in those words, but I don’t betray a hint of how hard I’m finding it to focus. ‘The pool itself was built in the late ’90s, in the lead-up to the millennium celebrations. The designers developed it with the coastal views in mind, intending to capitalise on the spectacular location of the resort.’
‘Quite,’ he drawls, treading water beside me, his powerful legs kicking easily. The sun drops lower; the sky darkens.
‘The original pool,’ I continue, swallowing my smirk, ‘was at the back of the building. Built in the ’20s, the full grotto-inspired construction was demolished in the ’70s, when modern amenity was valued above...follies.’
‘A shame,’ he says, and I don’t know if he’s being serious or not. ‘Do you know this much about every property you sell?’
He’s watching me intently and my pulse fires in my veins. I wonder that my veins haven’t yet given out because this—the way this feels—is putting my body under all kinds of new and different strains. ‘Of course I do.’
‘You don’t think that’s...obsessive?’
‘I think it’s professional,’ I fire back, flashing him a quick grin.
‘Ah. That word again.’ He looks over his shoulder once more. Lower, lower, with gaining momentum, darkness looms.
‘Believe it or not, you’re one of my least demanding clients,’ I say, moving infinitesimally closer to him, drawn to him by the impending night, by the certainty our time is almost upon us.
‘Then I’m not working hard enough,’ he murmurs. ‘I feel like I’ve asked plenty of you since we got here.’ He’s not talking about work.
‘And given me plenty in exchange.’ My voice is breathy. I move away from the double entendre. There can only be a few moments left. Perhaps it’s silly to put such stock in an arbitrary delineation but, having given all of myself once before, to someone who found it so insultingly easy to turn his back on me, on all that I am, all that I offered, I take comfort in the idea of being able to hold fast to our intentions. Even as my own are crumbling around me.
‘Our company became one of the most prominent bespoke commercial realtors in Sydney in an incredibly short time.’ Pride tinges my statement. ‘We can’t compete with the Duncan & Greys or Matmouths—they have thousands of agents worldwide. But what we do is niche, personalised and tailored to each of our client’s needs. We don’t waste time—a buyer’s or vendor’s. Everything we do is deliberate and nuanced.’
He’s speculative again, sifting thr
ough my words and seeing things that I didn’t intend to show. ‘You love what you do.’