Whisper (The Voice trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

“No, not virgins,” he chokes. “But, I suppose you could call me a collector. I collect beautiful things, beautiful women.” He taps his temple. “But, women are fickle. I give them what they expect from me, and not a drop more. I don’t encourage emotion. Emotions are messy. I’m not in the business of investing emotion in others.”

“So your life is one endless one night stand? That sounds sad.” And lonely, I think to myself.

“I prefer to think of it as tidy. Let’s change the subject,” he begs, not meeting my eyes.              

“OK. Who is your father?” I ask. The look of utter shock on his face is priceless. Either I am truly out of the loop or this man’s sense of self importance is bordering on delusional. He lets out a burst of laughter and shakes his head.

“My father is Michael Slate.” He waits for the information to sink in. I search the recesses of my mind for that name. 

“The shipping guy?”
I question, less than eloquent. I vaguely recall recently skimming an article about the expansion of his holdings in Europe. His net worth is practically immeasurable. He could support a small country. Shipyards on both coasts, International holdings and a family name that reaches back a century or more. How did I not make that connection?

“Shipping, among other things, yes.”
I turn my eyes on Rhys in question and forget to run my thoughts by the internal editor.

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you because your daddy is a billionaire? You are barking up the wrong tree.” I take a deep pull from my glass in an effort to stifle my biting tongue. Rhys laughs a deep belly laugh and the sound is musical.

“I like the way you talk to me, Sophie, you are honest, sharp.” The look of admiration on his face is enough to melt my icy façade and I can’t help but smile, wide and true.

“So tell me about your sad, rich childhood.” Baiting him, I finish my drink and let the warmth spread through me like sunshine spreads across the horizon. Placing my glass on the table I fluff the pillows behind me and pull the blanket up, comfortable and ready to listen.
             

“There isn’t much to tell. I spent a lot of time at boarding schools. That is where I met Matthew. My father comes from a large family so I spent quite a bit of time with them when I was younger. I have always done what was expected of me. Played rugby like my dad, went to St. Andrews like my dad and now I am in business with my dad. There was never much opportunity to stray from the prescribed course, if you know what I mean. I have always had to
tow the line in my public life, be mindful of the family name. That is my life, in a nut shell.”  

“What about your mom?”

“They divorced when I was young
,” he snaps, downing the remainder of his scotch. “Enough about me, I would rather hear about you.” The way he effortlessly turns the tables is maddening, he makes it impossible to get control of our interaction. He leads every time.

“I thought Olivia already covered me.”

“That is knowledge by relay. I prefer my information to come directly from the source.  What do you do, for work?”

“My degree is in education, but I write for our local newspaper. Usually the community column, you know, what’s happening around town, new restaurants, events, stuff like
that. Occasionally I get to write about more important things, but not often.”

“Why don't you teach?"
he asks, looking truly interested.

"I don't know really, it just didn't appeal to me. My good friend Mary is the editor of the paper. When this position came
up, she mentioned it to me and I just couldn't pass it up. There is more freedom and flexibility with the paper. I can set my own hours and make my own assignments most of the time."

"What about your free time?”
he probes. I cannot remember the last time someone was interested in my life. It’s not really that interesting.

“I take care of my Grandmother, she has dementia. She is the only family I have, and that takes a lot of my time.” It sounds so
dull, and sad when I say it out loud. My life could be the life of a middle aged woman, just add a few dozen cats and the picture is complete. The thought puts a sour taste in my mouth, and I wish I had lied, made myself sound more interesting, anything other than my reality. “And I volunteer on the local school board, planning and helping to maintain kitchen gardens for the school lunch programs. You know, fresh food, nutritional pyramid, that sort of stuff.” I feel myself begin to ramble, spewing information at him with fervor, dyig to fill the silence, I cannot stop talking. Please stop me. I look up into his face to see a wide genuine smile that halts me in my tracks. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He laughs off the question and shakes his head.

“I admire what you do. You are a good girl, Sophie.” It sounds more like an accusation than a compliment.

“I am sure it is very dull compared to your jet set, high profile life. You must think my life sounds so boring, and ordinary.” My fingers lace and twist in my lap, an uneasy feeling of inadequacy churns in my gut.

“Just the opposite,” he offers. “Your life sounds quiet, nice. You have a good heart, Sophie. What are your plans?” He is eager and patient.

“Plans for what?”
He pulls me from my increasingly evil inner thoughts.

“For the future, for your life.”
His brows knit together, his face stern, while I mull the question, stirring up so many reasons why I no longer make plans. Plans suggest control and life cannot be controlled.

“I don’t really have a plan,”
I have been so stuck in the past, frozen in a moment. I wouldn’t dare think of the future now, not when I know how easily it can be taken away. “I like my job. I take care of my grandma. That is my life, I’m fine with that.”

“You miss your parents.” 

“What?” He has ripped the carefully tended bandage from my tender flesh with his obnoxious observation. What does he even know about my parents? His statement burns like a hot poker and puts me on high alert. I don’t talk about them, and I don’t want to rehash it here, now.

“Forgive me, Sophie. Olivia
told me what happened. Is it okay to bring it up?” Pausing tentatively he swirls his finger around the ice in his glass, watching me, waiting for me to crack.              

“No.” My face is stone, a mask I learned to wear when people probed. I stare down into my lap, fingers wrung and twisting around one another, unsure of how much to share, unwilling to open old wounds. “Of course I miss them. When they died, everything that I had planned died with them. But you play the hand you are dealt and that is what I am doing.” A mist falls over
my eyes, but I push it back. He asks questions I don’t want to answer. He has invited himself into the deepest recesses of my life, a small part of me wants to welcome him, but I cannot. “I don’t like talking about them.”

After an hour of gentle interrogation I cannot think of anything more that he could possibly want to know, that he hasn’t already asked. And then the question that no one has ever asked.

“What do you dream about, Sophie? If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?” I splutter at the question and my head swims with the possibilities. This man sitting in front of me, wanting to know me, I cannot help but wonder why? What will he gain from probing my life, what is he hoping to find? I feel like I am in a job interview, the way he hangs on my answers, jotting down mental notes and silently filing away my replies. The whole conversation is completely one sided. He refuses to allow me to ask even the smallest of questions. “I want to know all about you, Sophie. I’m bored with myself. Now, when you close your eyes and dream what do you see?”

I cannot remember the last time I looked past my everyday life and considered the future. I have my head buried so far beneath the
sand, I can hardly see two feet in front of me, much less into the future. But as I allow myself to consider the possibilities I know the answer could be infinite. However, at this moment I know if I closed my eyes, I would surely see Rhys and his wicked grin. The scotch and the hour are starting to weigh heavily on my eyes. I scoot my body down the bed and fluff the pillows under my head. Pulling the comforter up over my shoulders, I am cocooned in down and linen, comforters, buzzed, content.  I launch into the stock answer as I can feel myself drifting into a shallow sleep.

“I would travel, all over the world. I want to touch things that have history and meaning. I want to experience the world, life. I want to walk across Ireland, explore castles and churches. I want a cottage with a big garden. I just want to be happy and loved.” 

“That sounds like a plan,” he teases, my mind half asleep and drifting quickly away.

Awash with sensation, hands all over my body, so many hands roaming and skimming over smooth, heated flesh, every fingertip leaving a burning a trail. A mouth, warm and moist, everywhere, overwhelming me, sucking, biting,
teasing me. I wrap my arms around powerful shoulders, pulling them into me, closer, harder, now. Need builds deep in my belly, pooling in my groin like warm honey, blood rushing to my core, throbbing, pounding in my head. I am surrounded, enveloped by the need to fill myself with you, to be part of you. I am aching with need when a great void opens, threatening to swallow me up, and there is no one to pull me out, you have disappeared. I struggle against the darkness, reaching for you, but you are gone, and I am all alone. A breath tightens in my chest, my lungs struggle for air under the weight of my loneliness. There is so much space surrounding me, empty and dark. I’m being crushed by the absence of everything, disappearing into oblivion with nobody to pull me back. I struggle to wake myself, wanting to escape the dream that has me trapped, the empty space that threatens to swallow me. 

Gasping for breath I shoot up in bed, frightened and reeling from my dark dream. I fight to regain my breath, to calm my pulse. The room is dark, but the television is still on, some midnight infomercial promising rapid weight loss. And Rhys, his dark solid form, next to me, sleeping, softly snoring, arm flung over his head. He looks so sweet, almost harmless. I watch him sleep for a minute, his chest rising and falling with every shallow breath, his lips slightly parted, thick eyelashes splayed across his cheeks. Yet even in his gentle sleep, he conveys power and control. I want to reach out and touch him, brush the hair off his forehead and trace the lines of his cheekbones, run my fingertips over the stubble of his beard, but I think better of it. I rise and shuffle to the bathroom.

Just being out of his direct vicinity affords me more clarity, he is like a drug, fast working and highly addictive. I quickly brush my teeth and rinse my face. I fill a tall glass of water for myself and one for Rhys, placing it on the bedside table next to him. I crawl back into bed, switch the television off and drift back to sleep, the dream of empty oblivion skirting the recesses of my mind. 

    
                                          ***

When I wake I am too warm, twisted up in the comforter and blankets. My nape is damp from sweat and I kick off the covers, begging for a breeze of cool air to condition my overheated skin. I roll over to find the bed empty. Rhys is gone, but he left a note. 

Sophie,

I want to
take you out today. 

Please come to my suite

when you are ready.

Don't keep me waiting.

Rhys  

A room key sits atop the note, Penthouse, of course. I decide that since he has left so unceremoniously, I will take my time getting ready. I will not give him the impression that I will come running whenever he calls. Even though blood is pounding in my head and I am giddy about the idea of spending the whole day with him. I feel like a young girl, just waiting for a glimpse of a crush. Friends, that is all he wants to be, but I can live with that. I want to be near him, it is all I can think about. And the promise of the day is too good.

After a leisurely shower, I dress in a pale pink linen dress, slip on my braided sandals, swipe on some blush, a little lip gloss and I am done. Looking at myself, reflected in the mirror I can’t help but see an ordinary girl looking back at me, perfectly ordinary and nothing more. I have to shake the thought from my mind. I slip my phone into a hidden pocket, grab my purse and sunglasses. I slide an emergency twenty dollar bill into my bra, as I have always been coached to do, and head out the door to the elevators.

The doors slide open to a large, brightly lit foyer, windows on every side welcome the warm Florida sun, bathing the marble floors and soft plaster walls in golden light. There is a large heavy table with a massive gaudy arrangement of birds of paradise in a tall stone vase. There are two doors, Rhys’ is just behind the flock of flowers. I knock and then insert the key, but before I do the door opens on a scene I did not expect.

Kylie, disheveled and sweaty, dressed in a tiny tank and tight yoga
Capris. She is the epitome of health and beauty, and my stomach turns at the sight of her. Her long blond hair is swept up into a pony tail that she has wrapped around her fingers, playing mindlessly with the golden strands. Her face is bright and flushed, glowing maybe. I am frozen to the spot, shocked and confused. Kylie steps around me, leaving the door open behind her.