R Is for Rebel (3 page)

“No, they won't.”

“What do you mean? Of course, they will. Why do you think I've spent the last ten years at the four corners of the globe?
Without
a cell phone. My family can be quite meddlesome.” But she smiled, and Eliot thought it might be from the realization that it was her family's love that was meddling and that might not be such a bad thing. He smiled at the thought of how uncomfortable all that love was going to make her. He was going to love her up like mad.

She stopped rubbing his scalp when she saw the look on his face.

“Why are you all stiff again?” he asked.

“Because you scare the hell out of me when you look like that, Eliot.”

“Not possible. I'm putty in your hands.”

“That's what's so terrifying. You are supposed to be an intimidating CEO and a pompous ass, and then I'm supposed to flick you out of my mind without a second thought. It's disturbing.”

He started laughing again. “You sound like my mother,” Eliot said as his cheer subsided. “She tells me I am far too accommodating, far too much of a peacemaker. I'm a bastard in business, if that helps, but I don't really go in for disturbing people in my private life. You, on the other hand, were aptly named, oh fiery daughter of Nabucco…”

She couldn't help but smile at the idea of Abigail the Warrior and Eliot the Peacemaker trying to find their way in this world.

“I know what you're saying, or implying, but face it…” Abby shook her head again. “You ride around in chauffeur-driven limousines in Danieli suits and I drive a beat-up Morris Minor and buy my clothes at the Oxfam shop. We're not a good pair. We should just fool around and get it out of our systems.”

“The fact that you know my suits are Danieli proves that your beat-up Morris Minor is really an heirloom and your Oxfam rags are utter affectations.”

“Not utter affectations!”

He raised a skeptical brow.

“All right, I might be
slightly
affected,” she conceded. “But the fact that you are the
chairman
of Danieli-Fauchard and I have chosen to abandon the absurdity of my mother's—and yours, I daresay—
haute
couture
world might be
germane
.”

“I love when you use big words.” He moved his head deeper into her lap to remind her to start rubbing him again.

She resumed stroking his neck and proceeded with her litany of their potential relationship pitfalls. “You're too old.”

“Well, that can't be helped and it's just plain mean of you to point it out.”

She held his head firmly between her palms. “You're impossible, Eliot Cranbrook!”

“So are you. That's why I got you the phone.”

“All right. Tell me more about this magic phone that doesn't take calls from my mother.”

Eliot smiled. “It'll be delivered to Moonhole tomorrow morning. Take it or not. I had it programmed so it only receives calls from one number.
My
number. That's what I meant when I said no one from your nosy family was going to be bothering you on it. Answer it or not, I just want you to know when I'm thinking of you. And, to make it even creepier, I put in the GPS tracker, so if you have it with you and turned on, I'll know where you are. If you want privacy, just turn it off.”

It was bordering on stalking, but he could tell that her treacherous, lusty side loved the idea that he had already been plotting a concerted pursuit.

She looked down into his face with a little pout of disappointment. “Maybe you're right about leaving the
us
discussion behind for now.”

“Is that what this is?” He smiled up at her. “An
us
discussion? There's an
us
?” By that point, she could tell he was making fun of her.

“Get up, you big beast.” She gave his shoulders a final squeeze and then they stood up.

They walked along the beach in a companionable silence for a few minutes, until Abby broke the quiet. “Since we don't seem to be seeing eye to eye on the whole sex-on-the-beach idea, how about you talk to me about my future. What do you think I'd be good at, Eliot?”

“You'd probably turn a pretty profit with that whole sex-on-the-beach business idea—”

She gave him a swift kick to the back of his calf by swinging her left leg behind her right.

“Ow!”

“I just told you I'd give it to you for free, you rotter!” she cried.

“Very bad financial model—”

“Stop it, you!” She was laughing in frustration, but he could tell she was also relieved to feel like he was back to being plain old joking Eliot.

“All right. Fine.” He sighed in mock resignation. “I'll quit teasing and go back to being your Good Friend Eliot. What would Abigail be good at? She's fetching, charming, a defender of the weak. She's pure of heart, kind, democratic, not afraid to get dirty. She sits a horse perfectly, despises pretension—”

“Enough!” She laughed again. “I'm none of that. I'm a haphazard, hodgepodge, mishmash of a woman. My CV looks like a brainstorming session for an unreliable teenager: farmer, well-digger, eco-warrior.” She sighed and whispered, “Heiress.”

“Beautiful. Graceful,” he added gently.

***

Abigail hated how much she loved hearing those weighty, timeless compliments fall so effortlessly from this man's lips. She knew she should have been more wary of the businessman whose life was a capitalist study in the commoditization of said Beauty and Grace. But still. She melted a little when he said them to her. About her.

“You're not helping,” she said.

“All right. I'll try again. Why don't we work our way back from what you
don't
want to do… just blurt out yes or no. Let's see. Nine-to-five office job?”

“No.”

“London?”

“Maybe.”

“New York?”

“I think no, but maybe for the right job.”

“Paris?”

“Yes.”

“Geneva?” His voice rose an octave in hopeful inquiry.

“Eliot! I'm not moving to Geneva just because you live there!”

“Well, why not? There are worse reasons.”

“All right, maybe Geneva… there are more NGOs there per capita than anywhere else… I guess The Hague might have more, but it just sounds so boring. Amsterdam and Barcelona sound like fun.”

“Okay, so we've narrowed it down to Geneva—”

She kicked him lightly on the back of his leg again.

“Okay, so we've narrowed it down to someplace urban and fun in Europe. Barcelona, Geneva, Paris, London. I get it. Now about the nuts and bolts. Are you definitely committed to all this enviro-nonsense?”

She pulled her hand out of his grasp and turned to set herself directly in front of him. “See? That!” She poked her right index finger into his chest. “It's not nonsense, and yes, I'm committed to it.”

He grabbed her accusatory hand and brought it to his lips; he gave her a courtly kiss on her knuckles. “I apologize, Abigail.”

She rolled her eyes and tried to pull her hand away.

“Please forgive me,” he added sincerely.

“Well, that was pretty nice, as apologies go, so I suppose I'll forgive you. But as you Americans like to say, knock it off with the dismissive eco-talk. You sound like Max on a very bad day.”

He twined her fingers through his and they resumed walking along the abandoned beach. Eliot started in again. “Okay, something really important and meaningful, that will save the world.”

She laughed despite herself. “I get it. Yes, I would like to do something that helps people. I don't intend on being Mother Teresa or anything. And to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure environmental lobbying is really my strongpoint. I'm more interested in advocating for women's rights or children or something a bit more to do with humans…” She turned to look up at him. “I sound ridiculous.”

“No you don't. I know what you mean. It's your life. Pick something that actually drives you to distraction, a wrong that you find so patently egregious, that seems so outrageously and flagrantly inconceivable, that you absolutely must do something about it.”

“You're not such a brick after all.” She smiled through the words, then her voice fell into a serious dip. “I was just reading an article about a girl who was buried up to her neck by her own father and left to die under the chicken coop behind her house. For kissing a boy. Imagine if she had kissed a girl?” Abby tried to make light of it in a perverse way, but her insides sort of curdled at the insanity. Eliot draped his arm across her shoulder and gave her a supportive squeeze. Her throat tightened and she felt a thick pressure behind her eyes.

“It's okay, Abigail.” Eliot leaned in and kissed the top of her head. “You know what you want to do.”

“I suppose I do. I'm just afraid. And guilty.”

“Guilty? What could you possibly be guilty of?”

“It's ridiculous I suppose, but here I am, bucking against my mother's euphemistic criticism of my relationship with Tully, against a maternal raised eyebrow for goodness' sake, and these women are fighting for their lives, having to run away or be tortured. Who am I to offer my silly, meaningless assistance?”

“I'm not coming to this pity party. Get to London, or Geneva, or wherever and get your ass in gear, Abigail. You've spent enough time, as you say, gallivanting, and now you need to get down to the very real business of helping people. Do you want to work for a large organization? Do you want to volunteer on the ground? Do you want to start something yourself?”

“I don't know… I need help. I have so much… so many resources at my disposal, it's shameful—”

“Abigail.” Eliot's voice was impatient.

“All right, whatever, I'll leave the rich-guilt at the door—for now—but I mean, I don't really know where to begin.”

“I know you think I'm a capitalist tool and all that, but Danieli-Fauchard is already involved with several women's rights organizations. As preposterous as it might sound to you, the history of fashion and women's rights are happily intertwined. Why don't you meet with a couple of our contacts in London? I won't make any heavy-handed phone calls or anything. Have Bronte call if you want. She probably knows everybody already anyway.”

“You trying to keep an eye on me?” she asked, trying to bristle, but feeling like maybe that would be quite all right.

“I think I'm still fantasizing about you moving to Geneva, but yes, I would settle for an eye.” He kissed her on the head again and she was starting to wonder why he wasn't kissing her on the lips. Her body flushed at the thought.

Then she understood. He wasn't going to settle for anything that had a whiff of a fling. Now she really was in a pretty pickle. On the one hand, she wanted him to rip her to bits right there on the beach, leave her in a heaving, satisfied heap, clothes torn, muscles pulled. Utterly satiated. On the other hand, she now understood that she would have to, if not initiate, at least encourage any future ripping, shredding, or heaving. There was no way he was going to let her have him in pieces, but she wasn't sure she was after the whole emotional kit.

Eliot must have felt it too, somehow. He let go of her with an abrupt start.

“I think we'd better call it a night, Abigail,” he said, breathless, with a strange lack of conviction.

She looked at him, both of them awash in that strange mix of desire and fear. “You're probably right. Will you walk me back to my place?”

“Of course.”

He took her hand with pragmatic efficiency. Whatever sizzling desire had coursed through them moments before had been tucked away and his hand was nothing more than the top of a cane or a stair railing: a device. She took it nonetheless. Gratefully. He led as they walked up the uneven steps that rose from the beach to the villas on the cliff above.

When the path was wide enough, she walked beside him, feeling the heat of his body, the rich smell of him wafting over and through her. A stray branch of bougainvillea scraped against her bare upper arm. She welcomed the sharp scratch against her tender skin, something, anything, to make her wake up and out of this stupor. A cut. A pinch.

They didn't speak again until they were standing outside the arched, doorless entryway to the villa Abigail was sharing with Max and his little family.

“Do you want to come in?” Abby asked.

“I probably shouldn't. I've got to leave really early for Miami.” He looked down at her. “Hey, why don't you come?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Why would I come to Miami?”

“You're right. It was a stupid idea. I just thought we might have fun. I'm not looking forward to being alone.”

“I'm sure you won't be alone,” Abigail said.

“You know what I mean.” He couldn't bring himself to tell her flat out that he was already missing her and she was still standing right in front of him. “Just send me a text or call me when you're ready to see me again, and I'll see what I can do.” He leaned in and gave her an achingly tender kiss at the base of her neck, followed by a wisp of a kiss across her lips, a brush really. Abigail leaned in for more, but he had already pulled away. “That's all for now, I'm afraid.”

Abigail felt herself twitch between her legs.
Why?
her body screamed.
Why
is
that
all
for
now?
But she merely stood there staring up at his beautiful face, his hair mussed, his top button unbuttoned, a bit of sand on his shoulder, and knew he was right. That was all there could be for now. He wanted everything. And she had no idea what she wanted.

She let her palm rest on his cheek, met his eyes, then turned into the villa and listened as his steps retreated back down toward the sea, and from there, alone, to his hotel down the beach.