Mad Love (27 page)

“Let’s go.” Erik grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the villa.

I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of the wrath of Clayton Astor Sinclair and I almost made the sign of the cross.

And now, here we are. I look over at him as we land on the yacht’s helipad and wonder if he’s still pissed. Okay, yes, he is. His face has that serious, stern look on it. I wonder how pissed he is. Is it a level five, or DEFCON one? I reach out and take his hand and his gaze is pure ice.

“Come on. Don’t do this,” I whisper so no one can hear, as I try to cajole the crazy out of him.

He takes my hand and caresses my thumb, then leans in close, so on the outside it looks as if he’s whispering sweet nothings in my ear. I should be so lucky.

“Sophie, love. It would be wise of you to understand that I don’t like to be disobeyed,” he says. “If you want to know if I’m still angry the answer is no.” Oh thank God, I think to myself, irritated that he used the word “disobeyed” but okay with letting it slip this once. But the sense of security walks out the door when he says, “I’m fucking livid. We’ll continue the discussion when we get back to the villa.”

Oh no. He pulls away from me as everyone starts to exit the helicopter, grabs a blanket from one of the seats, and hands it to me.

“Wrap this around your waist so the whole goddamn world doesn’t see what belongs to me.”

I do as I’m told and I’m actually really happy that he spared me the embarrassment of having my dress fly up over my head. Watching Elizabeth and Jane stumble out of the helicopter with dresses blowing in all sorts of direction makes me blush.

Once we’re all safely on the deck of the yacht we’re greeted by the Remington family. I kind of figured they would be English but I guess I didn’t realize just
how English
they would be. They have those low, posh voices that Jane, Elizabeth, and the guys speak in, but times one hundred. Their pronunciation is exaggerated and, I’m guessing, very old school. Mr. Tom Remington is an older, distinguished looking man with blond hair and quizzical green eyes. His wife, Sheila, is a petite blonde with an amazing body that she’s showing to its full advantage. Lord, I’m surprised she can even walk in that dress. She also has on about ten pounds of makeup and jewelry. She’s sparkling so brightly it’s almost blinding.

I notice the way her hand touches Clayton’s arm like she’s intimately familiar with him or something and my claws come out. She’s barely civil to me but embraces everyone else like they’re long-lost relatives. Including Erik and Orie, who she instantly loves. We are introduced to a man, Albert Larson. He’s a good-looking guy and downer Jane immediately sets her sights on him.

The help passes trays of champagne around and I gladly take a flute. I stand with Erik, Orie, and Elizabeth watching Clayton and Sheila sipping champagne together like it’s old times. She eats him up with her eyes, like a barracuda on the prowl.

I hate her.

And I wonder how long Clayton is going to ignore me.

16

“What a lovely dress. Really, quite fetching.” I’m startled to hear Tom Remington voice behind me.

I turn to face him and we make room for him as he joins our small circle. Tom looks at me in a way a married man should never look at another woman and I’m repelled, repulsed, and totally revolted.
Yes, those are all words that begin with the letter R but I could come up with others.

“Thank you,” I answer politely, suddenly wishing I had listened to Clayton and worn something less revealing. Not that I’d ever admit that to him, but still, he might have been right. Maybe. “Thank you for having us for dinner tonight,” I go on, not sure what else to say. “It’s quite an impressive yacht.”

“Yes, Sheila love found the
Siren
for us. It is nice but we do find it rather small, with only ten staterooms. We’re accustomed to much larger accommodations. It’s really quite stuffy with all the family on board. We’re practically on top of each other.”

Too small? This is the biggest yacht I’ve ever seen! Erik and Orie stay suspiciously quiet, but I know what they must be thinking.

“I’m sorry you feel so cramped. That is not a pleasant feeling,” I say lamely. “How many are on board?”

“It’s Sheila and I, and our two boys, Archibald and Brentley. Albert, Sheila’s business partner, has joined just for the evening.”

I look at Tom Remington and smile uncomfortably. Honestly, I don’t even know what to say to him. What would be the proper blue-blooded response to ten bedrooms on a yacht not being large enough for a family of four and a child who goes by the name of Brentley?
The poor kid,
I think to myself,
I thought I had it bad with my parents.

“I’ve learned that sometimes you have to take on more humble accommodations to truly appreciate the gifts you have.” I think I’ll be struck by lightning for using that adjective to describe the yacht.

“Well said, my darling Sophie. Well said.” He nods at me like I’m the Dalai Lama.
I’m not your darling anything, Tom
. But I politely smile back at him.

Before I can ask another question, the two boys come over. They are exactly as I’d picture them. Thin, blonde, with pinched, angry faces. They’re both wearing coats
and cravats
and they’re only about twelve or thirteen years old.

“Father,” the slightly taller of the two says as he looks down his nose at Erik and Orie. I almost erupt with laughter by how offended my friends look.

“Ah, Archibald, Brentley, so good of you to join us.” Tom quickly introduces us to his two sons, who nod rather arrogantly at us then cross their arms and look around the deck.

Archibald lifts his hand and motions toward an older gentleman, who I gather works for them. He comes right over.

“Yes, sir?”

“What is for dinner, Niles?” I make eye contact with Erik. I’d bet money we are both thinking the same thing. Is this entire scene for real?

“Sea bass, sir.”

If possible, Archibald pinches his face even tighter.

“Is it line caught?”

Erik chokes on his drink.

Orie starts to pat him in the back, trying to cover Erik’s mirth. I have to keep my face down. I can’t look up.
God, please don’t make me laugh. Please don’t make me laugh.

Niles doesn’t answer Archibald fast enough.

“I say, Niles,
is it line caught?”
His enunciation of every word is so drawn out, so utterly English, that it’s really quite unbelievable.

“Yes, sir. I dare say it is.”

Archibald nods and dismisses Niles, who hurries off.

I feel a warm hand on my lower back, my very
naked
lower back, and turn to see Clayton has joined us. He still won’t even look at me, just keeps his gaze on Tom, Erik, and Orie. He looks at Archibald and Brentley. “Gentlemen.”

“Lord Sinclair,” the boys say in unison. My gaze whips up to Clayton.
Lord
Sinclair? Clayton seems to grimace at the mention of the title. He’s a lord? What the hell? Archibald turns to Erik.

“My mother tells me that you are a famous Hollywood stylist.”

“Or infamous,” Orie says with a smile.

“What made you want to dress men and women for a living? I find that quite odd. Is that no better than being a valet?”

“Archibald Thurston Remington the third!” Tom says, and has the decency to look mortified.

“That’s a mouthful,” Erik says to Tom, then looks down at the arrogant shit. “I can answer little Archie’s question.”

“It’s Archibald.”

“Archie sounds better,” Erik says.

“I prefer Archibald.”

Erik is enjoying ruffling his feathers.

“Alright,
Archibald
,” Erik begins thoroughly enjoying himself. “A stylist chooses clothes for his or her client to make a statement. To define who you are, a trendsetter or a follower. Fashion is a powerful tool used in every part of your life. Take you, for instance. Is that a Turnbull & Asser shirt and coat you have on?” Erik asks as he looks the kid up and down, assessing every line, every detail with the eyes of a hawk.

Archibald is clearly surprised that Erik knows, and to be honest, so am I, since I don’t even know who that designer is.

“Yes.” He looks at Erik’s wardrobe, clearly the opposite of Turnbull & Asser. “How would you know?”

“Because I know style. I actually think the cut you have on is a bit stiff. It’s not hip or cool, two adjectives that I just
know
you are. Turnbull & Asser dress James Bond,” Erik checks him out. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen and a half.”

“Exactly. You’re an adult. Dress like it. A fitted blazer. Lose the cravat. Have a crisp white shirt made that has your initials underneath your collar in the back, not on the chest pocket like the older gentlemen do. You don’t need to show off. People know who you are. You’re Archibald Thurston Remington the third. That’s how cool you are.”

Goddamnit, he’s so good. Archie is instantly obsessed.

“Will you tell my mother?”

“Gladly.”

“I’ll go and find her. Come along, Brentley,” Archibald orders his brother as he runs off. I look at Erik in awe. Lord, does the man know his stuff.

“You’re very good at what you do, my friend,” Clayton says as he lifts his glass in salute to Erik.

“I try,” Erik says.

Tom looks from Erik to Clayton, totally uncomfortable and desperately wanting to change the subject.

“What a delightful young lady you’ve brought with you, Clayton. Charming. Intelligent. Gorgeous. Absolutely, gorgeous. Why have you kept her hidden for so long? Your mother would just love to see you with a nice young lady like this.” I lower my gaze in embarrassment when Tom mentions Clayton’s mother. “How long have the two of you been friends?” Tom’s creepy gaze gives me the heebie jeebies.

I wonder what kind of business Clayton is doing with him. Or, better question,
why?

“A short while,” Clayton returns evenly, his voice revealing nothing, I’m so thankful.

I wonder how long before he lets go of being annoyed about my dress. I mean, compared to Sheila, I look like a nun. Her nipples are practically peeking out from the top of her dress!

“I missed your family name, my dear,” Tom says to me. That’s because I didn’t give it to you, perv.

“It’s Walker.”

“Walker?” Tom lifts his head and thinks about this a good, long time. I’m sure he’s trying to figure out if I have the right blue-blooded pedigree to eat with them. Before he can finish his assessment, a bell chimes across the deck. I look over and see a man dressed in a severe black tux standing with both hands behind his back.

“Canapés are ready to be served,” he says in a deep English accent. I look around at this blatant display of over-the-top wealth and feel like I’m being Punk’d, because this is so not real life.

Clayton quietly escorts me inside, where I get a full look at the opulence. It’s insane. We walk into a family room extravagantly decorated in a traditional style, with two plush crème couches, a bar, a flat screen on the wall, and fresh flowers everywhere. I feel like I’m in an episode of
Extreme Yachts
.

Three servers, dressed in white, gloves and all, pass out canapés. I take a small toast with caviar and a dollop of crème. It is divine. Appetizers at parties I usually attend consist of chips, dip, and hummus.

Clayton stands next to me in silence, probably still stewing away. I finish my champagne, and before I can even look around for a place to put it down, someone whisks by, takes it from me, and hands me a just-poured glass. One could get used to this kind of wealth, I’m not going to lie.

I look up at Clayton, who’s now holding a scotch. I don’t even remember seeing him ask for one. He cocks a brow.

“Enjoying yourself, love?”

I lean into him nice and close and give him a sexy smile.

“Not as much as I would enjoy being back at the villa with you. Alone.”

I take a sip of my champagne and the bubbles are clearly working their magic. I’m slightly lightheaded and far more at ease, which I’m thankful for because Lord knows I’m feeling pretty out of my element. I mean, aside from the gazillion-dollar surroundings, I’ve literally just landed in a helicopter. Hello, when does that happen to me? I just discovered that Clayton, a man I’ve barely known a week, who I happen to be falling in love … so not going down that road tonight … is also, most assuredly, a lord. What is that anyway? Like, a knight? A prince? What does it even mean?

“I would prefer the privacy as well.” I’m thinking he wants the privacy for a completely different reason than me. I’m about to tell him this when I’m rudely interrupted by busty galore, Sheila the she-devil.

“Clayton, daaaaarling! I’m getting you a highball of Dalmore and then I want to show you something in our stateroom. We picked up this wonderful little piece of art … one that only you will appreciate.” She looks down her nose at me (I swear she squints her eyes a little) and starts to pull him away to her stateroom. Yeah, I know it’s yacht lingo for bedroom.

“Please excuse me,” he says apologetically to me. “This should only take a second.”

I want to wring her neck. Or his. I can’t tell.

“Sheila is desperate,” Elizabeth whispers. She has stealthily appeared beside me.

“Oh? I thought you all knew each other?” I ask curiously.

“Socially. I know that Tom has business with Clayton. But I’ve never cared for him or that trampy wife of his,” Elizabeth says. Now the champagne is talking. Good. “And I know for a fact she is not Clayton’s friend. My brother told me how much she annoys him. Sheila is pathetic and has been trying to sleep with him since she set eyes on him two years ago, when Tom and Clayton started doing business together. Clayton only gives her the time of day because of his business relationship with Tom.”

Trying to sleep with him? Now why did she have to go and tell me that? I stare at the door anxiously, waiting for them to come back, willing them to. And suddenly, the door swings open and in walks Clayton and on his arm is … wait … it’s not Sheila. It’s worse. It’s seriously the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. She might as well have just stepped out of the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, with her shimmering, jet black hair cut into a Victoria Beckham bob, her sultry, sparkling blue eyes, and bronzed legs that seem to extend right up to her perfectly shaped breasts.