“You shower with a gadget, too?” he asked, amused.
“Why not? You don’t want to come.” She tossed her hair over one shoulder, looked back at him and wiggled her brows, waving her cell phone, “I’m going to find someone who wants to Skype and shower with me.” And giggling, sauntered to the bathroom.
“Skype and shower, oh, man!” He rose from the bed and started collecting his clothes. He paused at the foot of the bed and grimaced at the mess he had made on Sophia’s rug. I have to take care of this first.
He took a towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around his waist. He knocked on Sophia’s bathroom door and heard her talking and chuckling inside. Surely she joked about sharing showers with others.
She exclaimed Edward’s name and gave a sexy, throaty laugh. Immediately, jealousy and betrayal raised their ugly heads in his mind.
Davidoff! He’s an interesting man. Perhaps, Sophia- No, surely not.
No. She isn’t Heather.
Heather’s dead!
This is Sophia.
Sophia!
He shook his head and knocked again. The door opened to reveal a smiling, trusting Sophia.
Naked, very naked. Alistair cursed his scruples.
“Yes? Changed your mind?”
“No.” He glanced around searching for her iPhone. “Are you busy?”
“Busy?” she asked confused, examining his scowl. “No, not yet.”
“I need something to clean your rug. You know.”
She seized him by the arm, yanking him inside with force. He stumbled into the bathroom. “I don’t need a house cleaner. We can do that later. Don’t be chicken,” she laughed, “Get in the shower with me.”
Fuck. “Sophia,” he cleared his throat, “don’t tempt me.”
“Too late.” She turned the lock and took out the key, waving it away from him. “Oh, come on, it’s just water. Are you afraid of water?”
“I’m unable to resist.” He captured her in his arms and spoke on her lips, “It’s not the water that frightens me, Beauty. It’s the siren in it.”
“Um, a poet. I like it.” She gave him a peck on the lips, “All right.” She opened the door, sighing. “Enjoy your shower, alone,” she pivoted on herself, grinning wolfishly, “because next time I won’t allow it.”
9.27 p.m.
Sophia came out of the dressing room wearing a green-and-blue wrap dress, no shoes, and her hair piled up in a bun secured with a Japanese hair stick.
Alistair had already showered and was wearing his gray jeans.
She found him on his knees, a brush in his hand, cleaning her rug. His black hair, still damp from the shower, fell around his face and the muscles on his arms and back rose with his movements.
She coughed and had to turn not to laugh at the scene.
“What’s so funny?” He asked from the floor, stopping to stare at her.
“You.” She said with her back turned. “I never thought I would have a pagan god cleaning my rug.” She spun to watch him with an endearing look on her face, kneeling by him. “You don’t have to do this. By the way, where did you find the brush?”
“Of course I have to do this. I made the mess-”
“We made the mess together,” she interrupted him, with a kiss, “we clean it together, got it?” She took the brush from his hand and entered his bathroom. She left the brush on the double sink, washing her hands as he washed his.
“Come. I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since lunch.” She waited for him to put his cardigan and loafers on. “You didn’t answer me; where did you find the brush?”
“I have superpowers,” he said, winking at her.
“I can believe that,” she grinned at him, enchanted. “Let’s see if your powers can help me with dinner.”
They walked hand in hand to the kitchen.
“So, what can I do?” Alistair asked, looking around.
“Do you remember where the cellar is?” she looked up from the refrigerator.
“Aye,” he nodded.
“You can choose a bottle of red wine for us.”
“Which one do you want?”
“Hmm, let’s see,” she thought while taking a box of Italian pasta from the cupboard, “do you prefer Italian or French?”
He laughed, “Both.”
“Great. Choose a French one for us, please. They’re on the left-hand side.”
A few minutes later, Alistair returned without the wine, a weird look on his face.
“You didn’t find anything you liked?” Sophia looked up from the board where she was cutting fresh artichoke hearts.
He shook his head, “No, that’s not it. I couldn’t. I think it’s better if you chose the wine.”
“All right,” Sophia finished the artichokes and wiped her hands on a towel. “Don’t touch anything.” She thought for a moment and stretched her hand, “Better, come with me. We’re going to choose the wine together.”
He backed away, “No, I would rather wait here.”
Sophia stared at him, “Alistair Connor.”
He smiled at the way she spoke his name, scolding him.
“What’s the matter? I want you to come with me,” she stated her will firmly and motioned with her hand. “Please,” the last word just a sweetened sauce to the command.
He sighed, took her hand in his, and walked beside her. Looking down at her cleavage and the way the dress hugged her curves, he murmured, “Beautiful dress.”
Naïvely, she answered, “Oh, I love Diane de Furstenberg’s dresses. They’re so elegant and comfortable.”
He chuckled, saying mockingly, “From my point of view, you can always wear them.”
She looked up, trying to discern why he said that, when she realized he had a predatory grin on his face.
Sophia stopped and turned to look at him, smiling, “You pervert.”
Pervert? I haven’t even started. He ran his hands from her collarbones to her hips and back again, ending on her breasts, “This dress complements your body.” He gripped her waist dragging her into his arms, “or should I say that your body complements the dress?” He kissed her. “You confound me.”
She laughed, squirming from his embrace, “I’m hungry, and I’m dying for a glass of wine.” Lifting the hem of her dress, she ran in the direction of the cellar.
He smiled and followed her, entering the dim cellar, nearly bumping into her. She frowned looking at a bottle in her hands.
He glanced down at it. “You don’t want to open that.”
“Why not?” She looked up from the 1982 Château Mouton-Rothschild to search his face.
“It’s unnecessary to open such an expensive-”
“Do you know the price of this bottle?” As he nodded, she put it back with the others and moved to another section, pulling out a 1934 Romanée Conti and peered at him with raised brows.
He shook his head, his emotions swinging from astonishment to aggravation, a twinge of uneasiness in the background.
She slipped it back and seized another bottle.
He frowned, “Sophia, please. Don’t be a child.”
“You don’t like the 1978 Montrachet Domaine de la Romanée Conti?” She put it back and moved again dragging out a 1945 Château Mouton-Rothschild this time, “How about this one?” She flung the bottle in the air, carelessly, catching it with one hand.
“Sophia, stop.”
“No?” She turned and glowered at him, her honey eyes blazing. Her trembling hand held the expensive bottle. “I don’t understand what’s happening here. I asked you to choose a bottle for us from the ones I have. You came back empty-handed. I select one and you say I cannot open it because it’s too expensive? Too expensive?” Breathless, she said, “I can’t open a bottle that costs ten thousand pounds for you to drink? Or a fifty thousand one?” She swallowed and narrowed her eyes. “Why? Would you rather I crashed it on the floor?”