“Did he go to jail?”
He shakes his head. “He was very, very lucky. Had an assistant who took the fall for him.” Elliot sips his tea, then nods in approval. “How about you? What were you doing in school?”
“Nothing serious. I was studying finance.” I sigh at the stupid dream. “I was going to join my dad.” And just the thought of that dims my mood. “That was before I knew what he was really up to.” I keep my voice light, like I’m telling a joke. In a way it was a joke…on me.
“I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s better that I had to quit after two years. It would’ve come out sooner or later. At least this way, I can change my major and do something else with my life.”
“What your dad did doesn’t define you.”
“It doesn’t and it shouldn’t, but it feels that way. He was supposed to be the champion of helping smaller guys get their share of the American dream—a nice retirement, sending their kids to college, maybe a vacation here and there. Nothing extravagant, but still something worthwhile.” I exhale roughly. “Everyone in town loved him because he made them rich. They treated me and Nonny like princesses. Then the pyramid collapsed, and we were public enemy number one. The only saving grace is that my dad and his scheme didn’t get massive national publicity like Madoff. He was a small fish, you know? But the local media were relentless.”
Elliot reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to think about the past. Nobody is going to hold that against you in L.A. It’s the city of fresh starts.”
I give him a pat smile even as Dennis’s shocked face and furious demands resurface in my mind. Dennis and I both share a past. So long as I live, I will not be able to shed my legacy as the daughter of Aaron Key.
“Is this why you want to work?” Elliot asks. “You want to see what you might like better?”
“Something like that, plus it might be nice to be appreciated enough to make some extra cash on the side,” I fib. It’s easier than telling him about how stupid I’ve been with Mr. Grayson. Poverty and desperation aren’t good enough excuses for tying myself to a man with dubious intentions.
Elliot tilts his head, his eyes entirely too penetrating. “If you want, I can ask around and see.”
I start to shake my head…but then think better of it. “Okay. I’d like that.” Even if it’s a non-paying position, it would be a good idea for me to start networking and make my own friends who can be there for me after my time with Elliot is up. I have to think long-term, beyond my time with Elliot. I have a whole life ahead of me.
We curl up together and watch a movie. Something short—about ninety minutes because that’s all the time we have before landing. I don’t remember much about the flick though because I am too busy absorbing Elliot’s intoxicating scent and bone-melting warmth.
There’s still some light when we land in St. Cecilia, even though we have at least two hours before dinnertime. Unlike L.A., the air is moist and clean with sea and salt. I breathe in deeply, looking up at the orange and purple sky that seems to come right down and touch us.
A black Bentley SUV waits for us at the private airport along with a driver in a black uniform. In deference to the hot, tropical weather, his shirt has short sleeves although his pants are long.
“Mr. and Mrs. Reed,” he says softly. “Welcome to St. Cecilia.” He opens the door and loads our luggage into the car. An official glances at our passports, then we’re off.
The drive is uneventful, but I squirm the entire time because Elliot turns on the vibrator as soon as we climb inside the car. It hums nicely on low intensity, and the purr of the engine only intensifies my lust. Elliot behaves, since there is no privacy partition between us and the driver, but his eyes are dark, his nostrils flaring when I bite my lower lip. He is acutely aware of the kind of torment he’s putting me through.
The resort is swanky. There is no other word for the soaring ceiling and glittering marble lobby, the interesting chandeliers, abstract sculptures and paintings. The place is contemporary and breezy, glossed with elegance and wealth. Every inch of the interior says this is the kind of spot you go to when money is no object and you want to have all your whims fulfilled by a courteous staff.
A front desk clerk in a floral, tropical dress checks us in. “Honeymoon villa.” She confirms the rest of the reservation details and smiles. “Welcome to Aylster Resort and Spa, Mr. and Mrs. Reed. And congratulations.”
A man appears. He is in his fifties, his skin darkly tanned from the tropical sun. His black uniform has a short-sleeve top similar to our driver.
“Good evening. I’m Marco, and I’ll be your butler during your stay.”
My eyebrows rise. Another butler? Seriously? Elliot listens to Marco’s introduction with a blasé expression.
Marco leads us to our villa, while another staff member brings our suitcases. The garden is massive, with lush vegetation and trees—I recognize banana and palm but there are others as well. Our villa faces tranquil, turquoise water with sand that looks finer than wet silk. The master suite leads to a private pool and hot tub, and the living room is luxuriously appointed with leather couches and contemporary glass-top tables. The flooring is hardwood, carefully polished and waxed. There is even a small kitchenette with a fully stocked mini-fridge and a few items for tea and coffee.
“If you’d like anything, please do not hesitate to call. There are phones by your bed, in the master bath, in the living room and by the pool.” He gestures at our bags. “I’ll unpack now, if that’s all right. Do you have any special instructions?”
I shake my head, dumbfounded. Elliot says, “We’d like to dine a bit early. What do you recommend?”
“There are seven restaurants and a bar on the resort, but if you’d like something more private, a dinner on the beach can be arranged in an hour. Would that be acceptable?”
Elliot looks at me. “What do you think?”
“Private.”
He turns back to Marco. “Dinner on the beach. Anything specific you recommend?”