The nail polish is taken from my hand and my foot positioned on the towel so that he may carry out his self-appointed duty. ‘I may as well get some practice in.’ he informs me, straight-faced and all matter-of-fact. ‘You won’t be able to reach them soon.’
My foot lashes out on reflex, jabbing him straight in his stomach, not that it has the desired effect. He grins down at his lap and re-positions my foot. ‘I don’t want to go home.’ I say quietly.
‘Me either, baby.’ He doesn’t seem shocked to hear it, like he has read my mind, or clearly has been thinking the exact same thing. He gives my big toenail a stroke down the centre with the brush, then one on each side.
‘When can we come back?’ I ask, watching as his concentration frown emerges. It makes me smile, momentarily forgetting my dispiriting thoughts.
‘We can come back whenever you like. Just say the word, and I’ll put you on that plane.’ He wipes across the flesh at the base of my nail and sits back to observe his handiwork. It’s not bad at all, considering his big hands and the tiny brush. He looks up at me. ‘Have you had a nice time?’ he asks on a smile, knowing all too well that I have.
‘Paradise.’ I muse, resting my head back. ‘Continue.’ I nod at my foot in his lap.
His eyes narrow playfully. ‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Good boy,’ I sigh dreamily, relaxing into the pillow. ‘What happens when we get home?’
He continues with the painting of my nails, not giving my question the acknowledgment it deserves. Something needs to be done, preferably by the police, not Steve. While Jesse evacuating me from the country was a welcome escape, I also know it was to maintain his sanity. He can’t hide me in Paradise forever, although I know he doesn’t think that his ambitious intention is irrational at all, and if he keeps up this mood and relaxed persona, neither will I.
‘What happens is that you’ll go to work and finally fulfil your promise to enlighten Patrick of Mikael.’ He tosses an expectant look, which I ignore.
‘Do you think Mikael stole your car?’
‘I have no f**king clue, Ava.’ He places my foot down and picks up the other. ‘I’m dealing with it, so don’t worry your pretty little head.’
‘How are you dealing with it?’ I can’t help the question. I really want to know because something tells me that like most of Jesse’s ways, it won’t be conventional.
As I knew I would, I get landed with a warning look, and I’m mindful that by pushing this, I may very well get tossed off Central Jesse Cloud Nine before we arrive back in London.
I soak up his reproachful look for a few moments, not backing down or wiping the expectant look from my face, and yet I know I won’t be given a satisfying reply. I’ve already quietly accepted that, and I’ve also already mentally agreed not to pursue it. ‘End of.’ he says simply, and I know it really is.
So I relax and let him finish the intricate task of painting my toenails as I silently appreciate both his attentiveness and the fact that he’s scrunched over, leaning down close to carry out his task, yet there is not a roll of fat on that stomach, whatsoever.
‘You’re done.’ he declares, screwing the lid back on. ‘I’m even amazing at this.’ There is no humour in his tone.
I pull my feet up and lean over to take a look, half expecting to see a set of pink coloured feet, but no. Jesse is, indeed, amazing at painting toenails as well as everything else, except cooking. ‘Not bad,’ I flip casually, feigning the wiping of some stray polish that isn’t even there.
‘Not bad? I’ve done a better job than you’d ever do, lady.’ He jumps up from the bed. ‘You’re so lucky to have me.’
I scoff. ‘Are you not lucky?’ I ask incredulously. He’s such an arrogant arse.
‘I’m luckier.’ He winks, and I’m speedily dragged from my offended state on a sigh. ‘Come on, lady. Let’s go exploring.’
* * *
We pull off a roundabout and up to a security gate that leads down to a port. Jesse lowers his window and flashes a plastic card at a screen and the gate opens instantly, allowing him to drive through. ‘Where are we?’ I ask, edging forward in my seat to look down the road ahead.
‘This is The Port, baby.’ He proceeds at a crawl and turns onto a pedestrianized area, people mechanically moving to make way, not giving the DBS a second glance. I would’ve thought this strange, but I quickly register the dozens of prestigious cars, all parked in bays along the front. And not just the odd Merc or BMW. I’m looking at rows of Bentleys, Ferraris and even another Aston Martin, all screaming billionaires. These people are quite clearly used to ridiculously expensive cars, but my attention is speedily drawn from the row of expensive vehicles when I clock the rows and rows of boats. No, not boats. These are yachts.
‘Fucking hell.’ I whisper as Jesse slips into an empty bay and turns the ignition off.