His sister was housed elsewhere in the structure, a floor below, her rooms with river and farm views but nothing of the sea.
While she loved him, she didn’t share his love of the sea and hated waiting and watching for him to come home like some tragic figure from a dirge...at least in her words. Since it had become just the two of them occupying the manor, Caline felt cavernous. Strange and echoing and far too big for a pair of adult siblings even though they’d been just three before.
His mother had had a big presence, though, dying her gray hair silver-white and keeping it in long decorated braids, wearing daring patterns and prints, unafraid to be seen, confident she’d be admired—Amira Andros had been his model for how to navigate the world. She’d had to be after they’d lost his father.
Then it had been just him and Nya and his mother. And now it was just him and Nya, the last of the Androses. Unless, of course, Helene was agreeable.
In his common room, the decor was simple, but each and every item was of the highest quality, from his leather sofa, to the sleek built-in entertainment centers, which blended seamlessly with his still, watery aesthetic. And while no one would think to describe the room as sea-themed, there were hints of his passion and calling everywhere in the space—an original from Picasso’s Blue Period, an intriguing piece of smooth, polished driftwood to bring a piece of his private island, Yancy Grove, to Calla, a subtle wave of Chihuly glass in the same swirling blues and grays of the Mediterranean during a storm, low-profile furniture and vast windows filled with open sky. Everywhere he went, he took the sea with him.
“It’s lovely,” she whispered, voice low.
Caught off guard by the husky thickness of her voice after going so long without words, he started.
“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head. “I take my sanctuaries seriously.”
A soft smile, gentle and distracted and completely new to him, lifted the corners of her lips. “I can imagine...”
A wicked grin lit his expression “What else can you imagine?”
He hadn’t meant to tease her, to flirt or lure. Not yet. But then he’d watched her explore his space and see him in it.
She snorted. “Not whatyou’reimagining,” she retorted.
“And what’s that?” he asked, keeping his face as innocent as his question was leading.
“I think we both know,” she said, lifting an eyebrow.
He shook his head. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re implying.”
“I’m sure.”
“Bathhouse? Another massage? Dessert?”
Her mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe you can even think of dessert yet. I’m still so stuffed I can barely move. But...” Her eyes took on a speculative look.
“What?” He asked, eager for her to make another request of him, eager to once again give her what she wanted—the surest means to unlocking a heart that he’d yet to find.
Looking around, she said, “I’d love to play a game of poker.”
It was the last thing he expected her to ask, and absolutely perfect. Innocent that she was, she didn’t realize the doors she was opening, but he did. That she’d chosen a tool he loved so well—poker—felt like a sign that things were looking up for his little plan.
Snapping his fingers, he smiled. “Done. Anything else?”
She nodded, plucking the fabric of her dress between her thumb and forefinger. “How can I get rid of this dress?”
CHAPTER FIVE
“EASILY,”HESAIDwith a smile.
He could get her whatever she wanted.
Much like her father had always been, Drake was a king in his kingdom. Hel was increasingly wondering what was going on with her. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen the similarities between Drake and her father—in their complete dominance, in their utter assuredness in their own way, in their ability to reduce her to emotions and reactions. And yet she was here with him, had chosen to go along, was challenging him even now to sit with her, get closer and more personal than they should, play a game that acted like a superconductor to sexual tension.
Outside, she had the wherewithal to make a joke about her dress.
Inside, her blood thrummed like a live electrical current rather than something as mundane as human ichor.
She was playing with a box of matches beside a powder keg—walking a delicate tightrope while the metaphoric wind kicked up.