Chapter Twelve
My bare feet walk the boards over to her villa, the sun making me grasp my head because of the hangover that’s interfering with idyllic retreats. I don’t know why she wasn’t there this morning when I woke, or why she left without even taking her clothes, but this is Gabby. It’s becoming normal for her to have another side I don’t know about. Just like that phone call last night at the casino. It’s more secrets I either don’t want to know the answer to or can’t find the energy to ask about. Here is perfect, just the way it is. No outside world. No problems.
Just us.
The last thing I remember, before we drifted off into sleep last night, was her talking about scuba diving today. How the hell scuba diving is going to make either of us feel any better after the amount of champagne we consumed, I don’t know, but I care little for the reasoning behind whatever she’s asked for. I’ll do it. I might be a damn moron for indulging her every whim, but like she says—holiday.
And there’s not enough of it left.
I want more of my dream.
Two days. That’s all we’ve got. Two days of fucking and fooling about, both of us smiling and laughing about anything and everything as if we’re two people in love. Maybe we are, but it can’t be real forever, can it?
I snort at myself and peer at the lagoon to the side, a couple swimming by in their tranquil bliss. I’ve never laughed so much in my life, certainly not when drunk. Drunk usually means Quinn’s got his dice rolling, a gamble of some sort threatening to blow the calm my numbers balance for out of the damn water.
A maid pushes a trolley by me as I turn onto the last platform towards her place, dirty sheets piled into the holding bags. I smirk at them as she goes by, amused about the come that’s splattered from our fun, and wonder what other thing I can get her involved in this afternoon. More fruit? Maybe I could tie her up, not that I’ve ever really cared for that, but I might be able to tease that other life she’s got out of her that way.
Force it.
Jesus, I need to get a grip of myself. Literally. I look down, dick bouncing beneath the flowery shorts she made me buy. She called me a pussy, told me that if I wasn’t man enough to wear them then perhaps I wasn’t man enough to fuck her.
I bought the damn shorts.
“Gabby?” I call, pushing the door open and heading to the deck. No answer. Perhaps she’s playing coy. The thought makes me smile some more, about ready to drop these shorts and find her to do some more damage to that tight little—
“Monsieur?” I spin around, instantly frowning at another maid who stands in the doorway, hand carrying cleaning products. “Puis-je vous aider?” Yes, she can help me. I check my watch. Where the hell is Gabby?
“Ou est la femme,” I ask, searching for my rusty French. “Qui reste ici?”
“Elle est partie.” She points at the door. My frown triples. What the hell is she talking about?
“Que voulez-vous dire?”
“Ch-check out, Monsieur? Hier soir.” She looks down at the floor, presumably trying for English and not finding it.
What the fuck? Last night?
That can’t be right.
I stare at the woman, waiting for something to tell me she’s made a mistake, that the language barrier is causing difficulties. She doesn’t give me anything other than a small smile before she starts cleaning the wall of glass between us and the ocean.
Gone.
I glare at the woman still cleaning then turn to scour the rooms for evidence of her departure. She can’t be gone. The maid’s got it wrong, must have. My fingers pull back the wardrobe doors in the bedroom, a slight panic lacing the move, to find all her belongings still there. The vision immediately causes a sigh of relief to come out. It’s one that has me chasing my own feelings on the matter, suddenly desperate to find her now I know she’s still here. I smile and run my fingers along her clothes, still able to smell her perfume on them, and remember her lips last night. So soft. They meant it when they kissed me, just like her body meant every push towards me.
I walk backwards and stare at the clothes until I’m sitting on the bed musing my own feelings some more. What the hell am I thinking? That I should tell her? That I should go find her and make her see sense, admit to the love between us? That’s not going to work. I’d be a fool, and an inconsiderate one at that, to take her back to my life. She deserves better than that. Better than Cane. But this feeling isn’t leaving me. It’s pushing me closer to her with every breath I take, certainly now as I’ve felt the panic that came when I thought I’d lost her.
The thought has me gazing at the floor, eyes flicking about for something to give me direction. Tell her? Don’t tell her? My eyes suddenly halt on the empty space in the corner of the wardrobe. Where’s the bag? The one that always looked out of place?
I stand and clear the trails of long dresses, upturning shoes and handbags to find the rucksack. It’s nowhere to be seen. I turn and scan the room again, hoping that she’s moved it for some reason, but it’s gone. I don’t even need to look. I knew it the moment my eyes latched onto the empty space.
My damned heart sinks with the realisation—she’s gone, too.
“Fuck,” I spit out.
Anger slices its way through me. Real fucking anger. She’d do this to me? To what we had become? I didn’t even deserve a good-bye, thanks for the time?
Bitch.
