Page 30 of Mistaken
On a jet? The small windows showed nothing but dark sky and the red and yellow flashes from the wing lights. Sitting up groggily, I looked down to see I’d been changed into a soft jersey dress and my corset was thankfully gone. It was splayed on the floor, cut bits of the strings everywhere.
“You’re awake.” My vile new husband came in, towering over me.
“You have a bedroom on your jet?”
He was putting pillows behind my back like some caring, attentive person and it was unnatural. “Yes.” He smoothed down the skirt of my dress. “You fainted. As much as I enjoyed your tiny waist in that wedding dress, that corset was too tight. I had to cut it off of you.”
“Yeah, super unhelpful during a panic attack,” I mumbled.
Maksim let that one go.
It occurs to me that I never asked where we were going. That’s just sad. “Um… where are we going for this honeymoon?” I ventured.
His smile was actually genuine. “My home on St. John’s in the Caribbean.”
There was a polite knock on the bedroom door. “Mr. and Mrs. Morozov? We’re about to land if you’d like to take your seats.”
I’d never been to St. John’s, and itwasparadise. There was no other word to describe the white sands and the searingly brilliant azure waters. The briny sweep of the air after the stale cabin was exhilarating, and Maksim watched me breathe in deeply with a bit of a smile.
There was something that kept nagging at me as we raced down the road toward Maksim’s - no doubt - palatial vacation home. He’d helped me into the Jeep, the top was off and the wind was tearing through my hair. That’s when it hit me.
“We’re in a Jeep with no bulletproof glass? Where are the bodyguards and tank-like vehicle?”
He turned to me, his dark Ray-Bans hiding his eyes and not giving anything away. He looked unreasonably attractive in a loose white linen shirt and khaki shorts.
“The lifestyle here is not as dire as it is in Manhattan.”
The Jeep rounded a corner and I gasped. There was a massive white stone and wood house perched on a cliff. It was perfectly positioned for a panoramic view of the ocean, and there was a cluster of small guest houses behind it, along with a beautiful pool surrounded by trees and vines like it had been carved out of the jungle. A tennis court. I was starting to giggle. A lap pool. Two hot tubs, one near the main house and the other halfway down the stairs cut into the cliff, heading down to the bay. My shoulders were shaking, trying to suppress my laughter, but when I spotted the nine-hole golf course behind the compound, I couldn’t hold it in.
Maksim pulled down his sunglasses, eyeing me.
“Wh- where’s the riding stables? And the outdoor theatre?”
He frowned. “The stables are half a mile that way, by the helicopter pad. The theatre is behind the guest houses.”
That’s it. I could not stop howling with laughter. “What, no merry-go-round? Where’s the roller coaster? And the Lemur Sanctuary?” My stomach was beginning to hurt but it felt so wonderfully cleansing that I could still find the absurd in life. Because this was so ridiculously over the top.
Settling his elbow on his car door, Maksim sat back and waited for my laughter to subside into wheezing. “Do you want me to build you a merry-go-round, darling?”
Aaand, that set me off again.
Maksim’s chef had left us a sumptuous feast on a beautifully set table out on the terrace. He gracefully absented himself after putting out the platters of seafood, so it was just the two of us, watching the waves roll into the bay below. It was unnerving, having his full attention on me. I was used to him being absorbed in his work, or on his phone, and this level of scrutiny was reminding me of the hunting lodge. And the forest, and chasing me.
Not that my discomfort was stopping me from plowing through my second lobster. The spiny ones here in the Caribbean were unbelievably good - sweet and tender, and I didn’t care what I looked like with butter dripping down my arm. I’d been too freaked out to eat breakfast and the wedding dinner looked and tasted like sawdust after the first bite. But this lobster….
But after a solid forty-five minutes of non-stop staring from my terrifying spouse, even spiny ocean crustaceans couldn’t distract me anymore.
“Here.” Maksim handed me another cloth napkin. “You’re dripping butter on your dress.”
Briefly, I wondered if I could disgust him by plowing through the rest of the meal like a tourist at an all-you-can-eat seafood bar at the Jersey Shore, but he seemed amused, rather than repelled. I could hear the soft steps of his bodyguards making the rounds, but no one was in the house, aside from us. Maksim was leaning back in his chair at the head of the table like a dark lord in hell, still studying me with that faint smile.
Even knowing this is a terrible mistake but not able to endure his stare any longer, I blurt, “What are you thinking?”
“I’ve been having an internal conflict since we got here,” he said, his voice deeper and a bit of his accent creeping back in.
“O- oh?” Yeah, I sound super calm. “Which is…?”
“Which part of you I want to taste first.” Now he leans forward, and those cold blue eyes of his are on fire, and I’m clutching my butter-stained napkin. “Although,” he muses, “I’m now having visions of laying you back on the bed, putting your feet against my chest to open you wide, and having you play with yourself.”
